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Go Nigel, Go!
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Would You Like To Buy My Monkeys?
Aug
28
This Is The Way We Go To School
by Leslie
Julia will begin preschool in less than one week. I only wish I had the talent to illustrate a School House Rock-esque cartoon in which those words would be formed by brick letters that crash on me as they are sung by the guy who did I’m Just A Bill and The Tale of Mr. Morton, because that’s the only thing I can think of that would effectively communicate the enormity of that sentence: Julia will begin preschool in less than one week.
Dave and I attended a parent orientation last night all by ourselves. A few weeks ago the school sent a letter indicating that the orientation was for parents only. They even underlined that part: parents only. So, I bought a breast pump and asked my mom to sit with the girls while we went.
We had to take with us to the parents only preschool orientation some paperwork that included a questionnaire about Julia. It started out fun. We got to circle all the things Julia can do, most of the time. Button. Zip. Put on her coat. Run. Jump. Skip. State her name. Write her name. Then, it got a little harder. From a list of approximately 40 words, we had to choose the 8 that best described our daughter. Dave and I made our selections carefully and as a team. We copied the list and took turns eliminating words until we reached the 8 keepers. Part way through our selections, we noticed that many of the words were similar, but with different connotations. For example, CONFIDENT (positive connotation) and HEADSTRONG (negative connotation). So, we were mindful to choose the most positive form of each quality listed. Finally, we had to explain why we chose a Montessori school and what our immediate goals for Julia were. Dave began quoting lyrics to The Greatest Love Of All. I told him, “You! Don’t talk too much at this thing!”
It felt so weird to be out without the kids. It would have almost been exciting except there was no potential for adult-orientated shenanigans. So, mostly it was weird. Who would I blame for the stains on my shirt? It was the first time in almost five months that I left the house without a diaper bag. I couldn’t even find a purse to put my stuff in, so I used one of the free bags the hospital gave me when Lucy was born. Dave asked what I would possibly need to carry in it. I recited a list of essentials that ended with a pad and pen for taking notes at the orientation. He called me a nerd. I told him his nose hair was too long.
When we arrived at the school, we turned in our paperwork and headed for the meeting room. I wanted to sit in the front, Dave wanted to sit in the back. We compromised and sat in the middle where we fought over the packet of information they gave us until the orientation started. Dave didn’t even really want to read it, he was just keeping it from me because he knew I wanted it so badly. So, I yanked one of his nose hairs out and took the packet while he was still stunned.
We listened to the school director speak, then were released to our respective classrooms to meet the teacher. She remembered us right away from the open house they held last March. Probably because we had stayed there so long, we closed the open house. And I may have cried and hugged a stranger.
We looked around the room. We saw Julia’s name on her circle time spot. She’s right next to the teacher and a girl named Emma. (Emma. Emma sounds nice. Emma’s are friendly, no? I feel good about Julia sitting next to Emma.) Also, her name was listed along with her birthday on a cardboard rainbow on the bulletin board. (She’s not the oldest, not the youngest; she’s right in the middle. Perfect.) We saw her name on a drawer. (There’s already a lollipop in there for her!) The room looked ready for Julia. We were happy. Dave suggested we head out. I felt like we needed to at least say hello to the teacher. So, we skulked around until the teacher was free and then we meandered into her general vicinity.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “I just can’t believe my baby is about to start school. I mean, she’s ready. She’s excited! This is going to be so good for her. I’m the one that’s freaked out.” And I proceeded to talk in such a way that I am certain convinced this woman that I’m a total flake. In fact, I think she may be afraid of me, because when I made a joke about camouflaging my face with green paint and watching class from the shrubs outside the window, she reminded me that they have a drop-off zone each morning, which means I don’t even have to get out of my car to drop Julia off at school.
There was an awkward silence.
Dave looked at me, “Well, you ready to go?”
Still, I kept talking. I volunteered to be the party parent. I offered Dave up as Santa Claus at Christmas.
Dave said with a chuckle, “Okay, well, I think we should go!” and gently pulled me toward the door.
I told a story about the first time Julia took a class I wasn’t allowed to accompany her to and how I laid on the floor, watching her feet under the door. (I vaguely remember telling that story at the Open House.)
“That it? Ready to go?” Dave asked, taking advantage of my need to breathe in some air.
“We’ll see you on Friday at the Meet and Greet,” the teacher said, trying to help Dave get me out of there.
I mentioned that I’d be bringing Lucy along and asked if that would be okay, then went on to tell her about how this was the first time I’d ever left Lucy and I had to pump my breast milk.
Dave squeezed my hand, tugged me toward the door and said, “Well, it looks like it’s time to go!” as he gestured toward the empty classroom next door and the teachers turning out lights, “Lucy’s waiting for you.”
Finally, I yielded and let Dave drag me out.
I’m not sure why I kept talking and talking. I don’t know what response I was hoping for. I don’t know why it was so hard to just walk out of that classroom. Maybe it’s because I know I can’t be there with her when she starts. It’s the first place of Julia’s that’s hers alone, not mine, too. It’s the first place in her life where I don’t belong. That’s not a feeling I’m used to.
The moment we reached the car, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mom to check on my girls. I could hear Lucy screaming. Mom said she’d been screaming for the past hour and was inconsolable. Dave put his foot on the gas. I said we’d be there as fast as we could and hung up. I sat there, in limbo, somewhere between holding on and letting go. Dave put his hand over mine and said, “It’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” I sniffled, wiping away tears.
“I just want to know what you’re going to do the day the teacher calls to tell you Julia’s been saying dammit.”
I took out a tissue, dried my face and said, “At least it wasn’t fuck.”
“I think we’re ready for preschool.”
“Yes we are.”
Comments
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Ooooooh. Aaaaah.
I can barely see the keyboard through the tears. It’s so hard to watch them grow up. Aaron will go next fall and I am already counting down the months like they are his last months as a little guy. Sniff, sniff…be brave Leslie. I will be thinking about you.
I can’t imagine my boy going to preschool! I’ve good things about Montessori.
Must be harder for Mommy than for Julia to have reahed this milestone! Chin up Leslie - it really *will* be ok
HUGS!!!
I’m sure it will all be fine. Absolutely beautiful post, though, Leslie.
It’s SO hard to let go.
Jen in MI clued me in to you- I wrote on the same topic today lol!
It was choas at ours, I can’t believe they didn’t want you to bring kids-thats stupid. I get it and all, but what if you cant’ get a babysitter??
Hi Leslie!
Poor you! Owen starts preschool next week. He will only be 2 in September (upon the advice of our pediatrician, we are starting him now so that I can have time with the new baby and he can have some structure/routine). I picked a school that focuses on motor skills as well as academic skills. His preschool has 30 minutes of gymnastics everyday in addition to play time and the academic rigors of normal preschool instruction.
I’m a little sad about sending him off into the world, but I think it is going to be good for both of us. Nobody understands your Julia the way you do, though, and perhaps that is why you feel the need to talk and explain and try to give as much background as possible. It makes you feel better to share your knowledge.
As a teacher myself, it’s fun to see both sides of this now that I’m the parent. Owen and Julia are both going to be fine while you and I cry in the respective preschool parking lots! It really will be okay, though, I promise!
Once you start hearing how much fun she’s having it will get easier. I promise.
Good luck!
At least it wasn’t fuck…
If your nervous energy is enough to spring from the monitor and put me on edge, I can’t imagine how it is making you feel. Good luck with that!
Oh Leslie. You crack me up. You really laid on the floor and watched her feet? Really? I think I love you. I was that way with my oldest (well, not quite that bad), but I’m excited for Cindy-lu to start!
And, um, Emma? I don’t wanna give away CL’s name or anything but I just want to say that Emma’s can be just as bratty as any other kid.
Not that I’m trying to make you feel worse. I just thought I would let you know.
[…] After revealing my crazy at the parent only orientation, I made sure I was on my very best behavior for the preschool meet and greet yesterday. I exhibited colossal restraint. I did not share any stories. I did not answer any questions intended for another person. I did not finish anyone’s sentences. I did not speak for anyone else. I did nothing more than support my daughter, like a real grown-up parent. […]
Just like my wife. When she’s at a school function, she talks and talks and talks. Then she voluteers for everything. Must be a woman or a mom thing.
[…] (I’m always nervous about talking with them. I get all weird and intense, and I completely lose my ability to gracefully exit the conversation. The orientation set a precedent, I think. I just wish I could find some middle ground between perpetuating the conversation that never ends and abruptly running out like I just got diarrhea.) […]