Soccer

I took some photos of Roan's last soccer game.  He's made a lot of progress from game 1, when he refused to step on the field, and even from the middle of the season, when he subbed in, but ran away from the ball, or ran in patterns that no one could make sense of.

The games were 3 on 3, so the kids would learn to play in the triangle formations that soccer is made of.  Not that that ever happened for our team, but that's what we were aiming for.

I grew up playing soccer on the west coast, where the temperature rarely dropped below 60 degrees. I wondered what we would do when it got too cold for shorts and a jersey, and here's the answer - you wear your warm clothes *under* your uniform.  I'm finally understanding why the uniforms are cut so enormously big.

Jay's college friend Kabir was the head coach, and I was the assistant coach. Though Jay ended up taking over my assistant coaching duties when it became clear that Ilan was going to follow me around the entire time and be a nuisance. Kabs had to miss 2 games, and so "Coach Daddy" was in charge.  The first game we got killed - the score was something like 14-0, which is impressive when you consider that the games are only 20 minutes long.  The second game the tables turned.  We were quickly up by 9 goals, and Coach Daddy tried to rein the kids in, making them pass a few times before they could shoot, but after the humiliation of the previous week, our team was out for blood.

We came up with a lot of names for our team, but the one that seemed to stick was the Black Thunders. Roan  misses the Black Thunders, and asks to play soccer all the time now. But the season is over and this week we had our first snow, then the temperature dropped into the low 20s.  The best we can do is dribble around the kitchen.

To everything there is a season.  Soccer, we'll see you again come Spring.

Kindergarten

Dear Roan,

You have been in kindergarten for about 50 days now.  NYC public kindergarten is a lot different from your preschool program, which you attended 3 days a week, had two teachers and an aid for 12 kids, and when you weren't in the play yard, you spent most of the day in the same room.  In K-206 there are 25 kids and 1 teacher, which is the ratio mandated by the state of New York.  Our class is lucky because we have a student teacher who comes three days a week to help out.  There are 6 other kindergarten classes in the building.  There are 925 kids in the school.  Half of them all eat lunch at the same time, in the same enormous cafeteria, and then they are let loose in the play yard for about 15 minutes of recess.  You spend most of your time in K-206, but you go to dedicated rooms with dedicated teachers for music, art, science, gym, and library.  Honestly, Daddy and I are still not sure about your schedule.  And every time we think we've figured out, there's a field trip, or a curriculum day, or that time when a British brass band came to school and spent the day following the kids around with horns.

You are kid who likes order, and likes knowing what to expect.  You have said to me, on many occasions, "mommy, I don't like things that I'm not used to." which I think is absolutely true.  You've also told me that you don't like new things.  I asked you once: "how many times before something changes from being a new thing to a thing that you are used to?"

"Um.... um.... at least 100 times, mommy."

We put you in a soccer league this fall, and it took 7 games before you really started to enjoy yourself.  Sadly, there are only 8 games in a season.

The first few weeks of kindergarten were terrible.  I dragged you up the hill, down 7th Avenue, and literally pulled you up the two flights of stairs to your classroom, where you screamed and cried and had to be restrained by the teacher (or whoever else happened to be available) when I left.  It was dramatic and I think, though you were clearly upset, that you were overplaying it.  Though the reports I got from the teachers were heartbreaking.  You spent entire days laying under your table, refusing to come out.  You wouldn't talk or even look at any of the other children or the teachers.  You brought your lunch home completely uneaten. A neighbor reported that he saw you in the recess yard, sitting alone against the chain link fence, staring morosely at the asphalt.  One day you cried so hard that you vomited.

Your Daddy and I disagreed on how to handle all this.  By the second or third week, he was ready to pack and up and move to the burbs, or enroll you in some private school for sensitive geniuses.  I think there is some value in you trying to find your place in this big ole machine.  And also, the very thought of moving makes me want to crawl into bed and take a long nap.

Now, 50 some odd days in, things are getting better.  I wouldn't say you are excited to go to school in the morning, but you don't give me any shit, and you are definitely a few steps above resigned.  On Veteran's Day, you were upset that there was no school, though I couldn't tell if that was because you like school or because you usually go to school on Mondays and you dislike changes in your schedule.  You said to me, "I'm used to 5 days of school and 2 days of weekend, so I don't like when it's 3 days of weekend."

In any case, drop offs are easy now.  From the feedback I get, you participate in small group activities, but not in large group activities that involve the whole class.  Sometimes, you go into the closet and put on your winter coat, zip it up, put on your hood, and sit silently at your desk, ignoring everything.  It reminds me of when I make Daddy watch a movie with subtitles, or engage him in some conversation he doesn't want to have, and he puts on this old gray sweatshirt, slides the hood over his head, and pulls the drawstrings tight, blocking everything out.

When we walk into school the other kids greet you with enthusiastic, "hi Roan!"s and you either ignore them, or, if it's been a bad morning, you scowl at them.  I feel bad for these kids, getting shafted by you day in and day out, and I want to pat their backs and say, "it's not you, it's him."  Or, "he really likes you, he's just grumpy and shy."  But despite your surliness, you seem to have friends.  I was surprised when you were invited to a classmate's birthday party - he could only chose 5 kids from class, and you were one of them. I dropped you off at the party and all the other invitees were the friendly extroverts who you'd expect to see... how did you make the cut?  In the mornings you go straight to your desk and sit down, and somehow this behavior results in several kids surrounding you and wanting to know what you're doing. A shy Chinese kid named Wilson has declared you his very best friend, though I've never seen you pay any attention to him.

You have a metal lunch box with a space ship on it that says ROAN in huge yellow letters.  Everyday you bring it home broken, and every day Daddy and I have to come up with a new way to fix it.  The lunch box looks as though it's been run over by a truck, and the handle and metal clasps have all been replaced with duct tape and string, which Daddy and I re-install every single week night.  What the hell are you doing to this lunch box?  Maybe I will ask Wilson for the truth.

The other day you came out for pick up without your backpack.  "Roan, where's your backpack?" I said.  You were nonchalant, and a little girl stepped forward to say, "we all told him 5 times to put on his backpack but he didn't listen and I just didn't feel like getting his backpack for him today."  Which gave me a glimpse into the group effort it must be to get you out the door and down the stairs with all your stuff.

More and more, you are starting to have a life that's independent from mine, and that I know nothing about. It's strange to just have a big question mark for what you're doing 5 days a week, between the hours of 9 and 3. Maybe it's just my mood at the moment, but it doesn't make me feel all schmaltzy and weepy sad, doesn't make me long for your babyhood.  I'm happy for you.  You're kind of a weird kid, but I think you'll be alright.