Tree Frog Cure

by Jennifer Oliver 

The power of conformity:  it's human nature to blend in with others.  However, with selective listening, one can tune in to that inner voice and ignore the loudest critics.

One study demonstrated the down side of conformity.  When a Kindergarten class was asked, "Who can sing?" all hands shot up.  When the same question was posed to eighth-graders, less than a handful acknowledged they possessed such talent.

My son, Ethan, a sixth-grader, would've counted himself amongst those who can sing.  Throughout elementary school, he'd introduce himself to others by saying, "Hi, my name is Ethan.  I can make anything."

When he was six years old, we were at a family reunion.  He hooked up with his four year old cousin, Trey.  Together they sought bugs and studied ant trails in the woods behind my sister's home.

Then they hit pay dirt:  a real live tree frog.  Throughout the afternoon, Ethan and Trey took turns sharing it.

My other son, Cody, was toying with a wagon and convinced Trey to ride in it while Cody pulled it.  Trey happily obliged.  Ten minutes later he regretted his decision as the wagon hit a cluster of rocks, sending him flying.

With an owie prominent on his forehead, Trey sobbed.  Ethan tried to console him by saying, "Here!  Take this tree frog and put it on your forehead.  Then it won't hurt anymore!"

All the grown-ups laughed.

"But it can work!" my six-year-old persisted.  "Try it!"

Everyone waved Ethan off, laughing, and said, "Okay, kids, go on and play."

When it was time to leave, I searched high and low for Ethan.

I tried the bathroom door, jiggling the knob.  It was locked.

"Ethan, are you in there?"  He unlocked the door.  Behind him was Trey pressing the hapless tree frog to his forehead.

"See, Mom?  It works!  Trey feels better already!"

Trey smiled uncertainly at me.

"Mom," Ethan continued breathlessly.  "Everyone laughed at me, but I know it's true!  You see, the frog is cold, and cold is always good for owies!"

Heed that voice inside of you, son.  Crank up the volume when peer pressure strikes.  When people laugh at your ideas, may your voice drown them out.  Even when you believe a tree frog cures owies.

Because you and I both know you can make anything.

Drummer Boy

by Jennifer Oliver 

I was eight years old when I taught myself how to drum my fingers.  I had to be adept as my older brother, who lorded this deceptively simple talent over me.

I practiced and practiced on all kinds of surfaces until my fingers drummed with seamless perfection, all fingers flying in quick succession, a pleasant patter when immersed in thoughtful moods.

Years later, while rapidly finger-drumming during a thoughtful mood, my friend gasped as she stared at my mindless habit.

"Jennifer!" she exclaimed.  "You drum your fingers like that?!"

My fingers paused in mid-drum.  "Like what?"

"You start with your forefinger instead of your pinkie?!"

She tried to imitate my mindless habit with great effort.  Clearly flustered, she said, "You're not supposed to do it that way."

So I tried it the "right" way.  I was flabbergasted.  It was so much easier!

"See how simple it is?" she asked.  She sounded like a teacher, gratified to see that her student was finally coloring inside the lines.

I shrugged and smiled, reversed the drumming, and said, "Well, I guess I happen to march to the beat of a different drummer."

One day my ten-year old son, Ethan, showed me a photo he had taken with his camera of a poster hanging in his classroom.  "Mom, is this true?"

The poster declared, "What's right is not always popular.  What's popular is not always right."

"Ethan, why did you photograph this poster?"

"Because some of the kids in my class think my inventions are weird even though they work.  And I think this poster is saying what I'm feeling."

I gazed into his beautiful hazel eyes, clouded with frustration.  My son, my magnificent creative life force.  He lives with an inner demon called ADHD.

"You hear a different drummer than the rest of us, Ethan.  Just keep marching to that drummer and learn to tune out the critics.  That's what Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison did."

"Huh?"

I invited him to sit next to me at the kitchen table.  "Let me show you how I drum my fingers..."

Here's to changing the world, one drummer at a time.

People First

To touch the soul of another human being is to walk on holy ground.--Stephen R. Covey

When I attended Open House at my son's school, I scanned the bulletin board outside his first-grade classroom.  I spied Cody's handiwork in a colorful sea of papers tacked to the board.

My curious smile froze.

It was a mini-bio of himself, detailing his likes and dislikes.  In one section, he had to write or draw what he did not like.

"MEN," he scrawled in capital letters.

Uh-oh, I thought as fear iced me.  How could Cody not like men?  He loved his daddy!  Did some man do unspeakable things to my child?!

"Cody," I said casually, pointing to the section of dislikes.  "Can you tell me about your work here?"

"Yeah," he replied.  He carefully recited each word slowly.  "I...don't...like...mean."

Such is the world of phonics, writing words the way they sound.

That exercise served to reinforce how our kids perceived the world, divided into two classes:  good and bad.

It didn't matter to them what the person looked like.  You were either good or you were bad.  Like our neighbor next door, for instance.  Miss Doris was a good person, giving the boys treats when they deserved it.

Now the bully on the bus who punched Cody in the stomach...

"He's mean, Mom!" cried Cody.  "He's a bad boy!"

"He's not a bad boy," I replied, drying his tears.  "What he DID was bad.  There's a difference."

That's what the parenting magazines told us to say.  And it made sense, this mass campaign of programming us to think in terms of "people coming first."

People with or without disabilities.

People with or without a steady income.

With or without a home.

With or without goodness.

People first.

But I doubted Cody understood my logic...

...until one warm Saturday morning.

Cody and I arrived at a pizza parlor where a birthday party was being held for his classmate, Kristi.

"Cody!" Kristi shouted, skipping toward him in a cloud of pink ruffles, her thick, blonde hair trained into one long braid down her back.  She was radiant as she hugged him.

"Why, Kristi," I said, "you look beautiful!"

"Thank you," she responded, twirling around.  "Let's go play some games, Cody!"

Cody, unfazed by being the only boy in the handful of attendees, bounced gleefully from one game to another, feeding tokens to hungry machines.

When several pizzas were delivered to the balloon-bedecked tables, Kristi made a point of asking Cody to sit next to her.

When Cody asked for pink lemonade, she informed the waitress with a trace of authority in her voice, "I'll have what he's having."

When it came time for opening presents, Kristi announced, "I want to open Cody's present first!"

He handed her a small package, a pink Ooglie toy that made funny and irreverent noises when one pulled its tail.

"It's for your book bag," Cody said shyly.

"Oh, I love it!" she gushed, hugging him.  "Thank you!"

While everyone was eating cake, Kristi leaned over to me and said, "Mrs. Oliver, Cody is always so nice to me every single day at school.  He's the only one who's never, ever mean to me."

I blinked back tears.  Not just because a little girl was sweet enough to acknowledge Cody's sensitivity to his mother.  But for knowing how cruel kids could be, especially to skinny-challenged girls like Kristi.

My heart ached from the sudden surge of pride that coursed through it.

All I could think of was, by golly, he got it.      Cody got it.       People first.

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