Visions of kindergarten past - skills that last

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.

The alarming thing about kindergarten

Published in The Fauquier Times Democrat (Weekend Edition) on Dec. 2, 2011


A few years ago, when my youngest daughter was in Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley Elementary School, I did several stupid things. Fortunately, my daughter was able to pass the course despite being handicapped by parental ineptitude. Mrs. Mary Stright and her wonderful aide Mrs. June Penn continue to talk to me. In exchange for all the empty containers of oatmeal that my husband eats through for his heart-healthy breakfasts for them to use in their kindergarten craft projects, they smile kindly at me and never mention “those” episodes.


In case your child hasn’t had the privilege of being taught by someone who is so perfectly suited to his or her profession, I should let you know that Mrs. Stright runs a very academic and focused classroom. In spite of that, though, these two amazing ladies fill that room and “their” children with love and warmth and compassion, right along with those weekly book reports, weather reports, and homework.


Like any good parent, when we went to the Meet the Teacher night, I had paid attention to all the important details. Was my child dressed adorably? Check. Did my child look adorable? Check. Were the charm and cuteness factors conspicuously present? Check. Fine, we were ready to trot down to the school, where I would shake hands, stroll about the classroom and look importantly at everything. Then, I would ask a few pressing questions about phonics versus whole language learning to camouflage the real concerns on my checklist. (I wasn’t this way with the first, experimental child we had, but this was my fifth, my baby girl.)


When I collected all the papers and forms, I plopped them onto the pile of forms that were required for the other four children who were also in Fauquier County Schools that year. Something about signing all those forms makes me feel like an old Soviet bureaucrat. At any rate, when you are filling up forms for multiple children, you begin to feel old. I usually save those forms for the first few days of school, right after I have dashed about collecting obscure art and stationery supplies that teachers specifically request only after classes begin. This would be just after you’ve canvassed every discount and department store for the mountain of generic items that ARE on the list.


The night before school, the children were exceptionally excited, and ultra-prepared. Their lunches were packed; their clothes were picked out, and they had even gone to bed at some decent hour so the next morning you won’t experience what you will every other school day morning: As if you are trying to resurrect the dead, whose alarm clocks, right next to their heads, blare and beep incessantly until they disturb you, the non-school-aged adult, from your own desperately needed repose.


Amazingly, the obnoxious alarm clock does nothing to even suggest to one teen that he needs to wake up. Where these clocks get the audacity to add “alarm” to their names, I don’t know. I think all we have in this boy’s room is a Might-you-like-to-wake-up-now-your-royal-highness? Suggestion Clock. It never wakes His Majesty up, but it does manage to beckon the servant, yours truly, from down the hall to come running into the room to blast on the lights and demand that he silence the clock. Where repetitive auditory suggestions fail, visual assaults (in the form of bright lights) usually prevail.


I know of alarm clocks with clever designs that eject some sort of key. The alarmee is forced to arise, retrieve the piece, and then fit it back into the clock in some complicated way before the darned thing will shut off its alarm. That is fine for the advanced waker, the type who leaps out of bed, hurriedly shuts off the alarm, and then slumps back into bed to catch a few more minutes (or, oops, hours) of unintended shut-eye. Such a device is no good for the child who is failing Awakening 101. This child needs remediation to get to the point of acknowledging the existence of the alarm.


Now that I’m completely off topic, here’s my gift idea for this young man. It’s an alarm clock that includes a spinning and flashing disco ball suspended in a block-and-tackle arrangement. The disco ball will begin to descend (slowly and gently, of course – this IS my precious child we’re talking about), directly over the child’s head. Let’s incorporate some advanced, military heat-seeking device to make sure the disco ball finds its mark. In addition, this alarm clock needs to include searchlights that locate and aim directly at the eyelids while the ball descends. Surely, we have the biotechnology to do this. If these won’t do the trick, it should release a lovely, laminar flow of ice water. That way, every school day after the first exciting one, it will bring forth a message filled with lights and not exactly warm, but flowing feelings that say, “Merry Christmas, with love, from Mom. Now, WAKE UP!”


May I get back to kindergarten next week? Thanks – I’ll set my alarm as a reminder.