For someone with a degree in linguistics and certification to teach English, I have done a very poor job of communicating lately.
First I made a teacher who is not very much older than my children extremely angry because I disagreed with a conclusion she drew. In evaluating a student that I also serve, she wrote that his gross and fine motor difficulties were caused by his visual impairment, and she has been upset ever since I disagreed with her. I am not disputing that visual processing problems compound this student's other difficulties; I just thought that NEITHER of us were qualified to say that his visual problems were the source of his motor problems. She's ticked; I apologized and offered a compromise. Why did I "beat a dead horse," as she so eloquently put it? Because parents hold on to those kinds of things, and I have seen too many teachers latch on to visual impairment as the source of ALL a student's difficulties, so I think we need to beware of what we say.
Second, I yelled at my almost-eighty-year-old father. I think what I said needed to be said, but it still felt wrong to say it to him. His way of handling frustration has always, it seems to me, been to yell, and I took it when he yelled at me, but this time he was picking at my daughter. Yes, she is living in his house rent-free post her divorce, and yes, I do think she over-reacts sometimes, but there are still better ways to handle minor things like more room in the fridge than yelling. He knows her ex was abusive, yet he wonders why she gets upset when he yells. My husband says that I stuck to the issue and that what I said to my dad was long overdue in the saying, but it still hurt me to do it. I made sure to tell him that I loved him; he offered no such reassurances to me.
I hope that I have done a good job in talking to my children as adults, though I know I am not perfect. I think that part of my husband's and my efforts in this regard were because we saw the generation that raised us, and though they demonstrated that they loved us by supplying our physical needs, they were loathe to actually say the words. I read a sociological explanation of that once, that their parents didn't get too close to their kids because too many of their kids died and they had to preserve their mental health to care for the rest. My husband and I made a conscious effort to be demonstrative, but I know it was more of an effort for him than for me. He grew up in a family of all boys, and physical contact was always done in a rough and tumble sort of way.
Of the two problems I have had, the one with my dad bothers me more. My daughter called sobbing incoherently, and when I could finally get her to talk about what the problem was, the first word out of her mouth was "Grandpa." I guess she doesn't realize that, given Dad's age and the fact that my mom is already gone, a part of me always waits for the phone call that will tell me he is gone too. And secondly, I have noticed with my own children that they sort of rest in my love for them, but the opinion that matters most to them is their father's. I am the same way, and although I do think I needed to say what I said, I wish he would have said that he understood, or that he loved me, or something. I don't think he is perfect, but I think he has done the best he knows how to do most of his life, and I do know that he loves me.
Sometimes it would just be nice to hear the words.
First I made a teacher who is not very much older than my children extremely angry because I disagreed with a conclusion she drew. In evaluating a student that I also serve, she wrote that his gross and fine motor difficulties were caused by his visual impairment, and she has been upset ever since I disagreed with her. I am not disputing that visual processing problems compound this student's other difficulties; I just thought that NEITHER of us were qualified to say that his visual problems were the source of his motor problems. She's ticked; I apologized and offered a compromise. Why did I "beat a dead horse," as she so eloquently put it? Because parents hold on to those kinds of things, and I have seen too many teachers latch on to visual impairment as the source of ALL a student's difficulties, so I think we need to beware of what we say.
Second, I yelled at my almost-eighty-year-old father. I think what I said needed to be said, but it still felt wrong to say it to him. His way of handling frustration has always, it seems to me, been to yell, and I took it when he yelled at me, but this time he was picking at my daughter. Yes, she is living in his house rent-free post her divorce, and yes, I do think she over-reacts sometimes, but there are still better ways to handle minor things like more room in the fridge than yelling. He knows her ex was abusive, yet he wonders why she gets upset when he yells. My husband says that I stuck to the issue and that what I said to my dad was long overdue in the saying, but it still hurt me to do it. I made sure to tell him that I loved him; he offered no such reassurances to me.
I hope that I have done a good job in talking to my children as adults, though I know I am not perfect. I think that part of my husband's and my efforts in this regard were because we saw the generation that raised us, and though they demonstrated that they loved us by supplying our physical needs, they were loathe to actually say the words. I read a sociological explanation of that once, that their parents didn't get too close to their kids because too many of their kids died and they had to preserve their mental health to care for the rest. My husband and I made a conscious effort to be demonstrative, but I know it was more of an effort for him than for me. He grew up in a family of all boys, and physical contact was always done in a rough and tumble sort of way.
Of the two problems I have had, the one with my dad bothers me more. My daughter called sobbing incoherently, and when I could finally get her to talk about what the problem was, the first word out of her mouth was "Grandpa." I guess she doesn't realize that, given Dad's age and the fact that my mom is already gone, a part of me always waits for the phone call that will tell me he is gone too. And secondly, I have noticed with my own children that they sort of rest in my love for them, but the opinion that matters most to them is their father's. I am the same way, and although I do think I needed to say what I said, I wish he would have said that he understood, or that he loved me, or something. I don't think he is perfect, but I think he has done the best he knows how to do most of his life, and I do know that he loves me.
Sometimes it would just be nice to hear the words.
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