The Play

Oscar is graduating from fifth grade TOMORROW and I'm hell-bent on writing about these days, these last days of Oscar at his elementary school.  Every time someone mentions graduation, tears pool on my lashes, my throat tingles and I feel my inner core start to dissolve.  

Pictures won’t be enough to capture and savor these precious moments.  So, this week, while I was frantically trying to find a special tie for Oscar to wear (preferably a giraffe tie), a dress for me to wear (wait till you see!), while I attended his last publishing party, helped him gather materials for Monday’s fourth grade vs fifth grade egg drop contest, and assembled pictures for his graduation tribute poster, I also did attend my writing group, compelled to write, to get these moments down.  Here’s what I wrote about the fifth grade play at last week’s writing group: 

Two weeks ago you performed in the fifth grade class play – three (three!) one-and-a-half-hour shows with countless transitions on and off the stage. Seven speaking lines!  I knew you played the bumble bee – I’d taken your black sweatshirt and wrapped the body with wide strips of yellow duct tape while you stood with your arms straight out to the sides and turned slowly so I could keep your stripes straight. I’d stolen one of Ruby’s headbands and twisted black and yellow pipe cleaners around it and glued a black pompom on the ends to make your antennae.  I’d practiced your lines with you over and over - at the baseball games, in the car on the way to school, and at the breakfast table - until you could say them without stumbling.  I figured you’d been assigned that part because the buzzing would mask your stuttering, which I thought was brilliant.  I didn’t know though that there were other animals in the play.  I thought you were the token one – that you’d been relegated to this role because you love animals and because it was all you could really manage. The entertaining side show -- a show I would thoroughly enjoy!

But I didn’t know that you also played a student and had many other non-speaking gestures and transitions to manage.  I didn’t know that you would hastily sit down when the “teacher” came on stage and snapped you all to attention. I didn't know you would keep your head down and pretend to scribble in your journal as if in writing class. I didn’t know that when you came back on stage as the bumble bee that you’d flap your hands down low next to your hips to imitate your wings. I didn’t know that your friends would gently touch your arm to prompt you if didn’t jump in right away with your line.  I didn’t know that you really could act!

I sat in my seat in the third row at that first show on Friday night and watched you walk onto the stage in that first scene.  I put my hand to my forehead to press away the tears of joy, just the way you did last month, after that marathon IEP, when I finally told you that you’d been accepted to that awesome school* for the Fall and that Daddy and I would do our very best to send you there for middle school.  (You were so confused by those happy tears – you’d only ever cried when you were sad and we stood there on the corner hugging, me crying too then.) 

On Friday, I pressed and pressed, just like you did, but I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes anyway, just the way they did at that musical performance back in kindergarten. Do you remember that performance? There you stood, up on the stage with your classmates.  Up on stage with your classmates! There was no adult helping you.  You mostly faced the audience.  Sometimes you sang!

Someone took a photo of Daddy and me watching that kindergarten you and I saw that photo this week while making your graduation poster.  Our eyes are shining, our cheeks are flushed, and our faces are lined with those wrinkles that appear when you are smiling through tears and trying not to sob. 

Over the years at this amazing school I’ve gotten used to you reaching farther than I thought possible.  I really didn’t think you could surprise me with the play. But you did, walking onto the stage like that on that Friday night.  Sure I noticed how you immediately scanned the audience, looking to see who was there and where we were sitting.  Integrating all that information is hard for you but you did it quickly and then switched back into your student role. “Middle School! What’ll it be like? What’ll it be like?” you sang with the rest of the “students”, clapping your hands and moving confidently across the stage to your next spot.

I looked around the audience then. Daddy smiled and wiped away a tear.  Somebody gently touched my shoulder. Someone else nodded to me with a smile.  I wasn’t the only one noticing how far you’ve come.  And then the tears flowed harder.  Just look at you!

* a small non-public school for kids with learning disabilities where all the therapies and structures are integrated into the curriculum and food security is already in place!

Dreams

Oscar had a bad dream tonight and woke up crying.  We found him, all wobbly and tear-streaked in his green striped pajamas, peering through the paned glass door that separates the bedroom hallway from the rest of the house.  It was only 9:30 so he hadn't been asleep that long.  The details of the nightmare eluded him, but the corners of his mouth turned down and his lower lip trembled every time an image popped back into his consciousness.  He was dazed and disoriented so we escorted him to the bathroom for a pee and water break, hoping to erase those scary images.

Never one to miss a party, Ruby hopped out of bed a few minutes later and feigned having to pee too. Oscar sat on the toilet sipping water from a yellow plastic cup, pajamas pooled at his ankles, while Paul murmered comforting words.  Oscar, still stuck on the dream, sniffled between sips.

As I turned to the task of getting the Rooster, as we affectionately call her, back in bed, I reminded Paul with a wink to blow good dreams into Oscar's ears when he tucked him back in.  Oscar smiled knowlingly as I described the correct technique for dream blowing.

"You blow the dream gently into his right ear while cupping your hand over his left to keep those good thoughts in there," I instructed.

"Yeah yeah you gotta make sure they don't escape out the other ear", Oscar added haltingly from his throne.

I thought he'd be ok, then. His sense of humor was back and the good dream, whatever Paul would choose, would distract him.  A few minutes later though, Oscar was back in the hallway, crying again. The bad dreams had returned.

I helped him over to his bottom bunk, which he shares with no fewer than 14 stuffed giraffes of various sizes, and pulled the covers up under his chin.  I placed my hand on his cheek, pressing gently, and told him I would blow in a bigger dream, one to combat that bad dream that wouldn't go away.

I see you Oscar, standing by the chimpanzee exhibit at the Oakland Zoo.  You're wearing your Oakland Zoo t-shirt and a little oval tag with your name on it. Underneath your name is the word "Docent".

Oscar didn't know what a docent was so I explained that a zoo docent is an animal expert who talks to visitors and gives presentations. Oscar nodded contentedly, his face finally relaxing.  I return to the dream.

You're tall now, you're not a kid anymore, Oscar.  You're wearing a backpack that holds your water bottle and you take a nice long drink because it's hot out there.  Just then a school bus unloads at the zoo entrance and a river of kindergarteners flows into the zoo, headed straight for you at the chimpanzee exhibit. You see the children coming and are excited. Their energy is palpable and you remind them gently that the chimpanzees don't like loud noises. They respond to your calming voice and gather around you.  You invite them to ask questions, and a little boy's hand shoots right up.  You enjoy his enthusiasm and answer his question easily.  Next a smaller girl, with toes pointed slightly inward, shyly raises her hand. The way you speak to the girl with such respect and care, brings a smile to her teacher's lips.

After a few more questions you slip away to the giraffe exhibit where you are giving a talk on the difference between reticulated and masai giraffes at 10am.  You arrive early, Oscar, and unfold the piece of paper in your back pocket that lists the differences.  But you don't really need to look at this paper -- you know it all by heart.

You turn then to rest on the black fence of the giraffe enclosure.  Your right elbow is propped on the fence and your chin is cupped in your hand as you lean over and gaze at those oddly graceful creatures.  You know these giraffes intimately. You study them every day. You know the tall one can reach the highest branches but he shares the leaves with the shorter giraffes. You know the calf who likes to stir up trouble, and the smaller one who sticks close to his mom. You know who comes near the fence and who seeks shade. You know these giraffes and they know you.  You smile to yourself, happy, and turn back around to see that a small crowd has gathered now. They've heard about you -- Oscar, the giraffe expert!  You clear your throat, take a sip of water and greet your audience.

Oscar eyelids grew heavy as I painted this scene.  I kept my hand pressed lightly on his face and every once in a while he nodded knowingly as if to say, "Yes, that's right. That's right mom. You know. You know."

Tears slipped silently from my eyes, thankfully hidden from Oscar by the dim lighting.  I do know.  It is so simple and I can see it all so clearly.  Oscar and I dream the same dreams.