From the day I could walk, I’ve been on the go. My poor mother spent most of her time chasing me down, trying to make me stand still.
She fought a losing battle.
No sooner would she corner me, than I’d wiggle out of her grasp, and race off again. Exhausted, Mom would put me down for a nap so she could get some rest. The second she tucked me in, I’d bounce out of bed and blast back into the family room. She was on my heels, but before she could grab me, I’d stick up my hand and say, “Let me tell you just two more things.”
This was my stalling method. I learned if I had one thing to share, I’d be told it could wait.
And if I had three things to say, then I’d hear that we didn’t have enough time. But, two — well, that worked!
It was my big breakthrough. Like Ben Franklin taunting electricity with a kite, or Thomas Edison inventing the light bulb, I’d made a major scientific contribution.
“Two things” was my childhood catchphrase, a gambit to extend—and even take over—conversations. Yet not everyone greeted this discovery with equal enthusiasm.
Just ask my classmates.
At age 5, I found school a wonderful new venue to share my nonstop thoughts and ideas with a whole new group of reluctant listeners. Alas, I wasn’t all that great at turn-taking, but boy did I love to tell a story or two, or three, or four, or more. And after I’d worn out my peers, I’d go home and recount the day’s adventures.
Kindergarten was my introduction to broadcast journalism, and no one escaped my reporter’s eye. Less than a week into the term, Mom dropped me off and my teacher, smiling broadly, greeted her and said, “Robb has some fascinating stories for sharing circle. You must lead an, ah, interesting life.”
Mom stopped and looked at her warily. “Miss Berry,” Mom said, “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t believe the ‘fascinating’ things that Robb says happen at home, and I won’t believe the ‘fascinating’ things he says happen at school.”
The two laughed, shook hands, and agreed that my tales usually came from a parallel universe inhabited by an over-imaginative 5year-old.
***
So, here I am 54 years later, still living in my own weird world, and making the same pitch. Before you go, I’d like to tell you just two things.
First, I’m going to be stepping down from my every-Thursday columns at aNewsCafe.com. And second, I’m going to miss you all, but you’ll still be hearing from me time to time.
Well, OK, so that’s three things. Now you know what Mom had to deal with.
Why am I bowing out?
The short answer is that, even when I skip my naptime, there are just not enough hours in the day to get everything done. Come August, I’m picking up extra responsibilities at work.
While I’ve long dreamed of writing the Great American Novel, these efforts — several draft manuscripts — have been gathering dust on my desk. It’s time to bear down and finish them.
And because so many of you have been kind enough to hang with me each week, I’ll give you a peek at one of these projects.
“Problem Child: The View From The Principal’s Office” was originally conceived as a series of stories about a hyperactive boy who spends half his life in the principal’s office. As you may have guessed, it’s more or less the story of my grade school years.
***
My full-on approach to kindergarten was just a prelude to a long battle that engulfed my elementary education. I was sent to the principal’s office so often that they had to bring in an extra desk, just for me. By second grade, my teacher had a stack of referral slips with my name already dittoed on them.
In third grade, afternoon detention was the norm. Mom seldom expected to see me arrive on time. While all the other kids were walking home, I was talking to Mr. Lewis, the principal. He had the unenviable job of trying to instill “appropriate behavior” into my thick head. Time and time again he explained the rules, and I wanted to comply, but instead I just kept finding new ways of breaking them.
I wasn’t trying to be bad; I just had a flair for acting up. Sitting down all day and working in silence was agony for me. And agony, I learned, is contagious.
By fourth grade, the history of my misdeeds was spilling out of one file drawer and into another. Mrs. Earl, the school secretary, was the archivist and historian of minor-league miscreants like me. Part of her routine was to call my mother and relay the rap sheet news of the day.
Only years later did I learn that they often laughed long and loud during these conversations.
They had to; it was the only way they could stay sane.
***
So, in honor of Mrs. Earl, Mr. Lewis, Mom, and my longsuffering teachers, I decided that I wanted to share some of these stories. Enter the “Problem Child” book project.
The book has evolved, and it’s now more than just my own tour though detention. It will include interviews, articles, and stories from other kids that were “a handful.”
It is a challenge for schools and parents alike when dealing with youngsters who just can’t sit at their desks. The results often are not comic, and I’m one of the lucky ones who, despite it all, made it through.
I’m interested in hearing how others survived a hyperkinetic childhood.
My goal is to take a look at how people—parents, teachers and kids—cope with hyperactivity. I’m looking for insights that I can share.
Mostly, I’m looking for ideas that will foster hope.
Laughter—and love—these were powerful tools that got me through, but they can be in short supply at times. Yet I don’t think I’d be here today without them. I survived because I had tons of support from people who were caring but firm and unbelievably patient.
No, not everyone was nice. Some of my teachers hated me, and one made no secret of it. But those who did care managed to keep me pointed in the right direction. They had a bag of tricks. They had to.
I’m eager to learn and share their methods. This will take all the time and energy I can muster, and it means I’ll need to say farewell to my weekly presence here.
I hate to go, but I think it’s a worthwhile tradeoff.
I’ll be back here next week to say a proper goodbye and thank those who’ve made this weekly column possible. Even though I’ll be gone, I do hope you’ll be able to drop in now and then over at my blog, www.robblightfoot.com, to see what I’m up to.
I’d also love to hear your own close encounters with the world of full-throttle children. Just drop me a line with one of your favorite success or horror stories.
And if you can’t help yourself, you can share two … or three… or ….
But be careful. Overdo it and you could end up in Mr. Lewis’ office.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County. He can be reached at robb@robblightfoot.com.
