Monday, November 27, 2017

A Different Kind of Child




He's not like anyone you have ever met. Like nobody anyone has ever met. The first sign that something was amiss came with the first ultrasound. He was grinning! His mischievous grin, I now know. The same one I have seen dozens of times, right before he does something little kids just do not do, and I go into panic mode, once again. Just biding his time. Just waiting to pop out and shock the world.
     The day of his birth rolled around. A c-section. As soon as he was pulled out, he raised his head and looked around at the doctor and nurses, individually, as if in greeting. They were dumbfounded.
     I watched him on my living room floor, when he was entering that stage were babies lie on their stomach and wiggle around. He put his hands on the floor and tried to push up, again and again.
Finally, he raised his upper body off the floor, held, his arms started to quiver, then  collapse. Nothing abnormal here. But he did it again, held a little longer, arms shook more, tears started to flow. Collapse. Up again – tears – a little longer – Collapse. This was repeated, again, again, and again. Tears, hard sweat now. Finally, total exhaustion. Temporarily delayed, never defeated. A healthy respect started to grow within me. How could his tiny body contain so much determination?
     Winter came. It was cold in that house. His family lives like North Pole people. He was put into a sleeper, zipped up. The next morning, he was naked in his crib. Though he was far too small to leave that crib, little signs of mystery began to show up here and there. He had wandered at will about that house, naked.
     I put a couple of rounds of duct tape around his chest, to keep that sleeper on. No luck. Next, a safety pin was fastened to the inside of the zipper, near the top. The next morning he was naked in his crib, punching holes in the mattress with the open safety pin.
     I went shopping. In the fishing department, I found a giant snap swivel, so strong I could barely open it. I substituted it for the safety pin the next night. The next morning, the sleeper was still on, but he must have found a tiny hole in the toe, worked it, worked it, and worked it until one whole leg was out, which he proudly displayed.
     His father, worn out by this struggle, was beginning to fathom the depth of his determination. He just asked, “Which sleeper do YOU want to wear?”
     He pointed one out. End of the great sleeper struggle.
     For a time, his parents kept him in his crib with an elaborate, tent like structure over the top. Then, they just had to give up. He wandered the house at will at night, still too small to get out of that crib, supposedly.
     They had chocolate cake for supper, just as he was beginning to talk. He loved it. He asked for seconds.
     “No, save it for tomorrow”
     Our subject calmly stated, “Mom, while you are asleep, I will come in and get a second piece.” Well, he was less than two years old now, small for his age. But mom placed it on top of the fridge, just in case. The next morning, the cake was on the kitchen floor, intact, except for a piece missing, and a chocolate trail leading to his crib. After the scolding, they just had to ask; “How did you do that?”
     He brought out a two step ladder with a circle bar on top for a handle. “I stood on top,” he explained, pointing to the handle.
    They were on vacation in a condo. He slept on the folded up hide-a-bed. When morning came, he was just gone. Could not be found. After a time, he crawled out of the bowels of the folded up hide-a-bed. He always liked tight places, loved the challenge of going where it seemed impossible for him to go.
     I took him for a walk in an athletic field. I always try to keep him in large, open spaces, out of trouble. We came to metal bleachers by the tennis court. He started climbing half way up, going to the end, jumping off, rolling out of it. He never hurts himself when he falls. I was distracted for a moment, a very bad thing. When I looked around, he was at the top level, about to jump. My scream caused him to slip, and he fell down through the framework. He hit a bar that cartwheeled him. Hit another bar, another cartwheel. Finally, he hit the ground with a splat. I ran to him. The breath was knocked out of him. When he recovered from it somewhat, he said, “I need to sit down for a minute.” No tears. We have an understanding in our family. If a hurt brings tears, call 911. At the end of that minute, almost exactly, that grin started to spread across his face as he jumped up. “I'm going to do that again!”
     “No, you're not,” I said. “We're going home.” column
                                                      

 My wife's family reunion rolled around. Later, we all visited the old farm home site. It was surrounded by hundreds of acres of plowed ground. The kids all romped and played. This one child, different than the rest, now two, started walking away. Farther and farther he went. Finally, a concerned adult asked, “When will he turn around?”
    “He won't,” I replied. “I will have to go get him eventually.”
    To make my point, I just watched. I decided I would just let him go, as long as he was in no danger. He became a speck in the distance. Finally, I started moving fast to catch up, before he had time to get to a road. He and I walked back, as the families watched. He tripped, falling face first in the dirt. A collective “oooooooooh!” arose from the onlookers. I paid no attention. He arose, wiped the dirt off his face, so he could see, and quickly caught up. He never hurts himself with his falls.
     He was approaching three now, watching his brother's basketball practice. The coach was a hard case, ran his team with an iron hand. His teams almost never lost. Parents were afraid of him. When practice was over, our subject walked onto the court, shook the coach's pants leg, and said something.
     The coach could not hear. The coach got down on a knee, face to face, and said, “What did you say, buddy?”
     “I said, that was not nice of you, telling my brother to get his butt back on the court!”   Everyone fell silent. The coach raised up, red faced. One or two of the coach's buddies laughed quietly momentarily, but they were quickly silenced by a red-faced glare.
     At the next practice, the coach stated to a group of parents, “Well, I've never been dressed down like that by anyone that small! Then he laughed.
    Then, everybody laughed.
    Our subject was approaching five now. I have a two story tree house in my yard, for the children around me. To keep the small children below, and safe, a knotted rope must be climbed to reach the second floor. Well, it didn't work out right. The older children could not do it. Guess who did? You guessed it. Right to the top. When I arrived on the scene, he was on the second floor roof, singing a song to celebrate his accomplishment.
     Time for the church fish fry. Our friends host this at their farm. Some of my wife's family were there, along with our subject. My wife has a large family, lots of kids, from 5 to 12.  A couple of the girls, 12 years old, ran the show. The older boys, 10 and 11, ran from these girls. For good reason.
     Well, one of the older girls climbed up on a tractor. Our subject started up. She gently put her foot against his face, pushed him back. He needed to know his place. A major mistake. He came back, tiny fists flying. All night he pursued her. When he found her, he always attacked, fists flying. He finally graduated to a stick. When a rescuing parent was finally brought to the scene, she was back peddling, “Get away from me, you little kid!”
     On the way home, he was counseled wisely by his older brother. “You just can't do that,” he said, “to older kids. They will beat you up!”
     “They may beat me up,” he replied, “But I will hurt them while they do!”
     He's at the top of the kid pecking order now. When older kids see trouble with him on the horizon, they run tell us. They want no part of having to fight a small bundle of fury again, again, and again.
     When kindergarten rolled around, his mother took him to preschool visitation. It was at the school his parent's badly wanted him to go to, as his older brother was there. But, the kindergarten classes were about filled up, and his chances were slim. We had all stressed to him about respecting and obeying the Principal. We had no idea what might happen in a school situation, because of his nature. When they signed in, he asked, “Is the Principal here?”
     “Yes, she's over there.”
     “I would like to meet her.”
     When the secretary called her over, his mother told her, “I have a young man here who wants to meet you.” And, she added, privately, “So, run with it!”
     The principal, a very large, tall, stern lady, bent over to get her face next to his. Looked him right in the eye sternly, and said, “If you come here, and act like God and your mama want you to, you will have no trouble. But if you come here and cause problems, you will have lots of trouble!”
     He looked her in the eye awhile, then that grin appeared. “Nah, you won't have any trouble from me. I can count to 20! wanta' hear it?”
     She burst out laughing, losing all her bluster. “I would LOVE to hear you count to 20!” Privately, she said to his mama, “I will see to it PERSONALLY that he goes to school here!” Somehow, he managed to snag the very last kindergarten slot.
     True to his word, she had no trouble with him. Nor did his teacher. However, he was not good at obeying teachers whose class he was not in. Unquestioning obedience to an adult, just because they are bigger than him (almost everyone is) is just not a part of his makeup. But a logical, calm approach by his mother, about the “right thing to do” did the trick.

     Millions for logic, not one single penny for intimidation.

CONTINUED

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