This Is My Life

Yesterday I worked with a lovely young man whom we shall call Stanley. Stanley is eight years old, has a rockin' case of OCD and suffers from verbal apraxia (read: neuro impulses for talking go wonky between brain and mouth). Oh, and he can't write for shit. So not only does he struggle to get his words out, he can't rely on written communication to express his inner thoughts when his mouth fails him (said inner thoughts consisting largely of things like, Why won't you people just leave me the hell alone?!). But talking's okay if it means less writing. He really hates the writing. Fortunately, Stanley's OCD won't let him ever, ever give up. Even when it would be in his best interests. No, no, when he starts a topic it must be continued to completion, all stumbly and jumbly, no matter where he is or what the circumstances. He's a favorite with the teachers, Stanley is.

So yesterday Stanley and I were working on writing. If you were to give the boy 20 minutes to write a paragraph, he'd turn out half a sentence if you poked and prodded and essentially terrorized him. My goal was to simplify the process for him and hopefully increase his speed. Allow me to recap the session for you:

Me: Stanley, on a scale of 1 to 10, I want to know how hard writing is for you. If a 1 means writing is soooo hard that it makes your eyeballs pop out and a ten means you can do it in your sleep, where are you on this scale?

Stanley: Mm, I'd put myself....right....about....here. (Places his initials below the 4).

Me: Okay, good, at least you get to keep your eyeballs. Well, our goal this year is to get you to move up that scale. Did you know that one of your goals is to work with me on writing?

Stanley: No.

Me: Never mind. It is. Anyhow, wouldn't it be great if we could get you up to a 7 or 8?

Stanley: Or a 10!! A 10 would be great! (God bless his enthusiasm--at this point I realize he has no idea that any movement forward on the scale will require buttloads of work from him; he thinks he can just put his initials underneath the 10 and call it done.)

So, having assessed where Stanley was at with his writing using my very professional scale, I proceeded to poke, prod, and terrorize the kid into authoring a short story. He came up with every complaint in the book, at one point even intimating that his arm was breaking from the effort. Sweat rolled off his brow as he teared up and I pretended not to notice, in that way adults have. He whined, I cajoled, and I finally had to pinch him under his armpits where the bruises wouldn't show.

After 20 minutes of what can best be described as torture for us both, Stanley turns to me and says:

"You know what? I think I'm down to a 2 now."

Well, we both had a good laugh, Stanley and I, and then I sent him on his way because I had had Just Enough of That. And that's life with children.

Tomorrow a few of us are going to dress up in trench coats, hats, and glasses that sport a nose and mustache. We're going to play the Pink Panther theme song and sneak into classes to find kids who have been observed doing nice things without being asked. We're going to make a big ol' stink and embarrass the heck out of them because, well, it will be fun for us. And also because I believe that children and adults alike thrive on positive attention and good fun and that maybe they'll all try to be a little nicer after the hullabaloo. Plus, I just think we all need to be fussed over from time to time.

Can you guess who I'll be especially looking for?

Yep.

My Stanley.