When in a Rut, Turn to the Little Things

I wrote yesterday that Costa Rica isn’t boosting Martin as much as I’d hoped. I’m going to console myself today with more musings on the little things.

About Martin’s birthday-party weekend, I wrote recently:

Although Martin’s Friday-afternoon birthday party was likely the highpoint of his weekend, it was not the highpoint of mine. . . . Sunday morning, . . . Eddie took Martin to the birthday party of a classmate (!) at an indoor sports facility. They arrived 10 minutes late, and the kids were already organized into groups for a game. According to Eddie, as soon as he and Martin entered the facility, a boy yelled, “Hi, Martin!” and another yelled, “Come join our team!”

Hearing that report, dear readers, was the highlight of my weekend.

A week before the birthday party, Adrian and I had attended the third-grade concert at Martin’s school. The third-grade orchestra performed. Martin is not part of the orchestra; he has opted to wait until fourth grade and join the band instead. (He’s been selected to play baritone! Get a load of that!) After the orchestra’s two songs, the third-grade chorus took the stage. Every third grader, about 90 of them, sings in the chorus, Martin among them. Per the instructions we’d received, Martin wore a white dress shirt and a tie. Actually, it was a bow-tie he’d chosen himself from the selection of several neckties and bow-ties I’d offered. He stood very still, in the back row with the taller kids, no fidgeting, a serious expression on his face. He sang every word. When the recorder portion of the concert arrived, each third grader lifter a recorder to his or her lips, and so did Martin. He didn’t accidentally drop his recorder; that happened to a kid one row in front of him. Martin played the recorder notes as carefully as he’d sung. He was brilliant. What’s more, the kids performed one of my favorite songs, Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” I almost cried.

So what was my favorite part of the third-grade concert? Martin’s beautiful notes, raised in flawless timing with the other young voices? The way he took ownership and picked his own tie? The solemnity with which he executed the performance?

No. None of that. After the concert concluded, when the parents were rising from their seats, when the teachers were entering to claim their charges, and the third-graders were kind of milling about the stage, I watched Martin casually start talking to the boys on either side of him. I recognized the two boys as friends from Martin’s classroom, and I felt certain they’d been placed together by design—exactly the type of detail to which Martin’s wonderful teacher attends. There they were, three boys together, talking to each other. Like all the kids were talking to each other. That’s when I actually started to cry. I lowered my head in embarrassment and brushed away tears. (When I saw Martin’s teacher a minute later, she was brushing away tears of her own and said, “I can’t even.”)

Last night, we went out to dinner. Martin waited for me and my mother (she’s visiting) to place our orders. Then, by himself, speaking in Spanish, he informed the server that he can’t eat gluten, dairy, or soy; placed his order; and asked the server to confirm that the appetizer and entrée were appropriate for his diet. He capped the production by making eye contact and saying, “Gracías.”

This morning, when I dropped Martin at his day camp in Costa Rica, a boy exiting the car behind us called, “Hi, Martin!” and Martin turned to respond, “Hi, Zach!”

When things aren’t going so well, as generally they aren’t right now, I have a weapon against frustration: I have the way in which Martin’s recovery has transformed into joy the moments that most parents take for granted.

I mentioned that Martin has been chosen to play baritone in band next school year. Each student who’s joining band gave the music teacher three instrument choices, and auditioned on each instrument for the teacher to decide which fit best. Martin has taken two years of trombone lessons and (at his insistence) one year of drum lessons, so I was surprised when his three choices were saxophone, clarinet, and baritone. To me, he said only that he thought those would be best for him.

Subsequently, Martin’s psychologist told me what he’d disclosed to her: That he knew trombone, and especially percussion, were two of the most popular choices for third-graders. He was worried that, with his prior lessons, he might get percussion, and then other kids would be angry or upset with him if he took the very popular choice and did not do the best job.

This was the first time, Martin’s psychologist added, that she’d seen him exhibit such foresight, and put himself so directly in the minds of his classmates. This, she assured me, was a leap in social advancement.

See how that works? My kid was unjustifiably too worried to request the instrument he really wanted—and I get a victory out of the deal.

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