Two Notes About Rainbows

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.” ~Dolly Parton

Rainbows have been really big with us here this summer. Ever since the boys’ birthday we are all full-believers that K&O’s birthmother sends us the rainbows. Rainbows are special, always and for everyone (I assume), but in recent months –for us– they have become more special. We don’t get them very often, but when we do lately they seem pronounced and they seem to appear at the most profound moments.

The night before last, Meera was asking me to “draw rainbow!” “draw rainbow!” “draw rainbow!” I sat with her at her little table in the kitchen and obliged her commands for three rainbows in a row. I’d draw them with her pencil, then color them in with her crayons. She sat, enthralled, watching. She is heavy into drawing-coloring-etc. (and, in all truth, has probably already spent more time doing these activities –at age two– than her brothers have ever spent in their two entire lifetimes combined). After my third rainbow Meera moved on and started in with, “draw rainbow Ky Ky!” “draw rainbow Ky Ky!” “peeeeease draw rainbow Ky Ky!”  Kyle, who probably can’t think of many things he’d rather less do than to draw rainbows, and who was playing basketball with his brother at the time, worked actively at fully ignoring her. Owen, who surely was just relieved that his sister wasn’t begging for him to “draw rainbow,” helped out his brother by keeping right on with the basketball game. Kyle and Owen basically hate drawing/coloring/anything-related-to-fine-motor-skills. While they can waterski, shoot hoops, hit a baseball, or do a backward flip into the swimming pool with the best of the best of ’em — writing, drawing, coloring, even buttoning a shirt, is a major challenge for them. And the honest-to-God truth is that some combination of them being ‘naturally’ (physiologically?) weak in this area, us not forcing them to do it much, and them simply hating it, has led to this result: now, at age 6, K&O are way below average in their developmental abilities to do anything related to fine motor skills. This is a tough one for me because while I am amazed and awed with their natural athletic ability (i.e., gross motor skills), I also have some heavily conflicted feelings (and just recently beginning to verge on worry) about their lack-of-ability and lack-of-interest in anything related to fine motor skills. Plus, I am a professor after all, and put no small value on capacities such as… ummmm…. writing (penmanship! etc!!). Their teachers tell us not to worry, and for the most part I don’t, but I do think about it. And as the years go by I think about it more. Aside from the obvious school-work-related issues that may crop up with this, I also think a lot about what the ramifications will be (both positive and negative) for my boys apparently fitting right into the mold of popular stereotypes about black boys (i.e., black boys are awesome athletes *and* black boys are awful students). I will leave it at that– but if you are reading, and if you know anything about any of this stuff, then surely you can imagine my trepidation. Anyway… so… back to Meera and the “peeeeease draw rainbow Ky Ky!”… most often I just let it slide, but I have been vowing to myself of late that I will begin in earnest to actively and in the most positive-upbeat-ways-possible encourage K&O to do more practicing in the fine motor skills department. So, I called out to Kyle and together with Meera, with a little wink in my eye to my sweet Kyle, I began in with the “oh peeease Ky Ky! draw your baby sister a rainbow!” “come on Ky Ky! she wants big brother to draw a rainbow!” He pretty quickly relented, and came over to the table– all sweaty and out of breath from his basketball game. The next TWENTY MINUTES were spent PAINFULLY (and I’m not sure for whom it was more painful– Kyle, or me) producing the above masterpiece. Meera lost interest after about two minutes and ran off to play with Owen. Kyle desperately wanted to take off too, but I made him stick it out. And I made myself stick it out too. It was not easy. And we sat there — him and I — with him working on this for twenty of probably the longest minutes of my life. No joke. In the end, he was very proud of his accomplishment (although, in all honesty, he was, more than that, just plain glad the ordeal was over), and watched as I taped it onto the refrigerator.