When Rain Hurts by Mary Evelyn Greene

August 17, 2010

August 17, 2010


Sesame Place, PA (Aug. 2006)

August 17, 2010.  Today is Peter’s second day of art camp at a wonderful space housed in an old chocolate factory called Imagination Station.  Yesterday he was very excited, though nervous, to begin this new adventure but he became verbally assaultive as soon as Sophie and I walked in the room to pick him up.  “The juice is rotten!” he hisses.  “I had nothing to drink at snack.”  I know what he’s talking about because we’ve gone through this before.  The design of his favorite juice box changed a few months back and its new persona is something with which he just can’t cope.   Really, I understand.  Peter struggles through so many changes – they’re all so difficult for him and yet some are so miniscule they’re nearly invisible to the rest of us.  If he has to put his foot down about a manufacturer’s audacity to change its packaging without first consulting him, if that’s where he decides to draw the line, then I want to be sympathetic.  But at the same time, I don’t want his obstinacy, his perseverative tendencies, to overtake all reason.  In truth, I also don’t want to throw away a perfectly good case of his favorite juice – a flavor Sophie won’t even touch – because he’s dug his heels in over something nonsensical.  “Let’s read the expiration date together,” I begin, pointing to the stamped “use by” date that clearly says May 2011.  “No, it’s rotten – you want to poison me, you bad mother person!”  I desperately want to avoid a meltdown in this sanctuary dedicated to creative exploration, so I steer him out and mumble something over my shoulder to the woman who runs the program.  Once outside, away from the other children, he regains some semblance of composure and we head toward home.  Over lunch the underlying cause for the assault reveals itself: Peter had first day jitters and it seems some of the “older kids” (all of whom are younger than he) were staring and making fun, among other things, of the way he speaks.  Teasing is a cruel reality when it comes to a child like Peter, and constant vigilance is required to combat it.  “I cried in my head, Mom, but not on my face.”  He can be so brave, our young son.  He wanted to cry – he felt like crying, but he held it in.  How many times has this happened without our knowledge?  Of the handful of episodes about which I know, there are bound to be dozens more, little acts of unkindness, left unacknowledged and unrevealed, in the clandestine recesses of Peter’s fragile psyche.  After lunch I speak with the art instructor, who listens carefully and promises to help ensure tomorrow’s a better Peter day.  Sleep doesn’t lessen his anxiety, however.  He spends breakfast laughing uncontrollably, without provocation, partially chewed biscuit crumbling from his mouth as Pat struggles to corral him.  “You can’t go to art camp if you keep this up,” I interject.  “I don’t want to go,” he laughs back.  A staccato half-squeal, half-moan accompanies every physical movement.  And this is where I trip up: I shouldn’t have brought up the possibility of not going unless I was ready to not send him.  I need the break, I really do – its only three hours, and Peter needs the opportunity to work on his social skills, hopefully learning a little something about art in the process.  Never mind the fact that we’ve already paid in full.  Plus, I have work to do regarding our endless Due Process Hearing, and no matter what I start Peter doing – whether its riding his bike, playing with Legos, or practicing his soccer, the independent activity lasts no more than three minutes, then he’s back to circling me like a lost but plucky pup.  “Peter,” I try reasoning.  “You can do this.  You love art.  You just have to calm yourself down.  Everybody gets nervous when they start something new.”  But he keeps insisting that the other kids stare at him and make faces.  He doesn’t know why, he says, but he insists they don’t like him.  “Did you stare at anyone yesterday?” I ask.  “No way, Mom.  I didn’t.  I swear!”  And that’s when I know I’ve hooked him, the faintest hint of a smile betraying his plaintive voice.  Peter and I spend countless hours working on his at times obsessive habit of staring at people – he can bore a hole right through a person’s skull, and so I know he’s just made a little joke on himself.  “Okay, Mom,” he says, smiling shyly.  “I’ll try.”  When we arrive at camp, I walk him inside where the instructor asks Peter where he prefers to sit for table work.  He chooses to sit with the younger group, some of whom are just four, and I nod my head in agreement.  He’s more comfortable with this age child, and that’s okay.  Yesterday he told me he preferred to sit with the younger kids, and together we agreed he’d make a wonderful “helper”.  I linger near the exit for a moment, sensing his insecurity, but the instructor clearly wants me to leave, her body language signaling that its okay, that she’s in tune to the situation.  I’m becoming more adept at recognizing early on whether a new adult in Peter’s life will help or hinder.  This kind woman exudes helpfulness, and so without further hesitation, I say a quick goodbye and walk away.  My hope is that when I pick Peter up three hours from now, he’ll be full of chatter about paper mache and drawing, and will have forgotten yesterday’s difficulties . . . maybe even to the point of forgiving the crime of changing the juice box design!

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2 Comments »

  1. You really are a gifted writer. I wish you the best in the hearing, I really hope he gets to go the program that is suited for him.

    Comment by Katherine — August 19, 2010 @ 2:38 pm | Reply

  2. Hi Mary… just checking in… wondering if you know where Peter will be going to school in a week or so?

    Have you made any progress? I

    Comment by Janet — August 28, 2010 @ 8:15 pm | Reply


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