Last night I dreamt (dreamed?) that I was on a playground surrounded by children when all of a sudden we were being attacked by wild animals. There were baby elephants, tigers, and lions. (Evidently this playground was in Africa.) I woke up exhausted from running and in a panic because instead of saving my child from these ferocious beasts, I ran like a scared little kitten to the safety of the school. To be honest, I’m really not sure how Coulter faired.
O.K., I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist or anything close, but you don’t have to be too smart to figure this one out. Coulter starts kindergarten on Monday and let me just say to all those would-be wild animals (even the baby elephant ones) who even think of trying to torment (or more to the point, corrupt) my sweet boy, this Mama Bear will not run. She will come after you. As a matter of fact, I have discovered a side street in which I can park my van and watch the children at recess. I just very well might become “that mother.”
Also last night, before the sleeping and the dreaming, I had a work event that finished a little before I had planned. Instead of going straight home I went for ice cream and drove to Coulter’s school where I sat in a swing, ate my ice cream filled with chocolate and cried my eyes out. After a few minutes, people began staring and I became worried that someone might call the police, so I politely threw the evidence of my indulgence and drove calmly home. I expected the children to already be asleep but as soon as I walked in I heard screams of “Mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Mommyyyyyyyyy!” As if that weren’t enough, I could also hear Coulter saying, “Dad, I actually think she wants Mom.”
While, I do truly love those rare times that I come home and the children are all nestled in and fast asleep, I love even more the nights that we snuggle together, read books, sing songs and say our prayers. I was secretly pleased that I was needed because I think at the root of all these kindergarten tears is this inner knowledge that while he still needs me....he will always need me……he won’t need me in the Emma Claire “Mommyyyyyyyyyy!” kind of way. It’s such a surreal experience and one that obviously almost all parents go through and yet it feels like surely no one else could be experiencing it in quite this same way. Even my own mother told me that she didn’t cry after dropping off my sister or me to kindergarten---only our younger brother. Uhm, gee thanks, Mom!
The truth is we’ve spent the past 5 years shielding, protecting, and nurturing. We’ve researched and paid top dollar for the best pre-school teachers in the city. We’ve had our “Pammy” so that he wouldn’t be exposed to the “elements” of day care, whatever that means. Basically, we’ve been in complete and total control. And now, in this crazy messed up society of ours, I’m just supposed to drop him off at school on Monday where he will begin to spend the better part of each day with total strangers. Strange grown-ups. Strange children. Strange custodians. Strange food. Strange parents. Strangers! Come to think of it, why are we teaching our children to be afraid of strangers? We seriously have to go back and revise the hammered home message of stranger/danger and I’ve got less than 48 hours in which to do so!
As I said,almost all parents go through this and for those that don’t it pretty much means they’ve decided to homeschool. I have lots of great, great friends who homeschool and do so successfully and yet I also know I could never do it. My friend Debi lives in Cameroon as a missionary with her husband and 5 children. Home schooling makes sense for her. My friend, Jenna, has children with health problems and severe allergies and it makes sense for her. I have friends who homeschool for religious and spiritual reasons and friends who are concerned about the quality of public education. But there is one more category that I never even thought of until now. I am here to tell you that parents are home schooling because they don’t want to send their children to kindergarten. I know this because as incapable as I am of homeschooling my children (much the same way that I would be incapable of having 5 children, much less moving them to Africa to minster to a dying nation;) even I have given it great thought over the past few weeks. And yet logic resurfaces from time to time and in the end I know we are "to be in the world and not of it;" in the end I know I will, with a joyful (albeit breaking) heart, take Coulter to kindergarten. I will smile and hug and encourage and will save my tears for the drive home.
Our dear friend, Deb, a gifted writer just sent her youngest son to college. She posted on facebook last week, “It’s not that I’m sending him around the world, it’s that I’m sending him.” Harvey Dunn Elementary is a mile from our home (and don’t forget about the secret street for spying) and yet it’s not that he’s going around the world or even across town; it’s that he’s going.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Several weeks ago Coulter and I were making our way down the back steps that lead into our church. I like to go the back way because I can sneak Coulter into Sunday School without actually checking in. It’s not that I mind checking him in, it’s that I always forget my little card that they swipe and I don’t like having to admit that, once again, I have no card. I know it’s wrong, but I basically live under the assumption that there are certain rules that simply don’t apply to me and this is one of those rules. I also like going the back way because Coulter thinks it’s our super secret shortcut and for those few minutes on Sunday morning I feel like a really cool Mom for having figured out such a top-secret entrance!
On this particular Sunday, though, we were racing down the stairs when Coulter stopped with a jerk and said, “Mom! Look! It’s a robin’s egg.” I looked down and there lay a cracked (almost crushed) blue robin’s egg and my heart sank. “Oh Coulter, how sad.” “Ma-aaahmm,” Coulter replied with a voice oozing frustration, “It’s not sad. The baby bird cracked out and flew away. That’s what they’re supposed to do” Well, duh! Of course that’s what happened. Or at least that’s a much nicer ending to the story! When had I become such a realist? And what is a realist, anyway? It’s just a nice word for pessimist.
Baby bird, aside, I’ve always been an optimistic person and I come by it quite naturally. My parents were always glass half-full people. Come to think of it, they are more like glass totally full. Someone has cancer? It’s the “good” kind. I mean if you’re going to have cancer this is the kind you want. Someone lost their job? It’s a victory; now they can go out and have the job they really want. Someone gets busted for drugs? Praise the Lord, now maybe he will have a chance to turn his life around. This is the kind of optimism that I grew up with; an optimism grounded in faith and Biblical truths.
Once upon a time I’m sure that I, too, would have seen a baby bird flying around. Where was my child-like faith and heart bursting with optimism? My new pessimistic outlook came back to haunt me again last weekend at the starting line of a 10 mile run. At the time I signed up it seemed like a great idea. On the morning of the run, however, it seemed like a hazy drug-induced idea. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles for the past 3 years and now all of a sudden I think I’m going to pull a 10? To further shake my confidence, there was a spandex-clad, perfectly fit woman next to me (seriously, how can anyone be that tan the 1st weekend in June. This is South Dakota!) Anyway, she mentioned that there were only 55 people signed up to run. Math might not be a strong area for me, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out those are some pretty high odds for coming in last. Usually there are hundreds and thousands of runners at these races and I enjoy the anonymity of it all. Well, not today. Today I knew several people; people from work, people from church; fast people, fit people, tan and beautiful people and I all I could think about was coming in last.
I was so consumed with coming in last that at mile 3 ½ I began to count the runners on their way back. 30, 32, 45…. Yep, I’m gonna be last. Now, in my heart, I know it doesn’t matter whether I came in first or last. All that matters is that I’m a 37 year-old mother of 2 and I’m out there running 10 miles. I know this and yet what really bothers me isn’t coming in last (although just for the record I was 41st out of what ended up being 49 finishers, thank you very much.) What bothers me is the fact that I totally believed I would be last. That’s realism; that’s pessimism. Not to over-do the story book theme, but once upon a time I would have insanely believed that I could have come in first and if I hadn’t I would have believed that the other 40 runners must have just had their best day ever! And if my Dad happened to be at the race, he would have convinced me that the race was in some way rigged. I mean that’s the only way his daughter isn’t going to win the race. And you know what, I would have believed him. And you know what else? I miss that spirit of optimism. I know, though, that I can catch it again. Beyond blessed are those moment watching Coulter and Emma Claire with their trusting spirits and child-like faith (the kind of faith that we are all called to have,) and I never again want to squish a baby bird’s life out of my son’s imagination.
Last summer I judged the Miss Arkansas Pageant, a pre-lim to Miss America and one of the young ladies in her interview made a comment that really stuck with me. She said, “Ma’am, I don’t care if my glass is half empty or half full. I’m just so happy to have a glass.” Sure, some days my glass seems more full than others, like the days that I remember ALL of Emma Claire’s clothes and the days where I believe I can run to the moon and back, but even for those less-than-full days, (like when some 20 year-old on her way to Miss America calls you "Ma'am") I am overflowing with gratitude and am just so happy to have a glass! Cheers!
On this particular Sunday, though, we were racing down the stairs when Coulter stopped with a jerk and said, “Mom! Look! It’s a robin’s egg.” I looked down and there lay a cracked (almost crushed) blue robin’s egg and my heart sank. “Oh Coulter, how sad.” “Ma-aaahmm,” Coulter replied with a voice oozing frustration, “It’s not sad. The baby bird cracked out and flew away. That’s what they’re supposed to do” Well, duh! Of course that’s what happened. Or at least that’s a much nicer ending to the story! When had I become such a realist? And what is a realist, anyway? It’s just a nice word for pessimist.
Baby bird, aside, I’ve always been an optimistic person and I come by it quite naturally. My parents were always glass half-full people. Come to think of it, they are more like glass totally full. Someone has cancer? It’s the “good” kind. I mean if you’re going to have cancer this is the kind you want. Someone lost their job? It’s a victory; now they can go out and have the job they really want. Someone gets busted for drugs? Praise the Lord, now maybe he will have a chance to turn his life around. This is the kind of optimism that I grew up with; an optimism grounded in faith and Biblical truths.
Once upon a time I’m sure that I, too, would have seen a baby bird flying around. Where was my child-like faith and heart bursting with optimism? My new pessimistic outlook came back to haunt me again last weekend at the starting line of a 10 mile run. At the time I signed up it seemed like a great idea. On the morning of the run, however, it seemed like a hazy drug-induced idea. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles for the past 3 years and now all of a sudden I think I’m going to pull a 10? To further shake my confidence, there was a spandex-clad, perfectly fit woman next to me (seriously, how can anyone be that tan the 1st weekend in June. This is South Dakota!) Anyway, she mentioned that there were only 55 people signed up to run. Math might not be a strong area for me, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out those are some pretty high odds for coming in last. Usually there are hundreds and thousands of runners at these races and I enjoy the anonymity of it all. Well, not today. Today I knew several people; people from work, people from church; fast people, fit people, tan and beautiful people and I all I could think about was coming in last.
I was so consumed with coming in last that at mile 3 ½ I began to count the runners on their way back. 30, 32, 45…. Yep, I’m gonna be last. Now, in my heart, I know it doesn’t matter whether I came in first or last. All that matters is that I’m a 37 year-old mother of 2 and I’m out there running 10 miles. I know this and yet what really bothers me isn’t coming in last (although just for the record I was 41st out of what ended up being 49 finishers, thank you very much.) What bothers me is the fact that I totally believed I would be last. That’s realism; that’s pessimism. Not to over-do the story book theme, but once upon a time I would have insanely believed that I could have come in first and if I hadn’t I would have believed that the other 40 runners must have just had their best day ever! And if my Dad happened to be at the race, he would have convinced me that the race was in some way rigged. I mean that’s the only way his daughter isn’t going to win the race. And you know what, I would have believed him. And you know what else? I miss that spirit of optimism. I know, though, that I can catch it again. Beyond blessed are those moment watching Coulter and Emma Claire with their trusting spirits and child-like faith (the kind of faith that we are all called to have,) and I never again want to squish a baby bird’s life out of my son’s imagination.
Last summer I judged the Miss Arkansas Pageant, a pre-lim to Miss America and one of the young ladies in her interview made a comment that really stuck with me. She said, “Ma’am, I don’t care if my glass is half empty or half full. I’m just so happy to have a glass.” Sure, some days my glass seems more full than others, like the days that I remember ALL of Emma Claire’s clothes and the days where I believe I can run to the moon and back, but even for those less-than-full days, (like when some 20 year-old on her way to Miss America calls you "Ma'am") I am overflowing with gratitude and am just so happy to have a glass! Cheers!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Time to Brush Your Teeth!
What an exciting week this has been! After basically non-stop birthday celebrations for the past 2 weeks, Coulter started his very first week at big-boy day camp. He’s out the door by 7:30, backpack in hand wearing whatever “cool” shirt is deemed necessary for the day and his KEENS which, according to him, are water-proof, creek-proof and swamp-proof. This was very important to him, you know, because we spend so much time in swamps! So important, in fact, that he asked the salesperson to verify all the different levels of “proofs!” As a camper, he’s gone from 4 year old preschooler to 10 year old Kindergartner in a matter of a few short days. In a way, this new morning routine feels a little like Kindergarten dress rehearsal. To be sure, our lazy mornings at home are coming to an end. So far, everything is going well except for the occasional drama over clothing and for the almost impossible task of remembering to brush our teeth.
This is a really hard thing for me to understand because the first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth. Well, it’s the first thing I do after realizing that pleading, “Please go back to sleep. It’s still night-night time!” isn’t going to work. It didn’t work yesterday. It didn’t work today and it’s not going to work tomorrow. I’m guessing that most of you wait until after you’ve had breakfast to brush your teeth but I recently read that bacteria starts growing right….oh, never mind. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine.
Now, not to totally change the subject, but brushing my teeth, in a very weird way, actually reminds me of 9/11. As the events were unfolding that morning, we decided it was best for the children and their families to stick with the routine of classes. We were just about to sing hello when my friend Nancy came in with her son, Cole. Horrified by the morning’s tragedies and shell-shocked like the rest of us, she announced to everyone that she had forgotten to brush her teeth. Here we are on this day of horror; this day of unspeakable tragedy and fear and all I can think about is, “Oh My Gosh! How could someone forget to brush their teeth?” So now, when people talk about where they were or what they were doing on that horrific day, I remember simply that my brother was in NYC and we hadn’t heard from him, and I remember that Cole’s mother forgot to brush her teeth.
O.K., sorry for the little diversion; now back to Coulter. Even though he’s acting 10, he is in fact 5 and we think that he’s old enough to take on more responsibilities in the morning. This has been met with mixed results:
“Coulter! Time to brush your teeth, please.”
“O.K., Mom”
No water and no brushing. Hmmmm….. I go to his room to check on him and I find him going through his underwear tub (we have tubs, not drawers; don’t’ ask!) contemplating the differences between boxers and tighty-whiteys.
“Coulter, honey, sweet pie, have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Oh, man, I forgot. Right on it!”
He makes his way to the bathroom. Still no water; no brushing. I don’t want to be a helicopter mom, but teeth are kind of important so I check again. This time, I find him sitting on the counter with all of his toothbrushes and every tub of paste lined up and engaged in some kind of intergalactic shoot out with space aliens.
By now I’m starting to become a little dis-regulated (which is just my fun therapy word for totally freaking out!”) “Coulter, PLEASE brush your teeth! NOW!” To which he replies, “Oh sure thing, Mom, I just forgot.”
As a mom, I don’t understand how this can be so hard and to be honest, it scares me a little to think about leaving the house every morning at 7:30. We seriously aren’t going to have time for world issues like, “Are these real boxers?” And will Colgate Watermelon be able to save planet Earth.
Now, sorry for yet another diversion in our story, but last week I was out for a run and I was thinking about Coulter’s teeth and sun block and Kindergarten and basically any issue that I fear falling short and I noticed a couple up ahead of me, probably in their mid-50’s, pushing a baby stroller. Could be parents in today’s world, I thought, or maybe grandparents. No way to be sure. Then I saw the woman lovingly reach into the stroller and pull out her baby. Only, it wasn’t a baby; it was a dog. Now this is probably completely normal. People probably walk their dogs in baby strollers all the time and I’m just completely out of the loop but I was seriously taken aback and it actually sent me down a whole other train of thought about a Dateline episode that featured women, who, unable to have children, collected these very expensive dolls that looked completely life-like. They would dress them, feed them, change them and yes even stroll around town pretending that they were real. I became so distracted by the dog and the visions of baby dolls that I veered onto a different trail and somehow managed to get lost on a simple out and back run. All of a sudden I emerged from this tree lined trail to see a busy street and a huge CONOCO sign. It might as well have said, “Gotcha!” I felt in that moment that God served up a small dose of humility for dear ‘ol Mom. Because while I’d like to blame Coulter’s seemingly inability to walk the 10 steps from the breakfast table to the bathroom without becoming totally distracted by the imaginative world in his head on the “boys will be boys” theory, it is much more likely a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Humbling, indeed and yet I’m grateful for the reminder.
Humility has to be a part of parenting. Remembering, that while we are doing our best; while we are trying to be a reflection of God’s love to our children, we are not, or at least I’m not, anywhere close to perfect and we shouldn’t expect them to be either. Respecting our children and their imaginations, their creations, and their own unique timelines has to be part of the deal.
Sunday, we will have yet another birthday celebration for Coulter. None of the gifts that he receives, though, can compare with the gift of being his Mother and when I reflect on the blessing of his life I give thanks to God for the special knowledge He gives all parents….the knowledge and the absolute certainty that this child, your child on loan from God is by far the most intelligent, the most creative, the most talented and the most precious young boy to walk this earth (even if he does have smelly breath!)
This is a really hard thing for me to understand because the first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth. Well, it’s the first thing I do after realizing that pleading, “Please go back to sleep. It’s still night-night time!” isn’t going to work. It didn’t work yesterday. It didn’t work today and it’s not going to work tomorrow. I’m guessing that most of you wait until after you’ve had breakfast to brush your teeth but I recently read that bacteria starts growing right….oh, never mind. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine.
Now, not to totally change the subject, but brushing my teeth, in a very weird way, actually reminds me of 9/11. As the events were unfolding that morning, we decided it was best for the children and their families to stick with the routine of classes. We were just about to sing hello when my friend Nancy came in with her son, Cole. Horrified by the morning’s tragedies and shell-shocked like the rest of us, she announced to everyone that she had forgotten to brush her teeth. Here we are on this day of horror; this day of unspeakable tragedy and fear and all I can think about is, “Oh My Gosh! How could someone forget to brush their teeth?” So now, when people talk about where they were or what they were doing on that horrific day, I remember simply that my brother was in NYC and we hadn’t heard from him, and I remember that Cole’s mother forgot to brush her teeth.
O.K., sorry for the little diversion; now back to Coulter. Even though he’s acting 10, he is in fact 5 and we think that he’s old enough to take on more responsibilities in the morning. This has been met with mixed results:
“Coulter! Time to brush your teeth, please.”
“O.K., Mom”
No water and no brushing. Hmmmm….. I go to his room to check on him and I find him going through his underwear tub (we have tubs, not drawers; don’t’ ask!) contemplating the differences between boxers and tighty-whiteys.
“Coulter, honey, sweet pie, have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Oh, man, I forgot. Right on it!”
He makes his way to the bathroom. Still no water; no brushing. I don’t want to be a helicopter mom, but teeth are kind of important so I check again. This time, I find him sitting on the counter with all of his toothbrushes and every tub of paste lined up and engaged in some kind of intergalactic shoot out with space aliens.
By now I’m starting to become a little dis-regulated (which is just my fun therapy word for totally freaking out!”) “Coulter, PLEASE brush your teeth! NOW!” To which he replies, “Oh sure thing, Mom, I just forgot.”
As a mom, I don’t understand how this can be so hard and to be honest, it scares me a little to think about leaving the house every morning at 7:30. We seriously aren’t going to have time for world issues like, “Are these real boxers?” And will Colgate Watermelon be able to save planet Earth.
Now, sorry for yet another diversion in our story, but last week I was out for a run and I was thinking about Coulter’s teeth and sun block and Kindergarten and basically any issue that I fear falling short and I noticed a couple up ahead of me, probably in their mid-50’s, pushing a baby stroller. Could be parents in today’s world, I thought, or maybe grandparents. No way to be sure. Then I saw the woman lovingly reach into the stroller and pull out her baby. Only, it wasn’t a baby; it was a dog. Now this is probably completely normal. People probably walk their dogs in baby strollers all the time and I’m just completely out of the loop but I was seriously taken aback and it actually sent me down a whole other train of thought about a Dateline episode that featured women, who, unable to have children, collected these very expensive dolls that looked completely life-like. They would dress them, feed them, change them and yes even stroll around town pretending that they were real. I became so distracted by the dog and the visions of baby dolls that I veered onto a different trail and somehow managed to get lost on a simple out and back run. All of a sudden I emerged from this tree lined trail to see a busy street and a huge CONOCO sign. It might as well have said, “Gotcha!” I felt in that moment that God served up a small dose of humility for dear ‘ol Mom. Because while I’d like to blame Coulter’s seemingly inability to walk the 10 steps from the breakfast table to the bathroom without becoming totally distracted by the imaginative world in his head on the “boys will be boys” theory, it is much more likely a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Humbling, indeed and yet I’m grateful for the reminder.
Humility has to be a part of parenting. Remembering, that while we are doing our best; while we are trying to be a reflection of God’s love to our children, we are not, or at least I’m not, anywhere close to perfect and we shouldn’t expect them to be either. Respecting our children and their imaginations, their creations, and their own unique timelines has to be part of the deal.
Sunday, we will have yet another birthday celebration for Coulter. None of the gifts that he receives, though, can compare with the gift of being his Mother and when I reflect on the blessing of his life I give thanks to God for the special knowledge He gives all parents….the knowledge and the absolute certainty that this child, your child on loan from God is by far the most intelligent, the most creative, the most talented and the most precious young boy to walk this earth (even if he does have smelly breath!)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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!
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!
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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