At the beginning of the year I started writing a blog for Kindermusik by Bright Beginnings Studios (say that ten times!) I think some people might have considered the blog too personal for a team business; one voice speaking for many. It was the only way I knew how to write, though, because I have been teaching Kindermusik for the past 10 years and I've been a Kindermusik Mom for almost five. The line between my professional and personal life faded long ago. And, you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.
Now to be honest, I’ve always felt that I handled both aspects of my Kindermusik life with grace and professionalism (you know, humbly speaking.) I’ve often thought how fortunate Coulter is to have a music teacher as a mom. I mean he’ll be so much more prepared than the others students, right? He’ll have someone who knows what it takes and can give him the support and encouragement that he needs. I realize that he might prefer something cooler like a fireman (woman?) for a mom, or perhaps some awesome sports oriented mom who would know you’re supposed to bring a glove and wear long pants to t-ball practice (a random example, obviously!) But he doesn’t; he has a music teacher for a mom and you’d think this would be helpful in at least one area of his life. As it turns out, not so much!
This year Coulter has been participating in Kindermusik for the Young Child. It is, for lack of a better description, a pre-piano course that encompasses everything from note reading and rhythms to instrument families and composers (or, as Coulter would say, “the guys who wore wigs and are already dead.”) Children, ages 4 ½ to 7, attend the first 45 minutes alone and grownups join for the last ten. Children are learning not only to read notes, but to sing and play short melodies on the glockenspiel. It is the only Kindermusik class that has weekly at-home lessons. Weekly at-home lessons that we continually forget to do. Some days I feel like everyone else gets the God-allotted seven days, but that I’m stuck with only six. I mean how else do I continually find us unprepared on Saturday mornings for Ms. Wendy’s class?
I teach my own Young Child class on Fridays. Again, you’d think this would be helpful. From this experience, however, I have come to realize that on Fridays I am (or try to be) an understanding, patient, loving teacher who knows that children thrive on schedule and routine and structure. I try to create a positive atmosphere for learning where no-one feels left behind and certainly where no child ever feels badly if they haven’t completed the “homework.”(Although sometimes I do joke with parents that perhaps more at-home time is needed.) On Friday I would never lose my patience with a child, knowing that each child is trying their best and that this class, if nothing else, is about process not performance. Well, that’s me on Fridays. Less than 24 hours later, I turn in to psycho Saturday Mom; an insecure, over-anxious stage-mom-to be. Structure and routine have gone out the window all week and suddenly I expect Coulter to know his lesson. I have no patience for mistakes, especially if I feel like he’s not trying. I am easily frustrated and I snap at him for not listening. A couple of weeks ago, I even went so far as to have Coulter practice in the car. He had just finished with a soccer game. He was tired and hungry and looking forward, I suspect, to a little break. Instead, I took out the glockenspiel, held the music up behind me (fortunately I wasn’t driving) and made Coulter practice “Mouse Mousie” for the 15 minute drive to Kindermusik. He had played it so much that by the time we got there, Emma Claire had started singing it (just a few more minutes and she probably could have played it, too!)So, what does this say about me?
Well, if the training course I recently completed for my job at Children's Home is to be trusted, it means I’m afraid. The course is founded on the principle that all behavior is communication and communication is either love based or fear based. When my students come to me on Friday, I have nothing to fear. But with Coulter, I have plenty to fear. Will Ms.Wendy know if we haven’t practiced? (duh!)What will the other parents think if Coulter, Ms. Myra’s son, isn’t prepared? Will they think he’s not smart? Not talented? I can just hear the therapist at our school, “Perhaps you are fearful of what his “performance” says about you and maybe you’re thinking if you can’t be a good Kindermusik Mom (whatever that is,) how can you be a good Kindermusik teacher?” Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking that, you know, but whatever!
The truth is, I haven’t really had my “aha” moment with this. I do know that I am a better teacher to children other than my own and I know that home schooling will not be an option for us. I mean seriously, if I can’t get through “Mouse Mousie” without nearly losing it, how would we possibly take on Calculus? Who am I kidding, I didn’t even take Calculus. If it weren’t for spell check, I wouldn’t even know how to spell Calculus. And speaking with both my teacher and mom voice, I think perhaps we all need to relax and give our children (and ourselves!) a break. They will find their talents, their gifts and their joys. They will excel; they will shine; they will find their way. And at the end of the day, I know that the experience he is having is, as Kindermusik promises, “a good beginning that will not end.” I know that Ms. Wendy is laying a foundation for future learning and we’ll get there together, even if we did fail Mouse Mousie week!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Woo-Pig! I'm a Razorback, Afterall!
In last week's blog I left you hanging with one thought: regret. I really need to resolve this because I'm making my friend Tarina very nervous, which, just goes to my point that we are not comfortable admitting regret. So, I've run back to Fayetteville for literally 24 hours of reflection and discovery. Not to be overly dramatic, but I feel a little bit like Elizabeth Gilbert who wrote, "Eat, Pay, Love" except that for her adventures of self-discovery, she traveled all over the world eating foreign food, learning foreign languages and enjoying the company of foreign men. I on the other hand, travelled to a place where not only do we speak the same language, we do it with the same accent; a place where the closest I came to foreign food was Chick-Fil-A and where, alas, I encountered no foreign men. But, other than that, it was exactly the same as Ms. Gilbert.
I'm 37 and perfectly capable of travelling alone, but I will say, unashamedly, that the first thing I did on my big adventure was to let my parents know that I had arrived safely (funny, there was no mention of anything like this in Gilbert's book.) Furthermore, the only reason I didn't call my husband was because he was out of the country. Let's just say we're a really close family and pretend it has nothing to do with any sort of family dysfunctions. The second thing was to lace up my asics and hit the hills of Northwest Arkansas. It was 80 degrees and completely gorgeous. A perfect day for running; for remembering; for just being. I ran and I ran and I ran. I ran past the Chi-Omega house where, after sharing a single room with some 15 other sisters, I learned the enormous value of earplugs (a habit that I'm still trying to break!) I ran past the music building, where I lived while not at the Chi-O house. I ran past the performing arts building where I once donned a black wig for my starring role in "The Mikado." Well that might be a stretch. I think was something like Maid #3, but whatever, I did get to sing "Three Little Maids From School Are We." I ran and then I ran some more. I ran. I laughed. I cried. I ran past the sidewalk where the names of my graduating class were etched and I even ran past (and up to) the doorway of the athletic dorm where my heart was first broken.
Immersed in my trip down memory lane, I was oblivious to those around me. I had been basically alone, but suddenly there were beautiful people all around me. Now, the University of Arkansas is full of beautiful people, but this was like out of a movie; almost dream-like. Where did you come from and why are you so young? I slowed down to barely a walk. I was engulfed by pride, ugly and unexpected, as I tried quickly and hopelessly to suck-in, tuck-in and stick-out all the right parts in hopes that I could still pull off 22 (or, at the very least, like non-trad law student at 28 or 29.) But I quickly gave up, knowing in my heart that no matter how much sucking, tucking or plucking; no matter how many lotions and potions, lifting and shifting, my life will never again resemble that of a college student. And I'm o.k. with that, in fact, I'm grateful for that.
Even still, I decided I should finish my run strong. I mean a little pride can be healthy right? So, I sped up. Sprinting now and almost back to my hotel, some guy in a run-down pickup truck waved for me to cross in front of him. As I did, he yelled, "Lookin' Good!" 20 years ago, I would have feigned offense, but today I just muttered a quiet thank you---quiet because I thought it would be inappropriate to yell back, "Heck yeah I do and thanks for noticing!" And quiet because that's all the breath I could muster.
After my run, I watched the Razorbacks play baseball in their "new to me" stadium. I spent more time on campus and I watched the clock tick on. By the end of the day, I had happily come to the conclusion that this trip was not about regret at all. It was about resolution. It was about closure. I left so quickly that basically, I had never said goodbye. I have always regretted not graduating from the University of Arkansas. Well enough, already!! I went to school at the University of Arkansas. I had the whole "college experience" at the University of Arkansas and diploma or not, this is my Alma Mater. My story is not about hasty decisions and regret. My story is about a young lady who, surrounded by the strength of her family, was able to stand up and make a choice for herself and her future. This story is about being brave. Moving to Nebraska, which, at the time, was as foreign a country as I had ever visited was exciting and scary and full of possibilities. And come to think of it, if Nebraska is a foreign country then there's a foreign man in my story after all!
Last week I said it's never too late to get it right and, as it turns out, I think I did. Furthermore, I've forgiven myself for what I viewed as a total failure to finish what I started. As I raise my children, I want to make sure that I continue to be brave (or rather to be brave, again!) so that they see strength and confidence as their example. I want my children to be fearless; to be risk takers; to go full-force chasing their dreams (unless, of course, that dream is to play hockey) and to believe, no matter how far-fetched, that with God, anything is impossible.
I'm 37 and perfectly capable of travelling alone, but I will say, unashamedly, that the first thing I did on my big adventure was to let my parents know that I had arrived safely (funny, there was no mention of anything like this in Gilbert's book.) Furthermore, the only reason I didn't call my husband was because he was out of the country. Let's just say we're a really close family and pretend it has nothing to do with any sort of family dysfunctions. The second thing was to lace up my asics and hit the hills of Northwest Arkansas. It was 80 degrees and completely gorgeous. A perfect day for running; for remembering; for just being. I ran and I ran and I ran. I ran past the Chi-Omega house where, after sharing a single room with some 15 other sisters, I learned the enormous value of earplugs (a habit that I'm still trying to break!) I ran past the music building, where I lived while not at the Chi-O house. I ran past the performing arts building where I once donned a black wig for my starring role in "The Mikado." Well that might be a stretch. I think was something like Maid #3, but whatever, I did get to sing "Three Little Maids From School Are We." I ran and then I ran some more. I ran. I laughed. I cried. I ran past the sidewalk where the names of my graduating class were etched and I even ran past (and up to) the doorway of the athletic dorm where my heart was first broken.
Immersed in my trip down memory lane, I was oblivious to those around me. I had been basically alone, but suddenly there were beautiful people all around me. Now, the University of Arkansas is full of beautiful people, but this was like out of a movie; almost dream-like. Where did you come from and why are you so young? I slowed down to barely a walk. I was engulfed by pride, ugly and unexpected, as I tried quickly and hopelessly to suck-in, tuck-in and stick-out all the right parts in hopes that I could still pull off 22 (or, at the very least, like non-trad law student at 28 or 29.) But I quickly gave up, knowing in my heart that no matter how much sucking, tucking or plucking; no matter how many lotions and potions, lifting and shifting, my life will never again resemble that of a college student. And I'm o.k. with that, in fact, I'm grateful for that.
Even still, I decided I should finish my run strong. I mean a little pride can be healthy right? So, I sped up. Sprinting now and almost back to my hotel, some guy in a run-down pickup truck waved for me to cross in front of him. As I did, he yelled, "Lookin' Good!" 20 years ago, I would have feigned offense, but today I just muttered a quiet thank you---quiet because I thought it would be inappropriate to yell back, "Heck yeah I do and thanks for noticing!" And quiet because that's all the breath I could muster.
After my run, I watched the Razorbacks play baseball in their "new to me" stadium. I spent more time on campus and I watched the clock tick on. By the end of the day, I had happily come to the conclusion that this trip was not about regret at all. It was about resolution. It was about closure. I left so quickly that basically, I had never said goodbye. I have always regretted not graduating from the University of Arkansas. Well enough, already!! I went to school at the University of Arkansas. I had the whole "college experience" at the University of Arkansas and diploma or not, this is my Alma Mater. My story is not about hasty decisions and regret. My story is about a young lady who, surrounded by the strength of her family, was able to stand up and make a choice for herself and her future. This story is about being brave. Moving to Nebraska, which, at the time, was as foreign a country as I had ever visited was exciting and scary and full of possibilities. And come to think of it, if Nebraska is a foreign country then there's a foreign man in my story after all!
Last week I said it's never too late to get it right and, as it turns out, I think I did. Furthermore, I've forgiven myself for what I viewed as a total failure to finish what I started. As I raise my children, I want to make sure that I continue to be brave (or rather to be brave, again!) so that they see strength and confidence as their example. I want my children to be fearless; to be risk takers; to go full-force chasing their dreams (unless, of course, that dream is to play hockey) and to believe, no matter how far-fetched, that with God, anything is impossible.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Running Back
I'm a runner. Well, not really a "runner" runner, but I run, or at least I jog, but running sounds way cooler, so let's just go with that. I've run two marathons and for the moment that is enough. I run for health and I run for fitness. I run for sanity and if I'm being honest, I run so that I can fit into my favorite pair of jeans. I run because it's much less expensive than paying for therapy. I run because I'm able to and with that comes a certain sense of obligation. I've been running for almost 20 years and come to think of it, maybe that makes me a "runner" runner, after all.
I first started running when I was in college. My best friend and I would go to the campus fitness center (the "HPER") and run on the walking deck that overlooked the basketball courts. Actually, we didn't do a whole lot of running. We mostly just walked and watched the off-season athletes play ball below. At the end of my freshman 15 (or was it 20?) I decided I'd better start running for real. I got serious about running when I decided to compete in the Miss Arkansas Pageant system. Evidently I didn't have a "good swimsuit." I received all sorts of advice on how to remedy my swimsuit scores---truly, it's amazing what you open yourself up to when you choose to model in a swimsuit, but the most memorable was when one local director (not mine) told me he had some ideas on how to help me find my waist. Do you have any idea how many years of running therapy one needs to recover from a statement like that!? And yet, at the end of the day, I think that director may very well be the reason I continue to run. In some ways I'm still that 19 year old girl looking for my waist!
Running though is sometimes more than just hitting the pavement. Running can be what we do when things get hard. Certainly, I've been there as well. I've run from jobs, cities, people and even churches. The one that I regret though, is my decision to run away, with one year left, from the University of Arkansas. For reasons that would bore you beyond measure, I didn’t want to go back for my senior year (my second one that is.) Everything, and everyone around me was changing and I wanted a change, too. So, I packed my bags, asked my brother to join me and headed out on the adventure of a lifetime in the great state of Nebraska (which sounds so funny when I read it out loud because let's face it, Nebraska isn't really the sort of place that screams adventure!)
O.K., so, I know you aren't supposed to live your life with regrets, and, even if you have them, you certainly aren't supposed to admit to them, but sometimes that doesn't work for me. I concede that constantly looking back and living in the past isn't all together healthy but sometimes, I would argue, just sometimes you have to go back in order to move forward. And so that's what I'm doing. I'm running back to a year (1994) and a place (University of Arkansas) where, one simple decision changed the course of my life....I life that I love; a life for which I'm grateful; a life greatly blessed. And yet, with all of the joy that followed, why do I still have feelings of regret? It's in search of that answer that I find myself running (well, at least driving) back to a place that I called home for 4 years. I have no idea what I'll find or what I even hope to accomplish, but this much I know: I want to be an example for my children that it's never too late to get it right; that's it never too late to forgive or ask to be forgiven; that it's never too late to finish what you started.
(to be continued! sorry!)
I first started running when I was in college. My best friend and I would go to the campus fitness center (the "HPER") and run on the walking deck that overlooked the basketball courts. Actually, we didn't do a whole lot of running. We mostly just walked and watched the off-season athletes play ball below. At the end of my freshman 15 (or was it 20?) I decided I'd better start running for real. I got serious about running when I decided to compete in the Miss Arkansas Pageant system. Evidently I didn't have a "good swimsuit." I received all sorts of advice on how to remedy my swimsuit scores---truly, it's amazing what you open yourself up to when you choose to model in a swimsuit, but the most memorable was when one local director (not mine) told me he had some ideas on how to help me find my waist. Do you have any idea how many years of running therapy one needs to recover from a statement like that!? And yet, at the end of the day, I think that director may very well be the reason I continue to run. In some ways I'm still that 19 year old girl looking for my waist!
Running though is sometimes more than just hitting the pavement. Running can be what we do when things get hard. Certainly, I've been there as well. I've run from jobs, cities, people and even churches. The one that I regret though, is my decision to run away, with one year left, from the University of Arkansas. For reasons that would bore you beyond measure, I didn’t want to go back for my senior year (my second one that is.) Everything, and everyone around me was changing and I wanted a change, too. So, I packed my bags, asked my brother to join me and headed out on the adventure of a lifetime in the great state of Nebraska (which sounds so funny when I read it out loud because let's face it, Nebraska isn't really the sort of place that screams adventure!)
O.K., so, I know you aren't supposed to live your life with regrets, and, even if you have them, you certainly aren't supposed to admit to them, but sometimes that doesn't work for me. I concede that constantly looking back and living in the past isn't all together healthy but sometimes, I would argue, just sometimes you have to go back in order to move forward. And so that's what I'm doing. I'm running back to a year (1994) and a place (University of Arkansas) where, one simple decision changed the course of my life....I life that I love; a life for which I'm grateful; a life greatly blessed. And yet, with all of the joy that followed, why do I still have feelings of regret? It's in search of that answer that I find myself running (well, at least driving) back to a place that I called home for 4 years. I have no idea what I'll find or what I even hope to accomplish, but this much I know: I want to be an example for my children that it's never too late to get it right; that's it never too late to forgive or ask to be forgiven; that it's never too late to finish what you started.
(to be continued! sorry!)
Sunday, April 4, 2010
"K" is for Kindergarten!
One day (well, actually, lots and lots of days,) but on one day in particular when Coulter was three, we were having, for lack of a better term, "one of those days." You know, one of those days that reminds you that the terrible 2's weren't so terrible after all. In fact, they were down-right terrific! One of those days when you question your ability to parent, thinking that maybe, just maybe you're not cut out for this. One of those days when out of no-where we decide to throw the mother of all tantrums over a pair of gloves. Evidently, I put them on wrong, and to this day I'm not sure what I did, but trust me when I say the gloves were very, very wrong.
I was picking him up from a play date when the glove incident occurred. When we got into the car, I very calmly and gently (right!) explained that in our family, we don't cry about clothes. We don't cry about gloves.We cry when we're hurt. There was no reaction to my inspired mommy speech, save for more crying. Finally, having reached the pinnacle of my patience, I interrupted with a little white lie: "Coulter, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I had planned to take you to McDonald's for lunch only now, because of your poor choices, we don't get to go." More crying. Sobbing. And then, after a little while, the crying slowed, then stopped. Silence. Total silence.
Now, here's how the remainder of the conversation played out:
C: "Mom, Wesley hit me today."
M: "Coulter, I'm so sorry. That must have hurt, but I'm sure it was an accident."
C: "It wasn't an accident. It was on purpose."
M: "Oh, well, that must have hurt your feelings."
C: "It did."
More silence and the slight hint of a smile on my face because I so knew where this was going.
C: "Mom, that's why I was crying before. It wasn't about the gloves." (I mean, come on, who cries about gloves, right?) "It was about Wesley hitting me."
M: "Oh, well, I can see where that would make you sad."
Silence. Waiting.
C: "Mom, since I was crying about getting hit and NOT about the gloves, may we please still get to go to
Mc Donald's, you know, since I was crying about being hurt?"
Bam! And there it was! Now, I know what you're thinking. Surely she held strong. Surely she didn't give into his blatant manipulation. Are you kidding? Of course I did. I figured that any 3 year old who could come up with that wild tale (and if you knew how sweet and gentle Wesley is then you'd know just how wild it was,) definitely deserved a happy meal. I also knew, if perhaps not at that exact moment, but after several of those sorts of moments that we would be sending Coulter to Kindergarten sooner rather than later.
The problem, (if there is one,) is that Coulter has a May birthday. Not really in the Spring, where most parents I know send, but not really a Summer birthday either, where most parents I know wait. As you're probably aware, opinions run strong when it comes "to send or not to send." Even (or perhaps, especially) within our own family, we have a plethora of opinions. Coulter's grandma thinks 5 years olds should not go to Kindergarten. Period. She has, understandably, based this opinion on the successful experiences of her first 4 grandchildren who went at age 6. I get this. Why mess with a formula that's working? Coulter's other Grandmother, a life long educator, believes that her first born grandson (who, now technically is her 4th born grandson which is a very long story I'll reserve for another time,) is absolutely ready and holding him back would serve more harm than good. And, in case you thought we had both sides of the "debate" covered, enter Pop; Pop, who, as Coulter would say is his "only g'pa still on the ground," thinks we should have sent him last year, his grandson being a genius and all!
So, with all these opinions, what's a Mother to do? (Ughm, I mean what are his parents to do?) In Kindermusik we encourage parents "to follow the child." And truthfully, what better choice is there? Instead of generically following a birth date, perhaps we should simply follow the child. Please don't get me wrong. I'm in no hurry for this to happen. I wish it could be "follow the parent." Because if that were the case, we'd keep him home for sure. I'm not ready for Kindergarten. I'm not ready for him to be gone all day. I'm not ready to give up traveling with no regard to school schedules. I'm not ready to give up afternoon play dates and morning Kindermusik. I'm not ready to give the better part of our day to some other woman (or man, except that I already know it will be a woman....a stranger, really.) I'm not ready to start folders and packets and PTA. I'm not ready, but he is. And so it goes.
Last week Coulter overheard me ask Pam if she could stay late on the evening of Coulter's Kindergarten Round-Up so that we wouldn't have to take Emma Claire. Later that night during our reading, snuggling, back-scratching, tucking-in bedtime routine, Coulter informed me that we didn't need Pam because grown-ups don't go to Kindergarten Round-Up. "We go by ourselves and then parents go later, on a different night." I explained that, sadly enough, Harvey Dunn invites parents and children to come together. "Oh," Silence. "Well, can you and Daddy at least wait outside?"
Yes, he is ready. Yes, he is going. And as for me? Well, I still I have about 5 months. Regardless, it can pretty much be summed up with a good game of Hide and Seek. "READY OR NOT, MOM! HERE IT COMES!"
I was picking him up from a play date when the glove incident occurred. When we got into the car, I very calmly and gently (right!) explained that in our family, we don't cry about clothes. We don't cry about gloves.We cry when we're hurt. There was no reaction to my inspired mommy speech, save for more crying. Finally, having reached the pinnacle of my patience, I interrupted with a little white lie: "Coulter, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I had planned to take you to McDonald's for lunch only now, because of your poor choices, we don't get to go." More crying. Sobbing. And then, after a little while, the crying slowed, then stopped. Silence. Total silence.
Now, here's how the remainder of the conversation played out:
C: "Mom, Wesley hit me today."
M: "Coulter, I'm so sorry. That must have hurt, but I'm sure it was an accident."
C: "It wasn't an accident. It was on purpose."
M: "Oh, well, that must have hurt your feelings."
C: "It did."
More silence and the slight hint of a smile on my face because I so knew where this was going.
C: "Mom, that's why I was crying before. It wasn't about the gloves." (I mean, come on, who cries about gloves, right?) "It was about Wesley hitting me."
M: "Oh, well, I can see where that would make you sad."
Silence. Waiting.
C: "Mom, since I was crying about getting hit and NOT about the gloves, may we please still get to go to
Mc Donald's, you know, since I was crying about being hurt?"
Bam! And there it was! Now, I know what you're thinking. Surely she held strong. Surely she didn't give into his blatant manipulation. Are you kidding? Of course I did. I figured that any 3 year old who could come up with that wild tale (and if you knew how sweet and gentle Wesley is then you'd know just how wild it was,) definitely deserved a happy meal. I also knew, if perhaps not at that exact moment, but after several of those sorts of moments that we would be sending Coulter to Kindergarten sooner rather than later.
The problem, (if there is one,) is that Coulter has a May birthday. Not really in the Spring, where most parents I know send, but not really a Summer birthday either, where most parents I know wait. As you're probably aware, opinions run strong when it comes "to send or not to send." Even (or perhaps, especially) within our own family, we have a plethora of opinions. Coulter's grandma thinks 5 years olds should not go to Kindergarten. Period. She has, understandably, based this opinion on the successful experiences of her first 4 grandchildren who went at age 6. I get this. Why mess with a formula that's working? Coulter's other Grandmother, a life long educator, believes that her first born grandson (who, now technically is her 4th born grandson which is a very long story I'll reserve for another time,) is absolutely ready and holding him back would serve more harm than good. And, in case you thought we had both sides of the "debate" covered, enter Pop; Pop, who, as Coulter would say is his "only g'pa still on the ground," thinks we should have sent him last year, his grandson being a genius and all!
So, with all these opinions, what's a Mother to do? (Ughm, I mean what are his parents to do?) In Kindermusik we encourage parents "to follow the child." And truthfully, what better choice is there? Instead of generically following a birth date, perhaps we should simply follow the child. Please don't get me wrong. I'm in no hurry for this to happen. I wish it could be "follow the parent." Because if that were the case, we'd keep him home for sure. I'm not ready for Kindergarten. I'm not ready for him to be gone all day. I'm not ready to give up traveling with no regard to school schedules. I'm not ready to give up afternoon play dates and morning Kindermusik. I'm not ready to give the better part of our day to some other woman (or man, except that I already know it will be a woman....a stranger, really.) I'm not ready to start folders and packets and PTA. I'm not ready, but he is. And so it goes.
Last week Coulter overheard me ask Pam if she could stay late on the evening of Coulter's Kindergarten Round-Up so that we wouldn't have to take Emma Claire. Later that night during our reading, snuggling, back-scratching, tucking-in bedtime routine, Coulter informed me that we didn't need Pam because grown-ups don't go to Kindergarten Round-Up. "We go by ourselves and then parents go later, on a different night." I explained that, sadly enough, Harvey Dunn invites parents and children to come together. "Oh," Silence. "Well, can you and Daddy at least wait outside?"
Yes, he is ready. Yes, he is going. And as for me? Well, I still I have about 5 months. Regardless, it can pretty much be summed up with a good game of Hide and Seek. "READY OR NOT, MOM! HERE IT COMES!"
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