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| "Inslaget lik" means "wrapped corpse" in Swedish. |
I’ve always loved hanging out with young folk—I babysat
instead of getting a “real job” in high school, even in college. I spent my summers
as a camp counselor. I worked as a nanny and volunteered as a scout leader. I
love volunteering as a den mother for circus and working in the store at my
kids’ school. But let’s face it, the vast majority of those young folks have
been girls. Parenting our son has been a new adventure for me.
All the clichés (some entirely true!) aside, I’ve been most
surprised by how fiercely protective I am of that tender heart of gold he wears
on his grubby arm. And that’s on his arm, not his sleeve, because he only wears
heathered v-neck t-shirts and chino shorts, ever. Short sleeves and shorts. Do other clothes even exist?
Today, my mama bear instincts haven’t left me alone. Our boy
loves his world history class—archeology, mythology, origins, battles, economics,
and the general whys of humankind fascinate him. Plus, he has a
fantastic, motivated, passionate teacher.
Today, a big project was due, a manual with ten
hand-illustrated steps for making a mummy. He could really use a good grade on
this project, sure, but more importantly, he had a fantastic idea and threw
himself into making it happen. Knowing him, I can see what a brilliant job he
did. But will his teacher?
Every time I looked at the rubric for the project, all the
requirements and the number of points they will be worth, I cringed. I could see
what the teacher expected—a beautiful, ancient-looking, colorful book with a
title written in hieroglyphics, something that Indiana Jones might have
unearthed. And what will our boy turn in?
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| Pouring in oil and covering with natron. |
An Ikea instruction manual.
It’s beyond brilliant. He followed every detail—of an Ikea
manual—to the letter. He has the little drawing of the parts needed followed by
the illustrations to show the project requires two people who should phone Ikea
for help as needed. He has the iconic Ikea figures doing the mummification and
being mummified—which somehow makes the whole thing far creepier for me!
He did his title in hieroglyphics, all right—but first he
translated “mummy” into Swedish via Google translate. He measured a real
instruction manual and translated the proportions to standard American paper.
(Sweden uses A4 paper, remember?) And he grudgingly colored the cover and
logos, but drew the line at coloring the actual instruction pages. “Ikea
manuals are black and white, Mom!”
As he worked, I would get swept up in his passion, his
details, his fantastic sense of humor…but then I would remember the rubric and crash
back into my fear. Will his teacher appreciate this work of art? Will she
understand that he respected her requirements in every way that he could while
staying true to his vision—a vision he totally fell in love with?
To me, this feeling has pervaded my experience as the mother
of a son. My most frequent prayer has been that the world will see his pure
intentions, his delight, his vulnerability, his burning desire to share his joy
with others. For young people in our day and age, that starts with school. Will
his unique talents survive school?
I will be eternally grateful for his first preschool
teachers, educators with beautiful hearts, who loved him, too, just as he came
to them. But then the next few years school showed us the other side—he could
do nothing right in his teachers’ eyes for two grades. And now, since then—for going
on five years—both of us have been learning to trust again.
So today, I’m holding onto the hope that his teacher will
see the research our boy has done, the weeks he thought about how to make it
happen, the extra miles he went to make it right, the care he put into its very
simplicity. I’m praying that instead of seeing how the title straggles across
the top of the paper, not very neat or centered, with no regard for margins,
she’ll see that he translated it into Swedish. I’m praying that, instead of
seeing the plain printer paper and black pencil as laziness, she will realize
they fulfill his careful design plan. I cross my fingers that rather than lack
of text, she’ll see the incredible detail in the drawings that renders text
unnecessary.
And, if my past experience holds, being lucky enough to be
my son’s mother means I will be feeling this fear and praying this prayer over
and over as long as I live. I will always pray that the world respects our son’s
tender heart, his vision, his pride, his joy.
And I would not change one single thing about being his mom—unless
I could open the world’s eyes to the beauty of boy energy.
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| My favorite step is #10--cursing the tomb! |
