Monday Mission: Mountains and Molehills

If there is one thing I need to teach Frances, it is that her size says nothing about what she can do or how high she can reach. This is important for all children to know; but especially for her, when her size will make mountains out of molehills, when she will constantly confront a world that has been built for larger and stronger people.

I question my ability to teach Frances this. I believe in change, that people can change if they want to, if they're determined to; I believe that hard work will win out over talent almost every time, and that it's the combination that makes geniuses. I don't enjoy tasks or settings that are too easy. But I also was educated in an Enhanced Program that took intellectual and other abilities as givens that education could prevent us from throwing away, but nothing could really increase or develop. School was a place for showing off how smart you already were, not learning how to become smarter. And so, while I believe in change and the value of determination, I know there are large swaths of my mental habits that also believe that our destinies are written in the stone of our innate abilities. This would be a disastrous habit for Frances to learn.

It's true that her social precociousness, an inborn gift if ever there was one, will stand her in good stead for life. But what she needs more than a talent of making friends is the determination to overcome obstacles and barriers--because there will be obstacles and barriers, and she will have to work harder than other kids to master things that they find easy. She will not be the fastest runner; climbing stairs and opening doors will present challenges; the long-jump will not be her forte. She needs to believe that hard work is what will make the difference in her life--because it is. Fortunately, she already knows this, as was beautifully demonstrated to me at the park last week.

It was an unnaturally gorgeous day, the kind that convinces you of the reality of global warming--when there still ought to be snow on the ground but teenaged girls are wearing tank tops. Groups of teenagers and older kids were playing a game called "grounders" all over the playset. I was not impressed. Frances didn't seem to mind, though; she'd watch them intently, then try to do what they did. They were all much, much larger than she was, and could easily jump distances that she couldn't.

She was determined to climb the ladder--the metal ladder with rungs 18 inches apart or more. She stood on the lowest rung and, straining herself to her fullest height, managed to grasp the rung over her head. I stood right behind her. "It's big, isn't it?" I said. "This is meant for big kids."

She pulled and pulled and almost made it up a rung; I put my hands on her back to give her an extra inch and she made it up. "Good job, Frances!" Repeating her straining, reaching and pulling, with just a little bit of help she made it to the top, and from there to the top of the big twisty slide. By herself. She had to work for that ladder--work hard. I've never been so proud of her.

Frances amazes me. She does not see her size as a barrier to anything she wants to do. If there is something she wants to master, she busts her ass to make it happen.

Now if only I can keep myself from convincing her otherwise.

~~~~~

(This week's mission: to write a post in the reverse of traditional blog format. Instead of anecdote-epiphany-rumination-resolution, try resolution-rumination-epiphany-anecdote.)

Posted by Andrea at April 2, 2007 9:44 AM under Beanie Baby Brags , Monday Mission

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