I inhale deeply, lunch, and eraser and paper smells search their way up my nose. I'm back in the small Elementary School at which I've been attempting to volunteer. Following my attempt at lobotomizing Mrs. D, she invited me back on Fridays from 11:45-12:45. Her e-mail says it all, I think, "I will have you work with children on one of the following: projects or concepts
we are working on, reading to you, handwriting practice, or practice writing
sentences. I also have flashcards that you can use to help children practice
concepts. Any thoughts you have about the children could be emailed to me at a
later time so that I can move onto the next activity. I really appreciate your
willingness to help and look forward to having you work with the children. They
will probably go out in the hallway to avoid too many distractions!" I gave her too much information, too different from the norms and too fast. (Heavy sigh). I notice that the classroom is empty, except for my guy, Mauricio, who is sitting (!?) working at the computer with headphones on. Everyone else is out at lunch recess. Apparently, Mauricio did not behave well enough to earn his lunch recess. My shoulders slump.
Mrs. D. shows me a stack of bound booklets. On the title page is the familiar title of the wonderful Eric Carle book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear. Mrs. D. wants me to work individually with the kids or in twos, depending on their capacity for attention, on writing the narration on each appropriate page, and then coloring the animal the appropriate color. I don't ask the goal. I'm laying low. Later, I surmise the goal must be for each child to have their very own, laboriously handwritten Eric Carle book to take home. Mrs. D says she will send the child/children out with their books. I am to take them as far as they tolerate. The books are started, but I am still unclear as to whether this is a whole class project...catch up the slow ones as we can, send 'em home with something. She gives me crayons and two #2 pencils.
My first victim is Emilio. As we walk to our chairs and desks in the hallway, he proclaims, "I'm looking for gold! I'm going to do some research and see what it looks like!" He pulls pea gravel out of his pockets and gives me a small beige sliver of rock. He walks back toward the classroom looking for his "prize" that has apparently fallen on the floor. We can't find it. I convince him to walk closer to the chairs, so we can attempt to sit down. We start with some "wake up" exercises, chair push-ups, and hand "spider push-ups" to get some proprioceptive input to the muscles of the arms and hands, to increase focus, concentration and fine motor control. It is immediately clear that Emilio is a wiggly squiggler....and a talker. As soon as he sits down, the piece of "gold" immediately goes in his mouth. This is retrieved and placed on the table at my urging.
Throughout the session he is in multiple positions in and almost out of the chair. His upper body is often draped across me. He asks for and sneaks hugs almost constantly throughout our session. He has no ordered approach to his letter writing. He starts at the bottom for every one (this is inefficient use of energy, confuses letter directionality, and results in mismatching bodies and supporting structures.) I place my hand over his to attempt to assist him, and he immediately withdraws his hand as if I'd struck him. This response is a clear sign of Sensory Defensiveness. This is when the child responds as if he is under attack with "Fight, Flight or Fright responses" to what to most of us would be non-threatening sensory input. I make a mental note. Letters appear like misshapen graphite constellations across a paper white universe, looking like cherries with stems, odd snakes, e's that have been rocked on their backs. There is constant conversation. "Did you know that somebody made something (I can't tell all the words he is saying) with 300 nails, and it exploded and shredded somebody!" He looks bloodthirsty in his delight. I nod with a slight inner shiver. "I saw a kid lift 300#!, But I think it was 200, or maybe really 100. And this grown man tried to lift it and he couldn't." We make a deal. He can talk after he has finished writing a complete word. He continues to wiggle. He asks for hugs, which are sprinkled throughout the session following each letter formation. He looks at my teeth, "Are they turning into gold? Is that plaque?!" (I swear I do floss, but I have drunk a lot of coffee). I explain that some of my teeth are thin, and chipping from the back. We struggle onward. I notice that Emilio no longer has shoes on when his feet are up in the chair. He needs step by step cuing and demonstration for each letter. He becomes silly when I ask him to identify letters, "It's Gazinga, fafinga, gazoing!" I tense waiting for another "f" word...it doesn't come. We struggle and take an eternity, with lots of talking and hugs and enormous amounts of movement. I ask him if he wants me to tighten his velcro shoes. He does one and I do one. We are done. Time to go back to glass. I ask him if he wants one last hug. He nods yes. I take him onto my lap and give him a HUGE bear hug. He complains that I hurt his stomach. I'm surprised and regretful. He softens the blow by launching into a story about how his stomach hurt before lunch. When I hugged Emilio, it became very clear why he moved so much in his chair, and was all but out of it, and talked more than wrote. Emilio is EXTREMELY LOW TONE! That means the essential tension on his muscles that help hold him up against gravity, is way below average. When one is weak in this way, staying still is the hardest thing in the world, so you're muscles work in short bursts...hence the wiggling. Add the need to control your arms for handwriting...this heightens the effort, hence the constant talking and silliness, and request for hugs. Emilio is a one-man wiggling army working his darnedest to fight against the pull of gravity...poor Mrs. D....
My next victim is a girl, Jayda. She also starts her letters from the bottom up, but responds very well to visual demonstration and verbal cues. She has a tendency to make multiple lines where one line would suffice, as if more lines will make up for any inaccuracy of the first line. Jayda writes large! She laboriously places a finger to space the letters between words. While we work I hear inermittent screams, then heartfelt crying. I recognize the cries. It is Mauricio. I look at Jayda. Apparently, it is a common enough occurrence, it is not even worthy of a pause. Mauricio must be missing recess. I idly wonder what Mrs. D is doing in response. I sigh for Mauricio. Sentences stretch across the universe. Jayda colors wonderfully. She loves the attention. She does not want to stop. We complete four pages, but she wants to do the whole book. I beg off, saying that "others" are waiting to work with me. Jayda also accepts a hug at the end of the session.
While I'm waiting for the next child, a little girl from the classroom next to the desk we are working at, darts out gives me a quick surprise hug. I have no idea who she is, but she's adorable. I hug her asking, "Did you need a hug?" Dimples nod back yes, as she darts back into the classroom. I think I could hug my way through the whole school, and start over again, and never stop, hugging needy children for eternity....my heart hurts...
Next walks out, Bobbie. Bobbie is a lefty. He hunches his shoulders with every stroke, and writes so quickly with mixed upper and lower case letters, that there is no time for instruction or correction. Bobbie is, literally on a roll. He is also a fantastic speller....with a wonderful imagination. He colors the feet of the duck with the pencil, then quickly draws a few lines on the front, explaining, "It's a telescope!" We work our way through the parts of the purple horse. Upper and lower case letters project themselves randomly across the pages. Though Bobbie is an excellent speller, he doesn't seem to care necessarily about the order of the words. The frog sports a top hat. "He's going on a date!" proclaims Bobbie. Ears that look remarkably human appear on the sides of the frogs head. When I absently note that Frog's ears are like snakes and on the inside so they can close them when the frog goes underwater, Bobbie erases the ears, and replaces them with less elaborate half circles. Accuracy is very important to Bobbie.
Bobbie like Jayda, sacrifices letter accuracy for quantity. While he labors away, coloring the hat with beautiful multi-color stripes, I ask him about a cut he has on his foreahead. "I had a fit, and hurt my head when I crawled under the teacher's desk." "Oh," I say, "you banged your head on the teacher's desk."
"No," he clarifies. "I had a fit and banged my head on the teacher's desk." "Oh, you had a FIT and banged your head on the desk." Apparently the fit is a VERY important component that cannot be left out. Satisfied, Bobbie nods.
I look at my watch. My hour is past due. I'm a little worried I've overstayed my welcome. I send Bobbie on his way into the classroom with a two thumbs up. I stay out in the hallway, cleaning up my crumbling crayons. Though Mrs. D had specified that I should give my report/update by e-mail, she comes out into the hallway to inquire on their performance. I note that they all start their letters from the bottom. That Bobbie hunches his shoulders, but can drop them if cued. She nods her head, and goes into detail about the extra time that certain individuals take. She shows me where the booklets go. Informs me that I will be working with the whole class individually on completing the "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" booklets. I sigh inwardly, as she informs me that when that is done, I can do flash cards with the kids. I nod enthusiastically.
I depart the classroom. Out in the hallway, the Student Teacher, Miss Lori who has been a fellow hall camper, testing individual children asks, "Leaving so soon?" I pause, mulling how to respond. "Yes," I say. "She said she only wanted me for an hour." I take a breath. "I figure that I told her too much too fast, that I better take it slow now." Miss Lori nods with a knowing look in her eye.
I step out into the surprisingly springlike Montana sunshine. I breathe the fresh air. I want to turn around and hug every child and teacher in the school, until I can no longer lift my arms. I shake my head and unlock my van. I get in and drive home.
Peace, love & HUGS!
Kismet
Mrs. D. shows me a stack of bound booklets. On the title page is the familiar title of the wonderful Eric Carle book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear. Mrs. D. wants me to work individually with the kids or in twos, depending on their capacity for attention, on writing the narration on each appropriate page, and then coloring the animal the appropriate color. I don't ask the goal. I'm laying low. Later, I surmise the goal must be for each child to have their very own, laboriously handwritten Eric Carle book to take home. Mrs. D says she will send the child/children out with their books. I am to take them as far as they tolerate. The books are started, but I am still unclear as to whether this is a whole class project...catch up the slow ones as we can, send 'em home with something. She gives me crayons and two #2 pencils.
My first victim is Emilio. As we walk to our chairs and desks in the hallway, he proclaims, "I'm looking for gold! I'm going to do some research and see what it looks like!" He pulls pea gravel out of his pockets and gives me a small beige sliver of rock. He walks back toward the classroom looking for his "prize" that has apparently fallen on the floor. We can't find it. I convince him to walk closer to the chairs, so we can attempt to sit down. We start with some "wake up" exercises, chair push-ups, and hand "spider push-ups" to get some proprioceptive input to the muscles of the arms and hands, to increase focus, concentration and fine motor control. It is immediately clear that Emilio is a wiggly squiggler....and a talker. As soon as he sits down, the piece of "gold" immediately goes in his mouth. This is retrieved and placed on the table at my urging.
Throughout the session he is in multiple positions in and almost out of the chair. His upper body is often draped across me. He asks for and sneaks hugs almost constantly throughout our session. He has no ordered approach to his letter writing. He starts at the bottom for every one (this is inefficient use of energy, confuses letter directionality, and results in mismatching bodies and supporting structures.) I place my hand over his to attempt to assist him, and he immediately withdraws his hand as if I'd struck him. This response is a clear sign of Sensory Defensiveness. This is when the child responds as if he is under attack with "Fight, Flight or Fright responses" to what to most of us would be non-threatening sensory input. I make a mental note. Letters appear like misshapen graphite constellations across a paper white universe, looking like cherries with stems, odd snakes, e's that have been rocked on their backs. There is constant conversation. "Did you know that somebody made something (I can't tell all the words he is saying) with 300 nails, and it exploded and shredded somebody!" He looks bloodthirsty in his delight. I nod with a slight inner shiver. "I saw a kid lift 300#!, But I think it was 200, or maybe really 100. And this grown man tried to lift it and he couldn't." We make a deal. He can talk after he has finished writing a complete word. He continues to wiggle. He asks for hugs, which are sprinkled throughout the session following each letter formation. He looks at my teeth, "Are they turning into gold? Is that plaque?!" (I swear I do floss, but I have drunk a lot of coffee). I explain that some of my teeth are thin, and chipping from the back. We struggle onward. I notice that Emilio no longer has shoes on when his feet are up in the chair. He needs step by step cuing and demonstration for each letter. He becomes silly when I ask him to identify letters, "It's Gazinga, fafinga, gazoing!" I tense waiting for another "f" word...it doesn't come. We struggle and take an eternity, with lots of talking and hugs and enormous amounts of movement. I ask him if he wants me to tighten his velcro shoes. He does one and I do one. We are done. Time to go back to glass. I ask him if he wants one last hug. He nods yes. I take him onto my lap and give him a HUGE bear hug. He complains that I hurt his stomach. I'm surprised and regretful. He softens the blow by launching into a story about how his stomach hurt before lunch. When I hugged Emilio, it became very clear why he moved so much in his chair, and was all but out of it, and talked more than wrote. Emilio is EXTREMELY LOW TONE! That means the essential tension on his muscles that help hold him up against gravity, is way below average. When one is weak in this way, staying still is the hardest thing in the world, so you're muscles work in short bursts...hence the wiggling. Add the need to control your arms for handwriting...this heightens the effort, hence the constant talking and silliness, and request for hugs. Emilio is a one-man wiggling army working his darnedest to fight against the pull of gravity...poor Mrs. D....
My next victim is a girl, Jayda. She also starts her letters from the bottom up, but responds very well to visual demonstration and verbal cues. She has a tendency to make multiple lines where one line would suffice, as if more lines will make up for any inaccuracy of the first line. Jayda writes large! She laboriously places a finger to space the letters between words. While we work I hear inermittent screams, then heartfelt crying. I recognize the cries. It is Mauricio. I look at Jayda. Apparently, it is a common enough occurrence, it is not even worthy of a pause. Mauricio must be missing recess. I idly wonder what Mrs. D is doing in response. I sigh for Mauricio. Sentences stretch across the universe. Jayda colors wonderfully. She loves the attention. She does not want to stop. We complete four pages, but she wants to do the whole book. I beg off, saying that "others" are waiting to work with me. Jayda also accepts a hug at the end of the session.
While I'm waiting for the next child, a little girl from the classroom next to the desk we are working at, darts out gives me a quick surprise hug. I have no idea who she is, but she's adorable. I hug her asking, "Did you need a hug?" Dimples nod back yes, as she darts back into the classroom. I think I could hug my way through the whole school, and start over again, and never stop, hugging needy children for eternity....my heart hurts...
Next walks out, Bobbie. Bobbie is a lefty. He hunches his shoulders with every stroke, and writes so quickly with mixed upper and lower case letters, that there is no time for instruction or correction. Bobbie is, literally on a roll. He is also a fantastic speller....with a wonderful imagination. He colors the feet of the duck with the pencil, then quickly draws a few lines on the front, explaining, "It's a telescope!" We work our way through the parts of the purple horse. Upper and lower case letters project themselves randomly across the pages. Though Bobbie is an excellent speller, he doesn't seem to care necessarily about the order of the words. The frog sports a top hat. "He's going on a date!" proclaims Bobbie. Ears that look remarkably human appear on the sides of the frogs head. When I absently note that Frog's ears are like snakes and on the inside so they can close them when the frog goes underwater, Bobbie erases the ears, and replaces them with less elaborate half circles. Accuracy is very important to Bobbie.
Bobbie like Jayda, sacrifices letter accuracy for quantity. While he labors away, coloring the hat with beautiful multi-color stripes, I ask him about a cut he has on his foreahead. "I had a fit, and hurt my head when I crawled under the teacher's desk." "Oh," I say, "you banged your head on the teacher's desk."
"No," he clarifies. "I had a fit and banged my head on the teacher's desk." "Oh, you had a FIT and banged your head on the desk." Apparently the fit is a VERY important component that cannot be left out. Satisfied, Bobbie nods.
I look at my watch. My hour is past due. I'm a little worried I've overstayed my welcome. I send Bobbie on his way into the classroom with a two thumbs up. I stay out in the hallway, cleaning up my crumbling crayons. Though Mrs. D had specified that I should give my report/update by e-mail, she comes out into the hallway to inquire on their performance. I note that they all start their letters from the bottom. That Bobbie hunches his shoulders, but can drop them if cued. She nods her head, and goes into detail about the extra time that certain individuals take. She shows me where the booklets go. Informs me that I will be working with the whole class individually on completing the "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" booklets. I sigh inwardly, as she informs me that when that is done, I can do flash cards with the kids. I nod enthusiastically.
I depart the classroom. Out in the hallway, the Student Teacher, Miss Lori who has been a fellow hall camper, testing individual children asks, "Leaving so soon?" I pause, mulling how to respond. "Yes," I say. "She said she only wanted me for an hour." I take a breath. "I figure that I told her too much too fast, that I better take it slow now." Miss Lori nods with a knowing look in her eye.
I step out into the surprisingly springlike Montana sunshine. I breathe the fresh air. I want to turn around and hug every child and teacher in the school, until I can no longer lift my arms. I shake my head and unlock my van. I get in and drive home.
Peace, love & HUGS!
Kismet
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