Back to school
Today was the first day of class for the university kiddos. They've been moving back to school all weekend, and Dada alongside them has worked hard to move in to a new office, paint the department's main lecture hall, and prep for his first class today. We took him to work Saturday and Sunday and had a lot of fun critiquing the young-ness and trampy looks of the new crop of freshmen on campus. It makes me so glad I have boys to dress when I see these 18-year-old chicks (who you would swear were 14 if they weren't on a college campus) running around in skimpy shorts and hiking up their tube tops. I mean, call me a prude, but what is so wrong with wearing a t-shirt and jeans?!?!
It makes me remember my first days at college. For me, the second day of classes ended with me crying in a heap in my dorm room, convinced that there was no stinking way I could do all this work set before me and have it be rubber-stamped with the big golden As I was used to from high school. I was a big nerd and AP-tested out of almost everything "freshman", and so loaded myself up my first semester with the maximum allowable number of credits, containing two or three intensive writing classes and 300-level German. My boyfriend at the time helped a lot. He brought me a nice bouquet of purple flowers and rubbed my back and told me everything would be okay, and that I was a sharp cookie and if I couldn't do it, no one could. Well, I was smart in at least one respect; that I kept that boy and made him my baby daddy. And, as he usually is, he was right. I could do the college thing, and actually I did it quite well.
The grade-school-aged kiddos have been back to school for a few days now, we think. Our litmus test is the appearance of the crossing guard in front of our house, as we live literally a block away from where Isaac and Jacob will likely go to elementary school. Lately, while Isaac and Dada watch their post-dinner movie, I have been taking Jacob for a walk in the stroller to help him attain his late nap. We occasionally pass by the elementary school, and every time we do it makes me want to throw up.
The school? Oh, it's nice enough. It's got a big playground, lots of green space, even a baseball diamond where little leaguers met this summer to do their bidness. It's a decent school in a decent neighborhood littered with parents from academia, and the internet tells me there are relatively few child predators that live nearby. I would be proud to send my kids there. If my kids can make it past my front door, around my body barring their way.
It's so cliche, but what makes my cookies travel upward is the thought of them in a scenario I can't control. When they go to school, people could say mean things to them. Their feelings will get hurt. They could possibly get physically hurt, and possibly on purpose. They could get scared, belittled, put down. And I would have no idea, unless they told me. Right now, truly our only school-like scenario is our weekly playgroup. Kids sometimes beat up a little on Isaac, shoving him around or taking his toys. Sometimes he shoves back (not that he should), sometimes he cries about the injustice, sometimes he just stands there and takes it all in. Most times he looks to me to intervene or tell him what he should do, and I do, and try to inform the offender that he is a turd, though in a pleasant and socially acceptable way. I know he's young, but I just can't imagine him yet on his own. I want to be there to stick up for him when he can't stick up for himself.
Isaac isn't going to preschool this year, in part because most of the 2-1/2-year-old preschools require their students to be potty-trained, in part because I am not ready to send him. Regardless of my state of readiness, he will be going to preschool next fall when he is 3, and tomorrow I will begin calling around to schedule tours for us. AnthonyCarlos go to a great preschool on Main St. that comes highly recommended by our friends; I'll be calling there. I'll also be calling the preschool at the church we go to (when we are brave and energetic enough to go to church). There's an Episcopalian church that has a Montessori-based preschool not far from here; they'll be hearing from me, too. And in every case, I know I'll be talking to their various sweetly-natured representatives, gushing about how they work on these art projects and have this and that field trip, when I'll have to swallow a huge lump, one that contains in it every time the babysitter has been here and Isaac has insisted on ditching her to find Mama, as well as every time I left him behind at day care in Seattle and he would press his face and hands against the window and wonder aloud in baby-ese where I was going.
How do you do this again?
(to be repeated internally: can't homeschool! insanity imminent! can't homeschool! insanity imminent!)
It makes me remember my first days at college. For me, the second day of classes ended with me crying in a heap in my dorm room, convinced that there was no stinking way I could do all this work set before me and have it be rubber-stamped with the big golden As I was used to from high school. I was a big nerd and AP-tested out of almost everything "freshman", and so loaded myself up my first semester with the maximum allowable number of credits, containing two or three intensive writing classes and 300-level German. My boyfriend at the time helped a lot. He brought me a nice bouquet of purple flowers and rubbed my back and told me everything would be okay, and that I was a sharp cookie and if I couldn't do it, no one could. Well, I was smart in at least one respect; that I kept that boy and made him my baby daddy. And, as he usually is, he was right. I could do the college thing, and actually I did it quite well.
The grade-school-aged kiddos have been back to school for a few days now, we think. Our litmus test is the appearance of the crossing guard in front of our house, as we live literally a block away from where Isaac and Jacob will likely go to elementary school. Lately, while Isaac and Dada watch their post-dinner movie, I have been taking Jacob for a walk in the stroller to help him attain his late nap. We occasionally pass by the elementary school, and every time we do it makes me want to throw up.
The school? Oh, it's nice enough. It's got a big playground, lots of green space, even a baseball diamond where little leaguers met this summer to do their bidness. It's a decent school in a decent neighborhood littered with parents from academia, and the internet tells me there are relatively few child predators that live nearby. I would be proud to send my kids there. If my kids can make it past my front door, around my body barring their way.
It's so cliche, but what makes my cookies travel upward is the thought of them in a scenario I can't control. When they go to school, people could say mean things to them. Their feelings will get hurt. They could possibly get physically hurt, and possibly on purpose. They could get scared, belittled, put down. And I would have no idea, unless they told me. Right now, truly our only school-like scenario is our weekly playgroup. Kids sometimes beat up a little on Isaac, shoving him around or taking his toys. Sometimes he shoves back (not that he should), sometimes he cries about the injustice, sometimes he just stands there and takes it all in. Most times he looks to me to intervene or tell him what he should do, and I do, and try to inform the offender that he is a turd, though in a pleasant and socially acceptable way. I know he's young, but I just can't imagine him yet on his own. I want to be there to stick up for him when he can't stick up for himself.
Isaac isn't going to preschool this year, in part because most of the 2-1/2-year-old preschools require their students to be potty-trained, in part because I am not ready to send him. Regardless of my state of readiness, he will be going to preschool next fall when he is 3, and tomorrow I will begin calling around to schedule tours for us. AnthonyCarlos go to a great preschool on Main St. that comes highly recommended by our friends; I'll be calling there. I'll also be calling the preschool at the church we go to (when we are brave and energetic enough to go to church). There's an Episcopalian church that has a Montessori-based preschool not far from here; they'll be hearing from me, too. And in every case, I know I'll be talking to their various sweetly-natured representatives, gushing about how they work on these art projects and have this and that field trip, when I'll have to swallow a huge lump, one that contains in it every time the babysitter has been here and Isaac has insisted on ditching her to find Mama, as well as every time I left him behind at day care in Seattle and he would press his face and hands against the window and wonder aloud in baby-ese where I was going.
How do you do this again?
(to be repeated internally: can't homeschool! insanity imminent! can't homeschool! insanity imminent!)
posted by Claire at 12:16 AM
2 Comments:
As always an excellent post, hits me right in my heart.
We do it so that they can grow up and be adults and have babies and wear their hearts on their sleeves. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Seriously, because it is what we do, help them have happy lives and be independent people so that they can go off to college and live on their own. Doesn't mean it is easy though.
"As always" -- Mrs. B, you made my day. And, as always, you are so right. It's hard to have perspective sometimes without a certain amount of sleep, yes?
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