'Survivor: The Jungle Gym Edition'

This has been a rough year for my youngest son. His much adored and worshipped oldest brother disappeared from the face of the earth, eaten up by slime-gliding cyborg aliens from the planet Jronkksnot (much more acceptable to a 10-year-old than a girlfriend, a job and college.)

His other brother has been exploring with personality diversification and Buzz never knows if he's coming home to Ben the Fun Brother, Ben the Parent in Training, or Ben the Teenager.

The Fun Brother is the one who shows him how to do all the cheats on the latest video game, how to get the prize out of the cereal box without spilling cereal, and how to blow milk bubbles out of your nose. The Parent in Training Ben barks out more orders than the real parents do, although they usually make more sense. The Teenager verbalizes nothing, but speaks eloquently with rolled eyes, shrugged shoulders and slammed doors.

On top of having to deal with missing Scott and playing the home version of Ben-10, Buzz is also having to deal with fourth grade.

Fourth grade is a tough year. I remember it -- and not well. If my dad hadn't dangled the promise of a pony under my nose as a reward for passing it, I'd probably still be sitting in Miss Water's classroom, wondering what 7 x 6 is. (I still wonder that occasionally, or at least for as long as it takes me to call up the calculator on my desktop.)

Fourth grade is where the great alliances are formed and broken. Life-changing decisions are made. Talents are discovered and accomplishments discredited.

Think of it as "Survivor: The Jungle Gym Edition." I can't remember the name of my "best friend" in fourth grade, but the one I made in fifth grade is still my best friend. The highlights of my fourth-grade year were conquering the 6 times table (no hope for the 7s, ever), square dancing at the PTA harvest festival (My skirt was much flouncier than my arch rival's and everybody knew it!) and, of course, getting it over with so I could get my pony.

There are a lot of new concepts introduced in fourth grade, and a lot of social readjustment. I worked in the school system years later, as the site director for an after-school program, and I saw child after child trip over the doorsill of the fourth-grade level and fall flat on their faces. Some, of course, glided right over. They're the same ones who glided into the student government elections and won them easily without stuffing ballot boxes or bras. They were the starters for the basketball team, the ones who got to put the flag up every morning, and the ones who drove cars that cost more than their principal's annual salary.

But most of us trip and most of us stumble and some of us fall down and go boom. Poor Buzz went boom -- or should I say "Ka-Boom." Homework brought about emotional meltdowns, sulks, cries of frustration and anger ... and that was just me. Buzz whipped right through the homework. Other than the occasional whine and jeeeez party, Buzz seemed like a normal kid at home.

Well, as normal as any of my kids could ever be. He's never read "The Billy Goats Gruff," but he can sing the opening theme song for Mystery Science Theater 3000. They may not know the Hardy Boys, but they can tell you the name of every member of the Fellowship of the Ring. Nerd genes run very strong in my family.

School was a different story. There, he was the one suffering from the meltdowns, which were then passed along to me by his teachers so I could share them. We had phone calls, we had meetings, we had strategic planning sessions that involved many different suggestions from my end. Some were even legal and socially acceptable.

One of those was a very simple thing. Buzz felt as though he didn't belong. He felt as though he wasn't contributing anything to his school. He felt ... pointless?

Sound familiar? I mean, besides being the description of most serial killers' childhood profiles. Most of us feel that way at some time or another, if not all the time. Despite our striving for independence, we are, at heart, pack animals and we want to fit in with our pack. We want to contribute something, we want to help, we want to matter.

Our solution was to let Buzz visit the kindergartners at reading time and become a reading buddy. He wasn't too keen on the idea at first. I mean, little kids? Eeeeewwww.

"They have snot," he said as he wiped his own nose on his sleeve.

But he found out something really, really cool when he started doing his "community service." Reading buddies are a lot like big brothers. For the first time, he got to be the one helping, reading, showing the way. He could teach these pint-sized mucus machines how to read or tie their shoes, or he could just simply be a big brother for the first time in his life.

It's made a difference. Between the patience of his awesome teachers, some due diligence on his part, prayers on mine, and the hero-worship of a few 5-year-olds, we're over the fourth-grade bump and moving onward. In fact, my junior delinquent won the Principal's Award at the academic pep session in honor of the hard work and attitude adjustment he's put in lately.

Maybe all we need to help us fit into our pack is a way to feel useful. Donate some time, donate some talent. Read to children and you can fulfill their needs -- as well as your own.