Numbers

I think I jinxed things royally last week when I wrote about L.'s diary writing. Although I did know it wouldn't last forever, I was hoping he'd found at last a pressure-free way to practice writing, under circumstances he controlled, and at times he--and he alone--picked. We've been struggling for years to help L. break through the barriers he sets up (and faces) about writing. His self-esteem about his ability to write has been eroded away year after year, as he falls further and further behind. And while I know that practice makes perfect, no one can manage to persuade L. that this is true. I think it's one of those things he will have to discover on his own. You can give people the keys to help them master a basic skill like writing, but you can't make them use them--they need to decide this on their own. But I had hoped that the diary writing would encourage L., and that this would help guide his hand to the lock, so that in time all he would have to do is turn it once or twice and the door would open, and that wonderful shimmering world of writing and language would spill out and cover him completely.

But last night, as L. was fixing up his little "nest" at the top of the stairs (we're working on this--he drags his sleeping bag and pillows and favorite books to the top of the stairs every night and falls asleep there), he called down to me.

"Oh, by the way," he said, "I'm done keeping my diary."

I tried to keep my voice flat and casual. "Oh? Why?"

"It was taking too long every night. It was too hard," he scrunched his face up angrily the way he does when he has to talk about writing. "And besides, I set out to write 46 entries when I started, and now I'm done."

And that was that.

I thought about this on and off all evening. Why 46 entries? And I was suddenly consumed with a burning need to find out if he had actually written that exact number. I'm not sure why I needed to know, but I did. So I did a very bad thing: Right before I went to bed, and after we'd moved L. and all L.'s beloved things back into his room (do you ever stop melting with love at the sight of your child sleeping?), I counted the pages in his diary. I didn't read it, but I counted the pages, and there weren't, in fact, 46 pages, but 38 instead--despite the fact that there, on the inside front cover, he'd written that his diary would contain 46 days of entries.

I'm bothered by the absence of those 8 entries, and I can't help but wonder why he stopped at 38 and not 46 after all. What about those 8 days? Because I'm a mom, I'm filled with pride that L. wrote 38 entries. 38! 38 painstakingly written lines, one for each page, and this is the true accomplishment. But because I'm a mom, my mind is also already racing around the reasons he gave up, wondering what I can do.

Because I'm a writer, I also know you can't force these things, and if L.'s foray into diary-keeping is over, it's over, and it will be until he decides for himself to pick up his pen again.

But as a teacher, I also know the value of perseverance, and that low self-esteem can be like a cancer, eating away at your sense of self slowly and surely, until there is little left. Sometimes maybe you do have to be the one to push them forward, little by little, to that door, keeping your hand on the small of their back the whole time. Because if you do let go, they might walk away and never open it.

I think this is my biggest fear.