Shifting Gears – Part I

Once upon a time there was a little boy who took several years to learn to ride a bicycle. When the young lad finally gained this important skill, he was as proud as can be. A year later, he graduated from the small, low-to-the-ground bike on which he’d learned to ride to a tall bike that had formerly belonged to his mother. As he began to master this grownup bike, he became interested in shifting gears. However, his Mama and her Pardner thought it best that the enthusiastic fellow learn, first, to use the brakes and steer the ve-hicle.

Though the boy dreamed day and night of attaining this prestigious skill, he waited unwearyingly until the sharing of the Secret of the Gears would be allowed.

It came to pass, before the lesson of the shifting of the gears became appropriate, that the young lad went away from home for the first time on a five-day class trip to a wonderful science camp.  Upon the morning of departure to this far away land, his little sister refused to play or speak with him. So deep was her pain at his leaving, that she found herself unable to even bid her brother adieu.

However, shortly after his departure, the girl child was overcome with the knowledge that she had her family all to herself and, forthwith, began a campaign of demanding, and then basking in, undivided attention and adoration. 

Much fun was had, and many “special” outings were undertaken as consolation. Among these, the little girl – who’d learned to ride her bicycle in a trice– was taken on a long bike ride. During this adventure, the family encountered a mighty hill, and the young lady was in need of assistance. At this time, her noble stepfather inadvertently taught the lass to shift gears.

Alas, how could this have come to pass? For the young lad would be most heartbroken should he learn that his little sister, four years younger and light years more physically adept, had been taught the Secret of the Gears before him. The unfairness of this deed would have, as the parents knew full well, filled him with devastation.

And so the parents endeavored to convince the little sister of the importance of not telling her brother that she had the Secret of the Gears without actually asking her to lie to her brother. Many twistings of the tongue and brain, such as the classic “We are not asking you to keep a secret from your brother and yet we feel that it would be best if you did not bring up this matter” were shared with the young Bike Princess by both elders.

Finally, the day of the young lad’s return was upon them. With great joy and anticipation, his Mama and sister awaited him at school pickup. They lovingly loaded his stinking, filthy trunks into the car and sped home for a feast.

Brother and sister alighted from the car and swiftly approached the house empty-handed, apparently anticipating twenty minutes’ “screen time.”

The door, however, was locked, and so they sat upon the deck and conversed, while Mama, having alone shouldered the burdensome baggage and several other items including her capacious mombag, shuffled toward them in an ungainly fashion.

Suddenly, great cries of grief and rage were heard from the land of the deck, for, during the very first moment alone she had with him, the Bike Princess had foisted her knowledge of the Secret of the Gears upon her brother.

Now, some people hear this story and laugh, some shudder or even cry. That is what Part II will be about.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Being True

G loves “aminals.” He also has some balance and large-motor impairments that we are tackling from various angles. Therapeutic riding seemed a good way to combine these factors. At the Southern Vermont Therapeutic Riding Institute (http://www.winchesterstables.com/therapeutic.html), Lorna Young and other amazing people (staff and volunteers) work with children and horses to the joy and benefit of all involved.

One time, we were milling about waiting for G’s lesson to begin and we saw the cutest jolie-laide shaggy old donkey kinda loitering a few feet away, all “Just hangin’ out. Nothin’ goin’ on here, folks.”

G and Z were entranced by the motley creature and asked Lorna about it. “That’s Frances,’ she informed them. She pointed to one of the stable hands, who was sweeping the floor a few yards away. “That’s his mother over there.”

G looked over at the woman, and then at the nonchalant donkey.

“I will take that as a joke,” said my boy, with a totally straight face.

Being literal, G often thinks people are lying when the “liar” in question might feel he or she is doing nothing of the sort.  He will say, “___ lied to me today. He said he would play with me at recess and then he played basketball instead.” It is so hard for him to be flexible and see incidents like this as change rather than betrayal. Having, also, an encyclopedic memory, he notes inconsistencies and reads them as untruths as well.  Therefore, among other things, he finds it profoundly disjunctive when people act differently in different situations, and with -- or toward -- different people. Your dork-kid who rejects his dork friends when the in-crowd comes around, your customer who is polite in a fancy restaurant and rude to a cashier at the 7-11, your parent who tells a child s/he is eating “nothing” when s/he has just shoved a piece of candy in her/his mouth…these “normal” people are disturbing to G.

I rather know where he gets all of this –the literality, the trash-can memory, the perceptions of dishonesty. As an adult, though, I am able to choose to associate mostly with people who present fewer such conundra. G doesn’t yet have that discernment – or that luxury.  He gets confused, hurt and angry in commonplace contexts.

Nonetheless I will never advise him to be untrue to himself. I’ve never forgotten learning the literal definition of integrity in graduate school: it comes from a coin that is, on the inside, what it purports to be on the outside. G’s inside is pure gold, but that integral and external softness is going to get him a bit scuffed.

So I’m going to suggest to him that the next time someone “lies” to him he might tell himself, “I will take that as a joke.” The next time he asks Z to play and she says, “Ask me again later and I will say yes,” and, later, she doesn’t [whole ‘nother post]: ”I will take that as a joke.” When someone utters a small white lie that to him feels like a violation: “I will take that as a joke.”

Perhaps that’s not such a bad idea for all of us. 

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama