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Our
None-Too-Perfect Child March 2, 2005 LIVES Our baby boy's Apgar score was a 10—perfect, and practically unheard of. So we were hopeful. They say that parenthood changes you, that from the time your child is born, you're never free from care. It was true for us. Tyler was a beautiful boy, cheerful and healthy, hitting his growth milestones on time and solidly in the fiftieth percentile. A perfect baby, his pediatrician said. There were a few weeks when we worried that his head was too big, but we thought it might imply greater intelligence and then perhaps we could turn it into an asset. But he turned out to have a reasonably-sized head. We were relieved. Tyler had to be perfect. Someday, we would apply to private schools. So as Tyler grew, we worried. Why did his playmate Charlie walk before he did? Little Caitlin's vocabulary was bigger, but that's not unusual with girls, so it didn't trouble us too much. We put Tyler on a rigorous schedule, which the hidden camera confirmed the babysitter hewed to: breakfast, the Baby Einstein video, one of his classes (Music Composition, Pilates for Tots, Creative Caregiver & Me, SAT prep, and Structured Free Play), lunch, nap, Sesame Street, dinner, and then 30 minutes of quality time with Mommy and/or Daddy. We loved our child, and wanted the best for him. As Tyler grew older, our anxiety increased. Which schools should he apply to? How would he do on his Educational Records Bureau test? His first word was "dog," pronounced "ga." Was he antisocial, or even autistic, if he was so clearly more attached to our King Charles Spaniel than to us? As the days passed, and the babysitter said his vocabulary increased, we tried to relax. It wasn't easy. We didn't have a friend on the board at the 92nd Street Y, and we certainly didn't have $100,000 to give as a "donation." No, all we had was each other, holding tight in a sea of forms. I became so tense that I had to give up one night a week with Tyler to see a therapist specializing in Manhattan parents applying to schools. "These kinds of fears are normal," the therapist told me. "You want the best for your child." He looked at his notes. "Tell me, has Tyler been diagnosed with ADHD yet?" "No." The therapist frowned. "He may be falling behind." He pressed a Ritalin prescription into my hand, just in case. Tyler did well on his ERB test, and we loved playing Interview with him and the other toddlers in the building on the weekends. We worried that his lack of ADHD might make him seem less vivacious than the other children. Even so, our hopes began to rise, like the daffodils poking their heads up in the spring. But sometimes it doesn't matter how hard you try, you can't give your family what it needs. In the end, we were devastated: Tyler was only accepted at St. Bernard's, a second-tier school. When my mother-in-law suggested home schooling, my husband finally broke down and began to cry. Other people have been through this before. Of course, none of them were our friends, and we knew we would immediately be dropped from our social circle. It didn't really matter. We were too ashamed to face our former peers, anyway. One particularly kind woman sent a basket of condolence muffins. Once it was all over and the babysitter had gone home and Tyler had gone to sleep, my husband and I looked at each other, eating muffins. "What are we going to do?" my husband asked. "I think we have to move to Westchester," I said, brushing a crumb from his trembling lip. "There's nothing left for us here." "You're right," he said. I held him. This time, his tears turned into sobs. |
©2005 by Kiersten Conner-Sax
From "50 Tries" at www.connersax.com