Growing pains, leaves, and the restoration of Monkey
Growing pains are part of life, yes? And I'm talking about more than just the boys' shins hurting at night. I say it's their bones telling them to go to sleep, since a person can only grow while they're sleeping. Seems to go over pretty well.
No, I'm referring the kind of pain stemming from a "this is for your own good" experience. One that teaches you a lesson you aren't soon to forget.
Trey. Oh, my Trey. Sweet as a Christmas cookie, sharp as a tack, scared of his own shadow. Any, any variance to routine or unpredictable situation, and he just loses it completely.
Enter the first grade class musical performance of fall 2013. A living nightmare for Trey. Not only will his typical school day be interrupted for the purpose of rehearsing, but said rehearsals will happen on...a stage. Yep, a nightmare.
He tried hard to skip school, though after a similar incident last year, we were actually prepared for this. Score a rare one for the parents. After some conversations with his principal, it was decided that we should try and push Trey a bit, just to see what would happen. And that the principal should be the one to do it, since, you know, listening and obedience comes more naturally to anyone but your parents.
Immediately after the first on-stage rehearsal, the principal called. She had talked with Trey about why he didn't like being on stage, explained to him that his music grade for the nine weeks depended upon him at least trying, and worked with him to build a list of things that would make him not so afraid. They went into the cafetorium together and sat in the audience a while, watching the class. She asked him if they could sit on the steps of the stage, which he agreed to. Then after a bit longer, she asked if he would go stand by his friend. Which he did.
By now I am floored, to say the least. Then she went on to say that, by the end of the rehearsal, he was doing hand motions and singing and (brace yourself) smiling.
Uh, are you sure that was my kid?
She was thrilled with his progress, saying he went much further than she expected him to go. We all praised him up and down, and at home tried to drive the point home that life was full of things that might be scary, but if we would take things step by step and trust in God as our strength, it wouldn't be so bad. Gotta love those life lessons.
There was another hurdle on the horizon - the performance itself, in front of the whole school. No one knew how this would go, as we hadn't heard from the principal if there was a plan for Trey. They started out with Trey to the side of his class, behind the curtain where no one could see him. But little by little, as the songs came and went, he inched out further and further toward his class, singing and having a great time.
He knows he can do it. The fear is not all gone, but he has seen what can happen when he lets go a little. And it's like having an elephant lifted off your back. Oh, how grateful we are for the principal, for investing her time into our Trey. He's changing. He's taking his time, as he always has (cough, twenty-seven hours of labor, cough). But we have more hope than ever that he'll come around.
So enough fall drama. Time for a little more fall fun.
Now about Monkey. Monkey, Aden's forever friend and faithful sidekick. Been around longer than Aden has, actually. He came to us when Trey was in the hospital at five weeks old (thanks, Ms. Sue!), but rode the bench for years until Aden came along. But boy, he's gotten some serious play time over the last three years. Aden does very little without him close by.
In fact, I'm pretty sure Monkey is the reason we can't get Aden to stop sucking his thumb. As Nana says, all Aden has to do is see Monkey from across the room, and his thumb goes into his mouth. When we tell Aden he needs to get rid of his thumb, his first response is always, "But I need it for Monkey!" I feel there will be some unpleasantries down the road when we really start to enforce the thumb embargo.
But for now, Monkey is Monkey. He's worn out. Used to squeal; doesn't anymore. Used to be fluffy. Over half of him is now flat. He's see-through in some places. He's real. Several months ago, Monkey lost an eye. We searched the house up and down, back and forth for weeks, and nothing. It broke Aden's heart. "Why can't he see me??"
After a few days of explaining that Monkey could still see out of one eye, Aden seemed satisfied. Except that now whenever he positioned Monkey somewhere so he could watch Aden play, Aden would turn him so that the one eye was pointed toward the play.
Is that sad?
Anyway, this past week the old squealer box in Monkey's arm shattered, leaving sharp pieces all over the inside of his body. I talked myself into Doc McStuffins mode and prepared to perform extremely delicate surgery on this irreplaceable (trust me, I've checked) friend.
Well, guess what. One of the pieces I pulled out was Monkey's other eye. He is now completely healed.
But the fact that I found Monkey's eye inside his body, and that it fit snugly back into place, convinces me that Monkey originally lost his eye by someone gouging it down into his body.
Which, in the words of my husband, is why we don't have a dog.
No, I'm referring the kind of pain stemming from a "this is for your own good" experience. One that teaches you a lesson you aren't soon to forget.
Trey. Oh, my Trey. Sweet as a Christmas cookie, sharp as a tack, scared of his own shadow. Any, any variance to routine or unpredictable situation, and he just loses it completely.
Enter the first grade class musical performance of fall 2013. A living nightmare for Trey. Not only will his typical school day be interrupted for the purpose of rehearsing, but said rehearsals will happen on...a stage. Yep, a nightmare.
He tried hard to skip school, though after a similar incident last year, we were actually prepared for this. Score a rare one for the parents. After some conversations with his principal, it was decided that we should try and push Trey a bit, just to see what would happen. And that the principal should be the one to do it, since, you know, listening and obedience comes more naturally to anyone but your parents.
Immediately after the first on-stage rehearsal, the principal called. She had talked with Trey about why he didn't like being on stage, explained to him that his music grade for the nine weeks depended upon him at least trying, and worked with him to build a list of things that would make him not so afraid. They went into the cafetorium together and sat in the audience a while, watching the class. She asked him if they could sit on the steps of the stage, which he agreed to. Then after a bit longer, she asked if he would go stand by his friend. Which he did.
By now I am floored, to say the least. Then she went on to say that, by the end of the rehearsal, he was doing hand motions and singing and (brace yourself) smiling.
Uh, are you sure that was my kid?
She was thrilled with his progress, saying he went much further than she expected him to go. We all praised him up and down, and at home tried to drive the point home that life was full of things that might be scary, but if we would take things step by step and trust in God as our strength, it wouldn't be so bad. Gotta love those life lessons.
There was another hurdle on the horizon - the performance itself, in front of the whole school. No one knew how this would go, as we hadn't heard from the principal if there was a plan for Trey. They started out with Trey to the side of his class, behind the curtain where no one could see him. But little by little, as the songs came and went, he inched out further and further toward his class, singing and having a great time.
He knows he can do it. The fear is not all gone, but he has seen what can happen when he lets go a little. And it's like having an elephant lifted off your back. Oh, how grateful we are for the principal, for investing her time into our Trey. He's changing. He's taking his time, as he always has (cough, twenty-seven hours of labor, cough). But we have more hope than ever that he'll come around.
So enough fall drama. Time for a little more fall fun.
Now about Monkey. Monkey, Aden's forever friend and faithful sidekick. Been around longer than Aden has, actually. He came to us when Trey was in the hospital at five weeks old (thanks, Ms. Sue!), but rode the bench for years until Aden came along. But boy, he's gotten some serious play time over the last three years. Aden does very little without him close by.
In fact, I'm pretty sure Monkey is the reason we can't get Aden to stop sucking his thumb. As Nana says, all Aden has to do is see Monkey from across the room, and his thumb goes into his mouth. When we tell Aden he needs to get rid of his thumb, his first response is always, "But I need it for Monkey!" I feel there will be some unpleasantries down the road when we really start to enforce the thumb embargo.
But for now, Monkey is Monkey. He's worn out. Used to squeal; doesn't anymore. Used to be fluffy. Over half of him is now flat. He's see-through in some places. He's real. Several months ago, Monkey lost an eye. We searched the house up and down, back and forth for weeks, and nothing. It broke Aden's heart. "Why can't he see me??"
After a few days of explaining that Monkey could still see out of one eye, Aden seemed satisfied. Except that now whenever he positioned Monkey somewhere so he could watch Aden play, Aden would turn him so that the one eye was pointed toward the play.
Is that sad?
Anyway, this past week the old squealer box in Monkey's arm shattered, leaving sharp pieces all over the inside of his body. I talked myself into Doc McStuffins mode and prepared to perform extremely delicate surgery on this irreplaceable (trust me, I've checked) friend.
Well, guess what. One of the pieces I pulled out was Monkey's other eye. He is now completely healed.
But the fact that I found Monkey's eye inside his body, and that it fit snugly back into place, convinces me that Monkey originally lost his eye by someone gouging it down into his body.
Which, in the words of my husband, is why we don't have a dog.
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