Spider phobia

Every blog has its interludes from time to time, when there's a feeling in the air of "where am I going? what's this blog for?". I've had mine, and now I'm back.

Daughter is scared of spiders. I understand. When I was a child (and still now), I had (have) a snake phobia. I never saw a real snake, but that didn't matter. I remember seeing a picture of a snake in a book or on the tv, and the back of my neck would constrict, there'd be a jarring, ringing, grating noise in my ears, and I would feel frozen. It was a visceral reaction. I expect it saved my ancestors from death by anaconda, and was handed down in the DNA as a useful evolutionary tool.

Logic, reason, understanding... they didn't come into the phobia. My brother had a toy wooden cobra, made of a long series of wooden Vs, and I hated it. I hated the way its many joints would allow it to move from side to side in curves, like a real snake. I knew it wasn't a real snake, of course, but I still hated it. He would occasionally silently nmanoeuvre it round my bedroom door, and I'd turn round from doing my homework at my desk and see it, and feel petrified. Turned to stone, is what the word petrified means, and it was like that. The jangling noise in my ears and the freezing sensation in my body. He stopped doing that trick (he was a kind soul), and sometimes I would go into his bedroom, and make myself touch that wooden cobra, and pick it up. Logic must triumph over irrational panic, I would tell myself. But I'd only do that when no-one else was around.

I would only go to a zoo if I knew I didn't have to go into the reptile house. Snakes were the worst, but I didn't like lizards either. I did used to go to Tring Museum, where there was a large display of stuffed animals, collected by one of the Lord Rothschilds (he who had zebras to pull his trap instead of horses). There weren't any stuffed snakes, but there were snake skins. Trouble was, they were opposite the dogs. I loved the stuffed dogs. So I would go round the first few galleries knowing that I had a choice ahead (Tring Museum was a regular holiday treat), and trying to gather my courage. I could avoid the snake skins, but that would mean missing the dogs. I remember the fear, and how only facing it would mean I could manage it. So I would sidle along, looking at the dogs, and then when I felt brave enough, I would turn round, look at those dusty old snake skins, pinned out in glass cases, and prove to myself that I had nothing to fear.

So I understand 11-yo's fear of spiders. I know that saying "it won't hurt you" or "it's probably more frightened of you than you are of it" doesn't help. What I want to do, is to find out how to help - not just for the here and now, because we deal ok with each episode, but for the future. Is it best to help a child root out a phobia like this? Or is it best to live with it, until your chid is a young adult and can make her own decisions about what she wants to face and what she wants to put up with? I don't want to risk making it worse. If I've ever suggested doing anything about it, 11-yo, predictably, meets the suggestion with an emphatic "no!".

The difference between a snake phobia and a spider phobia is this. The snake phobia was unpleasant, but not significantly life-limiting. It would have been problematic if we'd moved to Australia, presumably, or gone on exotic holidays, but we didn't, so it wasn't. But if you live in the UK, and you fear and hate spiders, it's something that you have to deal with fairly frequently. I can see that 11-yo manages very well, and as far as I'm aware, it isn't something that hangs over and colours her daily life. But she'd still be better off without the fear, and I'd like to know what I can do to help.

I was going to put up a picture of snakes and spiders, but if you type that kind of thing into Google images, it really spoils your Wednesday evening. Go right ahead on your own, if you would like to see some. You don't need me to pick one out for you.

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A parent's moral dilemma: the reveal

Great answers, everyone. I really enjoyed hearing from you all.

In reality, what happened was this. I asked Husband, who, after all, does teach RME (Religious and Moral Education) and has whole shelves of books on ethics, so you would think he would have an opinion. Failing that, he could quote Socrates or Bonhoeffer and I could get cross and accuse him of being irrelevant. Either would be possible. In the event, he asked

"What did you actually tell 11-yo you'd do?"

I thought about it, and I replied

"I told him that I would ask the neighbours and the postman next time I saw them, because they were the obvious people who could have dropped it.* So yes, I had said I would ask the postman. "

This made it much simpler. [At this point in the story, you may feel unfairly treated, like when a murder mystery author introduces a new fact about a character or situation which you couldn't possibly have worked out for yourself, and which is key to the denouement. In my defence, may I point out that when I was pondering the rights and wrongs of the case, I was in your situation too. I didn't see this piece of information as relevant. It took Husband "just call me Hercule" to dig it up, shine a light on it, and reveal it as important.]

So I told 11-yo, that I'd asked the postman, that the money belonged to him, that I'd repaid him, and that 11-yo needed to give me the cash. I was fully prepared to be met with disbelief, annoyance, accusations of being unfair, and 11 year old wrath, and I was ready to argue my case. But 11-yo said

"Oh, ok then. Well that's his good luck, isn't it?"

and coughed up the dosh, without a murmur of hesitation.

Being a parent is full of surprises, isn't it?

But one moral dilemma leads to another. As I was telling Husband the end of the story, I said I was glad for the postman, who's such a very nice and helpful guy. And then I paused to reflect, would the issue have been the same if the postman had been a miserable, grumpy geezer? Would I have done the same thing? Should I have done? At this point, Husband muttered something about being late for work, and hastened off, shaping his moustache between thumb and forefinger, tapping his cane on the ground, and practising rrolling his Frrench rr's.


*in the front garden, where it was found, to those of you still wondering why the postman would be snooping round our back garden.
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A parent's moral dilemma

Yes, I thought a title as snappy and inviting as that would have you clicking quickly over here.

Here's a story. What would you have done? I'm genuinely interested. And when you've all told me, I'll tell you what I did.

11-yo found a £10 note in our front garden. Imagine the joy. We're in a cul-de-sac of two houses, not on a street, so it was a bit of a puzzle. No-one passes by, possibly dropping money as they go.

We asked our neighbours, and it wasn't theirs. We said "Finders Keepers", and 11-yo was happy. But then a couple of days later, I asked the postman, and he said yes, it was his (and I asked in such a way that I knew it was, ok? I didn't just say "We found a £10 note; did you drop one?"). So I gave the postman £10.

So what happens now? Do I tell 11-yo, and tell him he has to give up the £10 note to me? Do I not tell 11-yo, because spoiling a child's joy is a rotten thing to do? Should I have not even asked the postman? (Too late now on that one.) Do I split the damage 50-50 with 11-yo - not logical, but a reasonable compromise?

The other factor you need to know in this story, is that it's 11-yo's birthday this week. Obviously that has no moral bearing at all, but I find it significant, in a flakey maternal way.
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Birthdays

I love celebrating the children's birthdays, but this next one, 11-yo turning 12, is proving a bit of a hair in the gate. He and I have birthdays four days apart, and in America, they fell around Thanksgiving. We developed the tradition of a wonderful family time, taking the kids out of school for three days to turn the long week-end into a week, and heading off to Colorado. Late November in Colorado can be sunny and mild, or snowy and cold. It can be autumn or winter. I loved the element of surprise. We returned to favourite haunts, and did favourite things. We found snow, by heading high, and had a morning's sledding. We had a hike to a waterfall. We spent time in a cafe, drinking hot chocolate and playing cards. It was a much-anticipated week in a place special to the family. I even loved the journey, 10 hours' drive, along roads that had become familiar over the years.

11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of  years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.

This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.

I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up

"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"

I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.

"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.

Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.

Hector is back in favour

Yesterday I took Hector for a walk round the school playing fields. As I was going home, I came across 11-yo and his class-mates, on the way back to the boys' changing room. 11-yo's face suddenly made it all worthwhile, when he saw Hector, called him, scooped him up into his arms, and showed him off to his friends. "Hector, my puppy", he crooned, to the admiration of the other boys.

He put Hector down, and I turned for home. Suddenly, Hector was disappearing in the opposite direction. He'd found a piece of orange peel, picked it up, and, suspecting (correctly) that I'd take it away from him, rushed off. Heading for the nearest hiding place, he dashed straight into the boys' changing room. He was so quick that I didn't see where he'd gone, but I knew, from the shrieks of laughter and excitement coming out of the door. 11-yo sprinted after him, there was more shrieking and hilarity, and then 11-yo emerged, Hector in his arms.

Hector. You brought mirth to the First Form, raised their spirits, and gave them a story to tell over tea. You elevated 11-yo's status among his peers. Oh, the kudos of having a puppy, and a puppy who naughtily ventured into the boys' changing room!

You can stay. (But try harder on the house training, would you?)

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Bloggers are getting younger these days

Soon after I started this blog, and flushed with the excitement of writing, I began to wonder if I could write a book about moving to America. In fact, I gave up the blog (or tried to) for a while, with that in mind. I have to confess I didn’t get very far (and I missed the blog too much to leave it). Let’s be honest, I didn’t actually start. I did talk about it though, and 11-yo liked the idea. He offered to co-write the book with me, and that gave me another idea. Perhaps we could produce a book about the move, written from both perspectives. The mature, wise, reflective story of the adult, interspersed by the fresh, immediate, youthful comments of the child. I thought a publisher might like that.

There’s just one glitch. I’ve not written any of my sections. 11-yo has rather put me to shame. He's written 5,500 words, although he's only got as far as the point at which we arrive in our new city and are met at the airport. We both have some way to go.

I can’t tell you how interesting it has been for me to read his account of events, and to get insights into what it was like for him to be a player in them. I thought you would like to read his work too, so here are the first 500 words or so. I removed real names, and made one factual interjection, but otherwise it is completely unedited. I hope you enjoy the read.

Our family moved overseas from Scotland to America, and I am here to tell you about it.

It all started when I was in primary 4. I got home from school, did the usual things I would do on a Friday afternoon after school, and mum and dad called 5-yo and 2-yo and me into the dining room. 2-yo and 5-yo are my brother and sister. Mum and dad sat us all round our circular table, and told us that we were going to move from our house in Scotland near the sea, all the way over to America, almost as far away from the sea as you can possibly get. It was shocking news at the time to all of us, but also, it was exciting as you could imagine. 5-yo and 2-yo then started asking question after question to mum and dad, some of them unanswerable, but some of them where good questions. They were questions like, “How big is the city?” Or “When are we going?” Those types of questions. So, we had a little chat, and then went back to doing Friday afternoon things, and mum went off to make dinner.

The weekend after we heard the news passed very slowly, because I was very excited about telling everyone about us moving across seas. Of course, at the time, it seemed like a very long time till it actuarially moved, which at the time, was true. It was at least a year and a quarter, if not longer. [It was 6 months. Ed.] So, the weekend slowly went by, doing weekend jobs, watching a bit of TV, and shopping for food, and weekend jobs. Finally, it got to Sunday though, and in the morning we went to church. The Sunday afternoon went by slower that Saturday though.

Finally, after the whole weekend, a whole 48 hours, Monday came. I had never been so excited to go to school in my whole life, and when I got there, it was the same as always, busy, people everywhere, people playing, people lining up to go inside, and so on. We went inside after the bell rang, and we hung up our bags and our coats, bought in our homework and books, and got ready to begin working, but as always, people where standing up and turning in homework, and telling the primary 4 teacher things they want her to know, or telling her things she needs to know, maybe something about homework. That was the chance I had to tell her the news, and then that would be when the news got out. I also told some of my friends beforehand. When the teacher heard, she was shocked, but also happy for me, and she asked me why we were moving, which was a good question, and I answered, “Because my dad has got a job in America, he is teaching at a university.” This was true, and I am not the kind of person who lies, especially in this situation. Anyway, my best friend was quite shocked as well, in fact probably more shocked than anybody else in the classroom except for me, but of course I already knew the news, I found out two days ago, so I probably wasn’t the most shocked after all.

Christmas words

We had a few interesting linguistic excursions in our house over the Christmas break.

I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"

and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)

Then 8-yo asked the following question:

"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"

Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.

Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.

It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.

Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?

Perspective

It's all a matter of perspective. That's part of the whole "Not wrong, just different" approach to life. We used to think it was a long journey to see family: 4 hours to the nearest. We now think of that as a short hop. Four hours would hardly get us out of our state in most directions.

Living outside your own zone makes you realise how relative many of your absolutes actually are. What seemed like fact, becomes opinion. I overheard this telephone conversation between 11-yo and his grandmother. She had asked what sports he was playing at school at the moment, and it turns out they have been learning baseball (which I thought was a summer sport, and an outdoor one, but there you go). He said

"It's really hard. The bat is round, so the ball flies off in any direction, and they pitch it at you so fast. And the rules are so complicated. I like playing sports which have simple rules. Like cricket."

Yes, I thought that would amuse you. All a matter of perspective, you see.

What's in a name? - Part III

They held a mock election in 11-yo's school (middle school). McCain won by 4 votes. He voted for Obama, in spite of the fact that one of his friends told him that Obama supported terrorists.

7-yo has also been told that Obama supports terrorists, is a terrorist, in fact. They're not holding an election in his school (lower school), which he is sad about. He'd vote for McCain. "Why would you vote for McCain?" I asked. "Because it sounds like candy cane, and I like candy canes", he replied with a grin.

Now there's an angle that I'll bet the Republican PR people haven't thought of using.

Making the grade

Back to school again. All well in general. We now have a preschooler, an elementary schooler and a middle schooler. Middle school is a bit of a step up: classes in different rooms with different teachers, changing for PE, having a locker, and no recess. 11-yo is horrified by the thought of having no time off during the day, and only half an hour for lunch, and I have to say, I do rather agree with him. How can you expect kids to function well from 8.00am to 3.00pm with only half an hour off? They do have PE, and “electives” which are less academic and more fun (though not the ping-pong that I’d been told would be on offer, and which I’d held out as a recess-alternative bone to 11-yo all through the summer). Useful training, I suppose, should any of them end up perchance living in a society where a long-hours work culture prevails.

Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”

On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”

Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.

This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.

Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.

We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.