Schooled

The call from Graham's school came on Monday, barely an hour after I had settled into a busy day at work.

"We have Graham here in the office," said the voice at the other end of the phone. "He's not feeling very well and I think you'll have to come and get him."

"What?! Is he okay?"

"I don't think it's serious," was the reply. "Here, I'll let you talk to him."

There was a shuffling noise and then, Graham's voice, so thin and tiny that I instantly felt my chest ache as my heart swelled and pushed against it.

"I throwed up in the trash can Mommy. Are you going to come and get me?"

I went and got him.

I took him home and tried to catch up on work e-mails while he lolled on the couch and watched cartoons. I fed him chicken noodle soup and buttered sourdough toast and anxiously inquired about his well-being.

He appeared to be perfectly fine.

He appeared better then fine, actually: he appeared buoyant and, in retrospect, perhaps just a little relieved. That evening I even took him to the park and let him run off an obvious surfeit of energy.

Yesterday morning I walked him into his classroom where we were greeted by his teacher.

"Graham seemed fine at home yesterday," I told her.

"Well I think it was probably just nerves, but he looks way better today than he has since he started," she said. "I mean, he's just seemed so anxious."

He has?

Oh.

I decided not to make a big deal of it: when I spoke to Graham after school yesterday he was happy as a clam and assured me he had a "great" day. I decided not to say anything about it at all.

And then this morning, as I buckled him into his car seat, a look of pure panic flashed across his dear, wee face.

"I'm gonna be sick Mommy, I'm gonna be sick," he wailed. "I need a sick bowl."

I handed him the car's waste paper basket and stood there for quite a while, rubbing his back and trying to reassure him.

"It's okay. It's normal. Everybody feels a little nervous sometimes. Even Mommy when she goes to work. All the other kids at school probably feel a little nervous too".

After a few minutes he seemed okay and off we went.

I walked him into his classroom again where the morning story was already in progress and apologized for our lateness.

"Graham had a little attack of nerves," I whispered to the teacher, as discreetly as possible.

She smiled kindly.

"Yes, that happened yesterday as well."

It did?

Oh.

And so it seems that perhaps my darling boy is not quite as confident as he seems or as I so proudly asserted he was following his first day of school last week.

And so it seems that I must come to grips with the painful realization that the child I thought I knew better than my own heart has anxieties and fears that, for whatever reason, he feels he must keep hidden from me.

The heart, it breaks.

It was a misty drive home

He was one of those big, boisterous, charming kids that you just know is going to be the big man on campus one day.

And he spotted Graham right away yesterday morning as we grabbed the necessities at the grocery store.

"Hello there!" he shouted with a beaming smile as he bounded over. "Hi, my name's Michael. What's your name?"

And Graham kind of half smiled and murmured before burying his face in my leg.

And I almost said, He's a little shy, but I bit my tongue, remembering all the wonderful advice about NOT LABELING that I received in response to this post.

So I just smiled and said, "His name is Graham. Nice to meet you Michael," as we turned into the next aisle.

"You know Graham," I said casually, a few moments later. "If you do want to talk to that boy, you can just say, "Hello there, my name is Graham.'"

He look at me gravely. I pulled a silly face. "Hello there, my name is Graham."

He shrugged. "No mama."

A few minutes later we met at the checkout, Graham and I and Micheal and his mother and a sister who appeared to be just a few years older.

"Hello there Graham," Michael bellowed. "Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

His sister chimed in. "Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

Graham smiled widely, but ducked to hide behind me as the children continued their greetings in sing-song unison.

"Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

"Keep it down guys," their mother finally chided. "The little boy is shy."

"Ya, Graham's shy. Leave the shy boy alone Michael," said the little girl.

And I smiled weakly but inside my heart sank because, as pleased as I might be with my resolution not to label Graham as shy, I hadn't really thought about how he might be affected by others who did.

Whatever. I shrugged it off and away we went.

But as we pulled out of the parking lot I heard something: something that brought tears to my eyes because it made me realize that this battle, if you can even call it a battle, wasn't and never will be, mine to win or lose.

I heard a soft voice in the back seat, earnest and steady, repeating a phrase over and over again with practiced determination.

"Hello there, my name is Graham. Hello there, my name is Graham."

Shy boy, my boy

What do you do to try and motivate him? Graham’s babysitter asked me a few weeks back.

“The children were outside playing all afternoon and he just stood on the sidelines for two hours watching them.”

“Graham was too afraid to join in. He’s so shy.”

I am not afraid and I am not shy.

But for perhaps the first time, the image of my Graham, stuck on the sidelines as a result of insecurity and fear rendered me both speechless and scared.

Graham is not shy at home. Graham is a pistol at home. Our house is filled with his happy chatter, his shrieking laughter, his boundless energy.

But outside the confines of our home Graham is different. He clings to me. He buries his face in my leg when people first speak to him. He watches others intently, but seems disconcerted by groups of children that are large or loud or rowdy. He warms up to people slowly and on an individual level.

This is strange for me, being as I am, a bit of a loudmouth. As a child, shockingly enough, I had a tendency to be just a teensy bit bossy. As an adult, I am a big believer in the “fake it ‘til you make it” school of thought.

Not sure you can pull off that bikini? Stand up straight, suck in your stomach and act like you were made to wear it. Worried that everyone at the party is way cooler than you? Crack lots of one-liners and if anyone rolls their eyes, tell yourself it’s because they’re jealous of your quick wit.

It’s called confidence and long before Graham was born I figured out it is probably the single most important attribute a person can possess.

If you have confidence, the world is your oyster. If you believe that you can do something, you can. If you believe you have something to offer people, they will believe that too.

"Graham was too afraid to join in."

Rob was a shy child – painfully so apparently. He vividly remembers being petrified to speak in the presence of his parents’ friends.

But Rob is not a shy adult. He’s never been the guy at the bar cracking wise and leading sing-a-longs, but he has strong opinions and he’s not afraid to speak his mind. He used to say to me “I don’t know how you ended up with me – girls like you usually get scooped up by the loud, flashy guys.”

I know what he means. It was several years before I looked past the loud, flashy guys and recognized the charms of the quieter, more thoughtful ones.

And I’m so glad that I did.

But I’m still scared.

I’m scared that the flashy guys, the loud guys will scoop away important prospects from my shy, precious boy.

I’m scared that wonderful women, potential lifelong friends and valuable business opportunities will pass him by because a lot of people these days don’t take the time to slow down and appreciate the strength and charm of a quieter, more introspective soul.

I can’t help but be scared that Graham may not fully experience all the awesome opportunities life has to offer because he may be too shy to seize them for himself