Of Square Pegs

When my son Ryan was born, I was certain he was the most magnificent being I'd ever seen.  As he grew, I became even more convinced of his brilliance.  From an early age, Ryan's intelligence, curiosity, and sensitivity were apparent.  Clearly my child was on this earth to do great things and I was proud to be his mother.  It wasn't until he started school that I was informed otherwise.

 

For some reason, my square peg kid never quite fit into those round peg holes that would earn glowing remarks at school conferences.  More likely, I would hear plenty of examples suggesting that my perfectly wonderful child wasn't nearly so perfect - or wonderful.

During one particular teacher conference when Ryan was in fourth grade, my husband Dan and I prepared ourselves for the usual comments:  Ryan talks too much.  Ryan completes his work too fast and then becomes disruptive.  Ryan isn't organized.

 

We weren't disappointed.  Evidently all of Ryan's flaws had followed him into fourth grade, and his teacher couldn't wait to tell us about them.  While none were serious or harmful to others, I still longed for some positive comment, some concrete evidence, that we hadn't completely failed as a parents.

As we listened to the usual litany of Ryan's shortcomings, his teacher, Mr. Andrew, grew serious.  He leaned in close to Dan and me as if to reveal a great secret.  For a moment, I thought he might finally confess to seeing my child as I see him:  smart, respectful, loving, and empathic.

 

"Last week," the teacher began, "Ryan did something highly inappropriate during our field trip to the art museum."

Dan and I looked at one another.  What could Ryan possibly have done to elicit such a grave response from his teacher?  Yes, he could be unorganized and overly exuberant, but we've never known him to be hurtful or disrespectful toward others.

Mr. Andrew continued, "At the museum, we were greeted by the museum curator.  She told the children that they had to follow the rules of the museum and asked if any of them could guess what those rules were."

I held my breath, certain that whatever infraction Ryan had committed was going to be a doozy.

"Many of the children raised their hands and answered what they thought the museum's rules might be.  Some said 'no running,' 'no touching the artwork,' and 'no bringing food inside.'"

Against my better judgment, I asked, "Did Ryan say anything?"

"He most certainly did," Mr. Andrew huffed indignantly.  "Ryan responded in a most unsuitable way."

My mind flashed to earlier in the week when I'd lost my temper after dropping a soup can on my toe.  Had Ryan mimicked my unsavory language?  Visions of school detentions and expulsions raced through my head.

Mr. Andrew continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "Instead of offering a useful rule, Ryan chose to be a comedian and yelled out, 'no shoes, no shirt, no service.'"

No shoes, no shirt, no service?  Parroting words he'd seen on the doors of retail stores was the crime our son had committed?  I clasped my hand over my mouth, struggling to contain my laughter.  Whether it was Ryan's cleverness or my relief at learning that this really big deal wasn't such a big deal at all, I suddenly felt tons lighter.  I glanced at Dan, who had his head down.  I swear I saw him trying to suppress a smile.

At the end of the conference, we thanked Ryan's teacher and promised to talk to Ryan about behaving more appropriately.  We walked to the car in silence.

Inside the car, though, we burst out laughing.

 

"Can you believe what Ryan said?" Dan asked after a few minutes.

"No," I replied, tears trickling down my face from laughing so hard.  "I had no idea he could be that witty!"

"At least we know he's reading all those store signs about wearing clothes and shoes," Dan laughed, recalling Ryan's recent fascination with the sign on the door of our local convenience store.

Dan and I high-fived each other, celebrating our newly-realized confidence that our son would be just fine.  After all, if it wasn't for our own ability to find the humor in life, we would have been burdened more often by its challenges.  If Ryan has already learned to not take himself or his situations too seriously, he's destined to grow into a more resilient person, one capable of weathering whatever life has in store for him.  As far as we were concerned, a sense of humor would serve him better than conformity ever would.

Later at home, Ryan asked about the conference.

"It couldn't have gone any better," I replied.  And this time, it was true.