More library adventures
I like our little library here in our new town, but it still feels as though we are visitors. Someone from my family is at the library at least once a week at the minimum. D. was there for a couple of hours once a week to have his French tutoring. I come both by myself and with a herd of children fairly regularly. I am used to being somewhat conspicuous, and even if someone doesn't remember my name, they at least remember I'm that woman with all the children. But instead, when I'm in there, it's as though I'm wearing an invisibility cloak. It's weird and disconcerting.
That's the prelude to my two library stories I have to share.
The first involves math. Today we went in because it is the week they are handing out the first round of prizes for the reading game. Most of my children had completely filled their cards with their reading stars (one star = 15 minutes of reading). [Sorry, can't help kibitzing here.. as a librarian wouldn't you want to get to know that family with many children who come at the reading game halfway point with their cards all filled?!] G., though, who can become slightly overwhelmed by things, had a late reading start and only filled half her card. This was fine because we were halfway through the game. My children take turns handing over their cards and most of them are completely filled. G.'s was half filled and the librarian wanted to know how many minutes of reading that equaled, so she has G. count her stars, which she does. The librarian then asks G. to multiply that number by 15.
Sigh.
G. is my child who teeters on the verge of math anxiety. I tread very carefully so that she feels successful and so the anxiety will slowly go away. Of course it is this child who is suddenly handed a math problem she felt was too hard along with the implied consequence of not receiving her prize if she didn't do the math. I like my children to feel as though they can fight their own battles if possible, so I bit my tongue and kept an eye on how she was handling things. Thankfully, the librarian seemed to sense that she had met an immovable force who was not going to perform math tricks and did the math herself. Turns out, the game rules say that it is just 600 minutes of reading to complete the game, which G. was far over even though she had not filled her card. (Why, I wonder, is the card designed not to be completely filled?) Things turned out fine, but boy was I reining myself in. I had just about decided that I needed to intervene when the librarian finally just did the math problem.
Why do adults feel the need to quiz children they don't know? They have no idea of a child's background or strengths or struggles. What makes them think that pop-quizzes from strangers is going to help with that child's education? Why couldn't she have just quietly figured out the total and then congratulated my girl on having done so much reading? Since I am not good at hiding what I am thinking, it is quite possible that these questions were broadcast in supertitles above my head.
Prizes awarded, usual vaguely schlocky choice of free award books chosen, and children spread out to find books to check out. R. decided that she wanted to check out books, too. This is something of a new awareness and desire, since for the past three years I have been "helping" her check out books which she dutifully holds and glances at.
So we go and find some picture books. She sees a book called, My Mommy Medicine by Edwidge Danticat, and decides she wants to check it out. Usually her taste in books when she does find something that catches her interest is either horribly written or is a character tie-in book. (She has quite the knack for choosing books I have no desire to read.) This one looked good, though I was surprised that she chose a book with a mommy and child hugging on the cover. I'm wondering if it was because the characters were African-American that she didn't immediately push it away. I certainly don't resemble the mother on the cover.
At bedtime tonight, this is the book she wanted J. to read to her. It is a sweet book, showing all the ways the mommy cares for her sick child and makes her feel better. I'm pretty sure R. felt as though we had pulled a bait-and-switch. The next several minutes were spent with her processing the whole thing and proclaiming that mommies don't hug their babies. (And yes, I hug this child, don't worry.) There is just such a lot of things to be processed for her, on so many different levels. It also highlights just how hurt she has been. She is so avoidant in her attachments that she just can't admit that mommies hug children, yet she is more than happy to receive that hug from a complete stranger.
Based on the reaction to the book tonight, I have a sneaking suspicion that we will be reading it a lot as she continues to do the hard work of feeling safe and loved. Books have proven to be such a healing part of my children's experience, I cannot fathom how you would parent a hurt child without stacks of books behind you.
That's the prelude to my two library stories I have to share.
The first involves math. Today we went in because it is the week they are handing out the first round of prizes for the reading game. Most of my children had completely filled their cards with their reading stars (one star = 15 minutes of reading). [Sorry, can't help kibitzing here.. as a librarian wouldn't you want to get to know that family with many children who come at the reading game halfway point with their cards all filled?!] G., though, who can become slightly overwhelmed by things, had a late reading start and only filled half her card. This was fine because we were halfway through the game. My children take turns handing over their cards and most of them are completely filled. G.'s was half filled and the librarian wanted to know how many minutes of reading that equaled, so she has G. count her stars, which she does. The librarian then asks G. to multiply that number by 15.
Sigh.
G. is my child who teeters on the verge of math anxiety. I tread very carefully so that she feels successful and so the anxiety will slowly go away. Of course it is this child who is suddenly handed a math problem she felt was too hard along with the implied consequence of not receiving her prize if she didn't do the math. I like my children to feel as though they can fight their own battles if possible, so I bit my tongue and kept an eye on how she was handling things. Thankfully, the librarian seemed to sense that she had met an immovable force who was not going to perform math tricks and did the math herself. Turns out, the game rules say that it is just 600 minutes of reading to complete the game, which G. was far over even though she had not filled her card. (Why, I wonder, is the card designed not to be completely filled?) Things turned out fine, but boy was I reining myself in. I had just about decided that I needed to intervene when the librarian finally just did the math problem.
Why do adults feel the need to quiz children they don't know? They have no idea of a child's background or strengths or struggles. What makes them think that pop-quizzes from strangers is going to help with that child's education? Why couldn't she have just quietly figured out the total and then congratulated my girl on having done so much reading? Since I am not good at hiding what I am thinking, it is quite possible that these questions were broadcast in supertitles above my head.
Prizes awarded, usual vaguely schlocky choice of free award books chosen, and children spread out to find books to check out. R. decided that she wanted to check out books, too. This is something of a new awareness and desire, since for the past three years I have been "helping" her check out books which she dutifully holds and glances at.
So we go and find some picture books. She sees a book called, My Mommy Medicine by Edwidge Danticat, and decides she wants to check it out. Usually her taste in books when she does find something that catches her interest is either horribly written or is a character tie-in book. (She has quite the knack for choosing books I have no desire to read.) This one looked good, though I was surprised that she chose a book with a mommy and child hugging on the cover. I'm wondering if it was because the characters were African-American that she didn't immediately push it away. I certainly don't resemble the mother on the cover.
At bedtime tonight, this is the book she wanted J. to read to her. It is a sweet book, showing all the ways the mommy cares for her sick child and makes her feel better. I'm pretty sure R. felt as though we had pulled a bait-and-switch. The next several minutes were spent with her processing the whole thing and proclaiming that mommies don't hug their babies. (And yes, I hug this child, don't worry.) There is just such a lot of things to be processed for her, on so many different levels. It also highlights just how hurt she has been. She is so avoidant in her attachments that she just can't admit that mommies hug children, yet she is more than happy to receive that hug from a complete stranger.
Based on the reaction to the book tonight, I have a sneaking suspicion that we will be reading it a lot as she continues to do the hard work of feeling safe and loved. Books have proven to be such a healing part of my children's experience, I cannot fathom how you would parent a hurt child without stacks of books behind you.
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