Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Dec. 9, 2011
Last week I was going to divulge some particularly stupid things I had done when my youngest daughter was in kindergarten. Somehow, I wound up talking about alarm clocks. Rabbit trails have always been a problem for me.
I won’t repeat myself, although that is the language my children comprehend best. At home, I speak to them in “Repetitionese,” which sounds just like English tossed into your washer during its most vicious spin cycle. Many women might relate, relying on this language to communicate with their male counterparts. The variant used in speaking with children is that it requires a different dialect: “Louderandlouderplease.” So often, my youngest son, who at the ripe age of 6.5 years is now dispensing advice to me, looks wounded when I have been shouting somewhere in the vicinity of his eardrum. He claims he is sensitive to loud sounds. Exactly. That’s why I have to resort to them. None of the kinder and quieter sounds I use ever register. He’s not sensitive to those.
Why don’t you just run to your refrigerator where put up my column from last week, and we will continue from there. What? You don’t save them? Fine. Check the bottom of the birdcage, then, or check the older posts on this blog.
First-Day-of-School-Eve bustled with preparatory activities for the four school veterans: a senior, a sophomore, a 7th grader, and a 4th grader. But for my baby girl starting kindergarten, it would be her really, truly, first ever, day of school. I had a remnant two-year-old baby boy to keep me company at home to make sure I didn’t suddenly start enjoying myself by experiencing any sweet solitude after the school-bound stampede.
I had a small mountain of school paperwork requiring enough signatures to qualify me for the ambassadorship of a small nation, and those were piled up, in reserve for that first week of school. But late that night before the first school day, I decided to take a casual peek.
When I saw the kindergarten packet, my casual attitude drained faster than a paycheck on Friday. I nearly choked. There were three projects that needed to be submitted on the first day of school. There was also a detailed form in which the parent could describe, at length, the child’s strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes, down to the preferred brand of toilet paper.
Okay. I made up the part about the toilet paper.
I checked the clock. It was already 11:30 pm. I controlled my impulse to run upstairs and yank a five-year-old out of bed to complete the giant paper doll representation of herself. Sometimes I’m just reasonable that way.
Instead, I would wake her up early when the older kids got up at 6 am. She could do the work then, and I would sit over her like a loving and concerned hawk. Why would this, my daughter’s first day of kindergarten, be a complete repeat of my entire childhood, doing those awful science fair posters in stenciled letters all night, just before the science fair? Generation Procrastination.
The next morning, I hovered over a sleepy child as we glued on parts to make an ethnic paper doll with big, big eyes and some yarn hair. I think the finishing touch was a piece of Indian-looking fabric that we stapled on as part of the dress. Only the forms that were critical for the first day were done. Nobody had to run to catch the bus that first day. Days two through 180 are a different matter entirely.
At day’s end, the kindergartener had a full and appreciative audience. How was the first day of school? How were the kids? How were the teachers? As her stories emerged, we heard about circle time or story time - whatever you call it when the children sit quietly to listen to someone read. Ah, here’s a skill we should introduce to debating politicians. Let’s have them sit crisscross-applesauce style in their snazzy suits, and be quiet while the other person speaks. Revolutionary idea, isn’t it? At any rate, my daughter apparently fell asleep in this comfy position.
All eyes turned to me. Mom? This was my exit cue: time to make dinner.
Overall, we had a wonderful year, but I was amazed and at times overwhelmed by the amount of work this kindergarten class entailed. When I described (okay, I might have been complaining then) the writing practice, book reports, weather reports, and weekend homework packets in the class, an acquaintance asked if my child was in private school. Turns out, her own college graduate had had Mrs. Stright for kindergarten!
Mrs. Mary Stright, with her quick laugh and patient determination, along with her sparkly-eyed aide, Mrs. June Penn, have been teaching that class for ages. She still receives graduation announcements, wedding invitations, and even birth announcements (hopefully, in that order!) from her former students. She recently received a copy of a paper a college freshman wrote, citing the importance of repetition and good writing skills learned from her formative class.
I didn’t always think so then – (I had envisioned writing a column entitled “Kindergarten is Killing Me”) - but I count ourselves fortunate to have had a child under their tutelage. These ladies are an amazing and effective team, and are held in highest esteem, as all truly great teachers should be.
Last week I was going to divulge some particularly stupid things I had done when my youngest daughter was in kindergarten. Somehow, I wound up talking about alarm clocks. Rabbit trails have always been a problem for me.
I won’t repeat myself, although that is the language my children comprehend best. At home, I speak to them in “Repetitionese,” which sounds just like English tossed into your washer during its most vicious spin cycle. Many women might relate, relying on this language to communicate with their male counterparts. The variant used in speaking with children is that it requires a different dialect: “Louderandlouderplease.” So often, my youngest son, who at the ripe age of 6.5 years is now dispensing advice to me, looks wounded when I have been shouting somewhere in the vicinity of his eardrum. He claims he is sensitive to loud sounds. Exactly. That’s why I have to resort to them. None of the kinder and quieter sounds I use ever register. He’s not sensitive to those.
Why don’t you just run to your refrigerator where put up my column from last week, and we will continue from there. What? You don’t save them? Fine. Check the bottom of the birdcage, then, or check the older posts on this blog.
First-Day-of-School-Eve bustled with preparatory activities for the four school veterans: a senior, a sophomore, a 7th grader, and a 4th grader. But for my baby girl starting kindergarten, it would be her really, truly, first ever, day of school. I had a remnant two-year-old baby boy to keep me company at home to make sure I didn’t suddenly start enjoying myself by experiencing any sweet solitude after the school-bound stampede.
I had a small mountain of school paperwork requiring enough signatures to qualify me for the ambassadorship of a small nation, and those were piled up, in reserve for that first week of school. But late that night before the first school day, I decided to take a casual peek.
When I saw the kindergarten packet, my casual attitude drained faster than a paycheck on Friday. I nearly choked. There were three projects that needed to be submitted on the first day of school. There was also a detailed form in which the parent could describe, at length, the child’s strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes, down to the preferred brand of toilet paper.
Okay. I made up the part about the toilet paper.
I checked the clock. It was already 11:30 pm. I controlled my impulse to run upstairs and yank a five-year-old out of bed to complete the giant paper doll representation of herself. Sometimes I’m just reasonable that way.
Instead, I would wake her up early when the older kids got up at 6 am. She could do the work then, and I would sit over her like a loving and concerned hawk. Why would this, my daughter’s first day of kindergarten, be a complete repeat of my entire childhood, doing those awful science fair posters in stenciled letters all night, just before the science fair? Generation Procrastination.
The next morning, I hovered over a sleepy child as we glued on parts to make an ethnic paper doll with big, big eyes and some yarn hair. I think the finishing touch was a piece of Indian-looking fabric that we stapled on as part of the dress. Only the forms that were critical for the first day were done. Nobody had to run to catch the bus that first day. Days two through 180 are a different matter entirely.
At day’s end, the kindergartener had a full and appreciative audience. How was the first day of school? How were the kids? How were the teachers? As her stories emerged, we heard about circle time or story time - whatever you call it when the children sit quietly to listen to someone read. Ah, here’s a skill we should introduce to debating politicians. Let’s have them sit crisscross-applesauce style in their snazzy suits, and be quiet while the other person speaks. Revolutionary idea, isn’t it? At any rate, my daughter apparently fell asleep in this comfy position.
All eyes turned to me. Mom? This was my exit cue: time to make dinner.
Overall, we had a wonderful year, but I was amazed and at times overwhelmed by the amount of work this kindergarten class entailed. When I described (okay, I might have been complaining then) the writing practice, book reports, weather reports, and weekend homework packets in the class, an acquaintance asked if my child was in private school. Turns out, her own college graduate had had Mrs. Stright for kindergarten!
Mrs. Mary Stright, with her quick laugh and patient determination, along with her sparkly-eyed aide, Mrs. June Penn, have been teaching that class for ages. She still receives graduation announcements, wedding invitations, and even birth announcements (hopefully, in that order!) from her former students. She recently received a copy of a paper a college freshman wrote, citing the importance of repetition and good writing skills learned from her formative class.
I didn’t always think so then – (I had envisioned writing a column entitled “Kindergarten is Killing Me”) - but I count ourselves fortunate to have had a child under their tutelage. These ladies are an amazing and effective team, and are held in highest esteem, as all truly great teachers should be.
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