Yesterday my family and I drove up to Connecticut for a BBQ. The Auntie claimed that she wanted to have a BBQ in honor of my little brother who has graduated from high school and will be attending RPI this fall. While I do not question her motives, for the most part Saadat and I are reluctant to attend family functions for the simple fact that we are lazy. But when the lunch/dinner party is supposedly centered around us, we cannot refuse.
What should take two hours took three hours due to traffic and my father's insistence on observing the speed limit on the I-95. In the evening, the family headed to a scenic beach 20 minutes from New Haven. There my brother and I rolled up our pants to our knees and ran through the water screaming like uncivilized children. Actually, he was chasing me, and I was screaming until my hijab flew off unexpectedly, and landed in the water 10 feet behind me. Opps. My mother recorded the magical moments. I also forgot the scrunchie for my hair, so I truly resembled a wild woman.
My brother knew we were going to the beach. Yet, as always, he dressed like a poster child for the Gap. He wore a sky blue dress shirt, nice jeans and a dress shoes--TO THE BEACH. It wasn't long before his shoes filled with water, and his blue pants turned black. I suggested, roll up your pants, don't be afraid to show your nice legs. Once he had loosened up and given up his veneer of wardrobe sophistication, my brother and I were able to play frisbee in the water. A truly wonderful experience. I saw the wet sand between my pedicured toenails, felt the seaweed and shells against my barefeet, felt the salty waves caress my pale legs. And it felt good.
The day was wonderful. When we arrived back to their house in Milford, my brother and I put our pants in the dyer. Pantless, we played with their two and half year old child Ron, who fortunately developed his social skills. That is, he no longer cries when he's near me. Children in general are not attached to me, and for them, I have little patience. I decided early that there was something wrong with this child. And it became clear: Ron still doesn't talk. He is still babbling, a few months shy of his third birthday. I started talking at 11 months; my little brother began even sooner. There may be no obvious connection between the fact that the child does not come to me, and the fact that he is underdeveloped, but really, there is.
My dear friend Conor, who I've started seeing again after a 2 year hiatus, says that I'm not an easy person to like or understand. It requires some (cerebral) effort and patience to tolerate my nonlinear rambling. Of course, then, children who cannot engage in verbal sparring or formulate sentences would bore me easily. I am not the sort to "awww" idiotically when in the sight of children, though I admit there is some inherent function in women that make them behave this way. I have resisted that feeling, because I find it primitive, and so generally I am not so loving of school-aged children.
It's ironic then, that for the past three years I've been tutoring middle school children. Most recently, I've had the opportunity to work with college bound youth and remedial math students (age range from 18 t0 35), and I must say they are my most favorite of all age groups. Young children are attached easily and have poor memories. When I worked with the fourth grade, my students would exclaim each time they saw me. I would feel embarassed and silly because I didn't understand what the fuss was about. This year, with the six graders, I didn't even get handshakes. This may also be because I focused almost exclusively on the troublemaking boys. And of course, troublemaking boys are not the sort to give warm hugs.
While Ron no longer cries when I hug him, he does prefer Saadat to me. He curls up next to my brother when Saadat naps; he follows my brother around; he likes to be in his arms, etc. Why would a child prefer a hairy boy to me? Why would a boy-child prefer the chestless to the chesty? I wish children could explain their pecularities to me.
In other news, the boy-child known as Z has started talking to me. At last, I can resume living. This is how he begins the conversation:
Z: how are you
me: ok
Z: my lovely sadia is just ok
Z: something is wrong
Z: what is it my dear
I found his words so absurd that I had to post it up for my imaginary readership.
What should take two hours took three hours due to traffic and my father's insistence on observing the speed limit on the I-95. In the evening, the family headed to a scenic beach 20 minutes from New Haven. There my brother and I rolled up our pants to our knees and ran through the water screaming like uncivilized children. Actually, he was chasing me, and I was screaming until my hijab flew off unexpectedly, and landed in the water 10 feet behind me. Opps. My mother recorded the magical moments. I also forgot the scrunchie for my hair, so I truly resembled a wild woman.
My brother knew we were going to the beach. Yet, as always, he dressed like a poster child for the Gap. He wore a sky blue dress shirt, nice jeans and a dress shoes--TO THE BEACH. It wasn't long before his shoes filled with water, and his blue pants turned black. I suggested, roll up your pants, don't be afraid to show your nice legs. Once he had loosened up and given up his veneer of wardrobe sophistication, my brother and I were able to play frisbee in the water. A truly wonderful experience. I saw the wet sand between my pedicured toenails, felt the seaweed and shells against my barefeet, felt the salty waves caress my pale legs. And it felt good.
The day was wonderful. When we arrived back to their house in Milford, my brother and I put our pants in the dyer. Pantless, we played with their two and half year old child Ron, who fortunately developed his social skills. That is, he no longer cries when he's near me. Children in general are not attached to me, and for them, I have little patience. I decided early that there was something wrong with this child. And it became clear: Ron still doesn't talk. He is still babbling, a few months shy of his third birthday. I started talking at 11 months; my little brother began even sooner. There may be no obvious connection between the fact that the child does not come to me, and the fact that he is underdeveloped, but really, there is.
My dear friend Conor, who I've started seeing again after a 2 year hiatus, says that I'm not an easy person to like or understand. It requires some (cerebral) effort and patience to tolerate my nonlinear rambling. Of course, then, children who cannot engage in verbal sparring or formulate sentences would bore me easily. I am not the sort to "awww" idiotically when in the sight of children, though I admit there is some inherent function in women that make them behave this way. I have resisted that feeling, because I find it primitive, and so generally I am not so loving of school-aged children.
It's ironic then, that for the past three years I've been tutoring middle school children. Most recently, I've had the opportunity to work with college bound youth and remedial math students (age range from 18 t0 35), and I must say they are my most favorite of all age groups. Young children are attached easily and have poor memories. When I worked with the fourth grade, my students would exclaim each time they saw me. I would feel embarassed and silly because I didn't understand what the fuss was about. This year, with the six graders, I didn't even get handshakes. This may also be because I focused almost exclusively on the troublemaking boys. And of course, troublemaking boys are not the sort to give warm hugs.
While Ron no longer cries when I hug him, he does prefer Saadat to me. He curls up next to my brother when Saadat naps; he follows my brother around; he likes to be in his arms, etc. Why would a child prefer a hairy boy to me? Why would a boy-child prefer the chestless to the chesty? I wish children could explain their pecularities to me.
In other news, the boy-child known as Z has started talking to me. At last, I can resume living. This is how he begins the conversation:
Z: how are you
me: ok
Z: my lovely sadia is just ok
Z: something is wrong
Z: what is it my dear
I found his words so absurd that I had to post it up for my imaginary readership.
I thought I had figured you out prior to reading this recent entry. I’m just dumb founded by the way you analyze things. For example you can not expect a three year old to be in a competitive level with you. Don’t forget you were three at one point. If you can bring back the hands of time to when you were a little person I’m pretty sure you can remember any obnoxious adult who did not pay attention to you when in fact that’s what you were seeking in them to start off with. What I am trying to say is that as adults we do have the ability to stoop down to the mentality of a three year old so that we can interact with them as oppose to them stepping up to adult status and carry a mature conversation.
ReplyDeleteSigned: concerned about children’s future
Obnoxious adult? I don't know. Calm down buddy.
ReplyDelete