My day was already in high drama mode when I picked up the phone and heard: “Hi, this is Ruth from school. Brett’s Kindergarten teacher.” My face went flush. It was 10:30. I was sure my daughter had dropped the plate of cookies we’d made for the teacher lunch. Had it taken a full two hours for the teacher to talk her down off the ledge? She must be calling now for me to come pick her up. It was my fault for letting her carry the plate, with her tote bag, through a door and up a staircase. What was I thinking? But she had insisted she could do it by herself. If I don’t let her try to help when she wants to, how can I expect her to help other times? I needed to let her try. The plate was plastic, so what real harm could come? I braced myself for the teacher’s questioning of why I had set up my child for such failure. I prepared alternate responses in my head.
But, the call was not about a cookie disaster. It was a heads-up before report cards to let me know that she thinks my daughter might need occupational therapy.
OT? That’s what Mom did in the hospital after her knee surgery to make sure she could get to and from the bathroom on her own. It’s how to use a stick to help pull up your socks. It’s how to put away the groceries or set the table with the least amount of steps and neck strain. Why would a perfectly healthy, never injured (though admittedly clumsy) six-year-old need OT?
First, the teacher said, there is the tip toe walking. It just isn’t normal at this age and the tendons might be shortening.
I laughed, not because I don’t care about potentially shortening tendons, but because we’d already seen a specialist two years ago for this freakish behavior. That was the height of the princess girly-girl phase of only wearing dresses, preferably pink with glitter and bows. Tippie toes, I thought, were just another accessory like magic wands or tiaras. Plus, she’s got great calf mussels. But, my doctor insisted we have her examined by an orthopedist, so we did.
He took x-rays and did a series of skills tests. After an hour or so, he came back into the room and laughed. She was a perfectly healthy kid who just liked to walk on her toes. “Let her,” he said.
Evidently, there is a phenomenon of kids like her who just prefer toe-walking. They feel taller and it is fun. It even has a name – tippietoeitis or something equally silly. No worries, he assured us, commenting that parents today are too worried. We walked out feeling like idiots – our daughter skipping on her tip toes past a room full of kids on crutches and in wheelchairs waiting to see their orthopedist who had just wasted an hour with us.
My laugh was misinterpreted by the teacher as a sign that I didn’t take my child’s health or development seriously. I explained that I do take it seriously – too seriously I’ve been told by some – and that my laugh was just a reaction to the orthopedist’s laugh two years prior. She didn’t seem amused.
She continued. “It is not just the toes, but I do think you should consider seeing a new doctor. It is also the handwriting, which we’ve talked about.”
Handwriting. We had indeed already talked about the handwriting and the fact that my daughter can’t hold a pencil correctly. I couldn’t hold a pencil the right way until the second grade, and I vividly remember being chastened by my teacher. My husband still can’t hold a pencil right. He grips it tight in a fist and uses the full range of motion his elbow allows to write. We call him the caveman lawyer. Still, his handwriting is much better than mine. So, yes, we’ve talked about the handwriting. The poor kid doesn’t stand a chance with parents like us. How could she possibly know how to hold a pencil in Kindergarten? So, I am thankful for this wonderful teacher’s concern and desire to teach her how to hold a pencil, despite her genetic shortcomings.
Still, tip toes and pencil grip, I just don’t see the need for OT. Then (I hate it when there is a “then”), she said there is the daily battle of the tote bag. I had noticed problems with the tote bag, but chalked it up to my kid being messy and easily distracted. I didn’t know there was a daily and escalating battle with the tote bag brewing in the classroom.
When I pick up my daughter at the end of the day, the bag is overflowing — crammed full scraps and memories of a full and exciting day. There are the elaborately folded love notes to her “boyfriend” who doesn’t seem to accept the notes. There are sometimes rocks that she tells me are rare crystals discovered in the secret corner of the playground that only she knows about. She wants to show her “boyfriend” this secret treasure but he is too busy playing Star Wars. There is occasionally a torn piece of a flowered paper napkin or a shred of glittery ribbon that she has accepted as a symbol of friendship from one of the girls. And, there are almost always smushed (sometimes soggy) goldfish or pretzels that have fallen out of the snack bag. Her tote bag looks a lot like my car.
Yes, the tote bag is a mess. My kid is usually in no better shape than the bag by the end of the day. The perfectly coiffed pony tail we worked on earlier that morning has been ripped out to allow for a rock-n-roll freestyle look. The pants are either falling off or hiked up high in classic nerd style. And, there is generally marker or paint or mud on her hands and clothes. She is a messy kid. I was a messy kid. My husband is still a messy kid. We are a happy family of warthogs.
This family trait is not, however, considered charming or amusing at school. It has, I am learning, become a source of frustration for my child. She wants to be neat and normal, but she just can’t be. She tries, the teacher tells me, and tries, but generally ends up in tears trying to cram all of her stuff into the bag.
I can’t get her a bigger bag because it is a school issued tote intended to prevent five and six year olds from developing back trouble from hauling oversized back packs around. No, she needs to learn to deal with this bag, and I’m told an occupational therapist can help.
Still, I can’t help but wonder, do I really need a specialist to help with this? Does my health insurance cover therapy for messy tote bag syndrome? Can’t I teach her this kind of thing? I’m already outsourcing the teaching of other critical life skills — she is in speech therapy. I didn’t know it, but she can’t say “th” and her tongue slips through the teeth when she says “s” words. I had no idea until she was evaluated at school. I had always thought she was an articulate kid. She talks and talks and talks to anyone about everything. She sounds like an ordinary (and admittedly annoying) chatty six-year old to me.
I have to admit that the speech class is helping. Now that I know what to listen for, I see that she had genuine difficulty and the practice exercises are making it better. So, if I missed the speech defect, maybe I’ve been slack in overlooking the toe walking and messy tote bag syndromes too. Maybe my kid is struggling to get through every day, and the tasseled hair is not the result of too much fun on the playground but rather comes from a vicious wrestling match with her tote bag. Maybe we do need help. It would be wrong to not give her the tools she needs to succeed. Maybe this OT thing will open new doors for her and everything will get easier. Maybe they can teach her to tie her shoes!
Still, I can’t help but think of the kids who really need OT. There are probably lots of kids who really need help but don’t have insurance or money to pay. So, the industry has probably recently redefined its market to include kids like mine who are fully covered by insurance and whose parents will gladly pay whatever it takes to help their kids, even if it is for silly things like tippietoeitis and messytotebagonia.
I won’t be suckered into this ridiculous rat race to have perfect kids. I won’t. My kid doesn’t need help. We are probably just part of the key demographic targeted in some marketing plan for the national association of pediatric occupational therapists. Some twenty-something MBA who doesn’t even like kids probably wrote a “strategic plan” that identifies teachers in affluent suburban schools as the key “gatekeepers” who can convince parents like me that their children need extra help today if they are going to succeed tomorrow. Brett’s teacher, poor Mrs. H, is just a well-meaning victim in their devious plot.
I won’t buy into this. I see it for what it is – a scam. Kids aren’t perfect. They slur their words and spill their milk. They trip and skin their knees. And, they have messy tote bags.
My kid is fine. She’s better than fine. She is brilliant. She is reading well above her grade level. She remembers all kinds of facts about science and nature and teaches me something new every other day. Yesterday she taught me that chiggers can kill people. I keep meaning to look that up on the internet to see if it is true and, more importantly, to see if chiggers live here.
You can’t tell me these skills no longer matter. Is a neat tote bag really a better measure of higher intelligence these days? My kid is great the way she is. I’m sure the doctor will tell me that when we go for the evaluation.
Confessions of a Target Mom 