The first snowfall of the season. It began last night, the white fluff piling up rapidly in between dinner and bath time. Bean-girl scooped up a cup of snow from the back deck, and she and Legume poked at it with their fingers and squealed. This morning we opened our eyes to a powdered sugar wonderland. “Look, Snow Forest came back!” I said to Bean-girl, pointing to the small stand of trees in our back yard which changes monikers with the season—from “Spring Forest” to plain “Forest” to “Fall Forest” and now “Snow Forest” again. (Bean-girl is responsible for these names). “Yeah, Snow Forest is back!” she cried.
Poor Husband took the snow blower out for a spin and it promptly died, a wire snapping before he could even clear two lengths of the driveway. He shoveled clear a path by hand and came back into the house huffing and puffing and soaked with sweat. I was scheduled to give lab journal club, and rushed out into snow, leaving him to deal with the two kids. The snow kept falling, and I realized it was nearly white-out conditions. Cars crawled. Halfway to work, I realized that the schools might well be canceled, and that lab meeting might well be canceled, too. I pulled into a suspiciously (near) empty parking garage. Sure enough, a quick check of e-mail on my computer told me that lab meeting had been pushed back until Monday. And the public schools were closed, too. It was still an official work day at the institute, but there was no work for me to do. I sent off a quick e-mail to my boss, tried and failed to get in touch with Husband, and drove slowly back home (more white-out! Cars on the side of the road!) By the time I finally got in touch with him, I learned that he’d brought Bean-girl into work with him and had dropped Legume off at her daycare (which had remained open). He had the afternoon off, and would bring Bean-girl back home for lunch.
What does a mother do with an unexpected morning off? Stand frozen with the shock of it all. Then grab a shovel and finish clearing out the driveway. I had just finished when Husband turned up with Bean-girl in tow. He, too, was taking off early from work. Obsessed with the broken snow blower, he went on the Internet to track down parts and then drove 14 miles (in terrible road conditions) to track down the replacement wire and belt. Indulgent and lazy mom that I am, I let Bean-girl watch “Polar Express” for the third time. Later, I bundled her up in snowpants and coat so that she looked like the Marshmallow Man. She plowed through drifts with her body like a little human snow plow, giggled, and fell on all fours to make her own bizarre versions of snow angels. Hot chocolate after and then more “Polar Express.” Bean-dad fixed his snow blower and fetched Legume early from daycare. Gnocchi with roasted squash and asiago cheese sauce for dinner. Family time on the couch in front of the tv (yes, I know, we watch—or rather, the kids watch—too much tv). Bath, bed.
The snow seems to have finally stopped for the night. The sky is lit with the pearled luminescence of a snow-lit evening. The kids are asleep; Husband has fallen asleep with them, and I have this time all to myself. Finally. Our Christmas tree is up, the stockings hung. Christmas is only a few weeks away.
The truth is that I hate the snow. All through the fall we Midwesterners start griping about the coming winter. “I hate snow!” Bean-girl told us a few days ago. But yesterday her eyes shone when she saw the first snowfall of the season. And today she loved it.
I felt that way, too.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Nemesis, grudge
I hold grudges.
I remember the little insults. The negative remarks. You may say a dozen sweet things to make up for it, but I will forget them all. Only the occasional stray thoughtless remark burns in my memory, taking on increasing weight with the years.
My older daughter is a girl after my heart. She holds grudges, too. She is only five years old, but her memory is long.
There is a boy at school whom she hates. She despises this boy. He took a glue stick from her during the first week of class. She will never forgive. They were sitting side by side, engaged in an art project. He asked her if he could borrow the glue stick; she gave it to him; after a few minutes, she asked for it back. He refused. She cried and cried. The teacher came over to see what the problem was and the Bean-girl, hysterical, could not explain. The teacher gave her a hole punch in her daily “Great Day card,” signifying a “Tough Day.” Bean-girl was appalled, and kindergarten pretty much went downhill from there.
(Note: kindergarten is actually going much better now. Thanks for all the supportive remarks! I will never hold anything against you, fair readers.)
I still do not know the boy’s name, but Bean-girl refers to him as the “mean boy.” He always does “mean things” to her. In truth, as far as my husband and I can determine, there has only been one other incident of “meaness.” Bean-girl’s class was spending a week on the concept of patterns—looking for patterns in the world, making and designing their own patterns. They were cutting and gluing shapes on a strip of paper to make their own patterns. The mean boy told Bean-girl that her pattern was not actually a pattern. This was obviously a very mean thing to say, because it was a pattern! But Bean-girl showed us her strip of paper, and well, that little boy was right. My Husband and I could not discern a pattern in the string of cut-out shapes she presented us. If it was a pattern, it was on a scale that we could not see.
So on the weight of two tiny incidents, Bean-girl has declared a nemesis for life.
“Why does that mean boy say that he likes me, but does mean things to me?” Bean-girl asked one morning while putting on her shoes.
“He says that he likes you?” I repeated.
She nodded. “He says that he likes me but he does mean things!”
“He told you that he likes you?” I say again, just to be clear.
She nodded, exasperated with my dimwittedness.
“Well…” I said slowly. “Sometimes boys like you but don’t know how to show it in the right way. So it comes off as kind of mean.”
“When they get older, will they learn to show it better?”
“Usually, Bean-girl.”
I haven’t heard much about “the mean boy” lately, and I wonder how he’s doing and if Bean-girl and he have interacted lately.
They do get better about showing how they like you, Bean-girl. But yeah, when they mess up and it comes out wrong—I get plenty mad, too.
I remember the little insults. The negative remarks. You may say a dozen sweet things to make up for it, but I will forget them all. Only the occasional stray thoughtless remark burns in my memory, taking on increasing weight with the years.
My older daughter is a girl after my heart. She holds grudges, too. She is only five years old, but her memory is long.
There is a boy at school whom she hates. She despises this boy. He took a glue stick from her during the first week of class. She will never forgive. They were sitting side by side, engaged in an art project. He asked her if he could borrow the glue stick; she gave it to him; after a few minutes, she asked for it back. He refused. She cried and cried. The teacher came over to see what the problem was and the Bean-girl, hysterical, could not explain. The teacher gave her a hole punch in her daily “Great Day card,” signifying a “Tough Day.” Bean-girl was appalled, and kindergarten pretty much went downhill from there.
(Note: kindergarten is actually going much better now. Thanks for all the supportive remarks! I will never hold anything against you, fair readers.)
I still do not know the boy’s name, but Bean-girl refers to him as the “mean boy.” He always does “mean things” to her. In truth, as far as my husband and I can determine, there has only been one other incident of “meaness.” Bean-girl’s class was spending a week on the concept of patterns—looking for patterns in the world, making and designing their own patterns. They were cutting and gluing shapes on a strip of paper to make their own patterns. The mean boy told Bean-girl that her pattern was not actually a pattern. This was obviously a very mean thing to say, because it was a pattern! But Bean-girl showed us her strip of paper, and well, that little boy was right. My Husband and I could not discern a pattern in the string of cut-out shapes she presented us. If it was a pattern, it was on a scale that we could not see.
So on the weight of two tiny incidents, Bean-girl has declared a nemesis for life.
“Why does that mean boy say that he likes me, but does mean things to me?” Bean-girl asked one morning while putting on her shoes.
“He says that he likes you?” I repeated.
She nodded. “He says that he likes me but he does mean things!”
“He told you that he likes you?” I say again, just to be clear.
She nodded, exasperated with my dimwittedness.
“Well…” I said slowly. “Sometimes boys like you but don’t know how to show it in the right way. So it comes off as kind of mean.”
“When they get older, will they learn to show it better?”
“Usually, Bean-girl.”
I haven’t heard much about “the mean boy” lately, and I wonder how he’s doing and if Bean-girl and he have interacted lately.
They do get better about showing how they like you, Bean-girl. But yeah, when they mess up and it comes out wrong—I get plenty mad, too.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Bean-girl's 5th birthday, mother-in-law visit
This morning I still found helium balloons in strange places. One balloon hung limply from a window shade. Another was tied to the vacuum cleaner in the corner of our kitchen, the balloon's long blue ribbon wound around and around the vacuum's handle. Balloon in various states of deflation bobbed and sank in the living room. Yesterday afternoon I peeked at Legume during her nap. "Awwww," I said to my husband when I came downstairs. "Legume fell asleep cuddled with balloons!"
"What!" said Husband. "I took them away from her!"
Bean-girl smiled. "I put them on Legume!" she said.
"Why on earth did you do that?" we asked.
"I put them on her to make her look cute!"
"You sneaked into the room and put balloons on top of Legume to make her look cute?"
Bean-girl nodded.
That's the kind of thing that happens around here....
********************
The balloons are left over from Bean-girl's fifth birthday party. Her actual birthday was a week ago, but her children's party was this past weekend. Seven children (five kindergartener/preschoolers and two toddlers) took over the craft studio of our favorite independent artsy flaming-liberal (for this corner of the Midwest)toystore. They decorated a birthday banner, made hats, paraded about the store, then made pizza and frosted cupcakes in the adjoining cafe. Bean-girl's best friend had a little meltdown at the sight of kids that she didn't know, but eventually cheered up (pink frosting has that effect). Bean-girl beamed nearly the entire time.
"Amah"--the children's paternal grandmother--was there for the party. She was here for ten days, and it was, ahem, rather trying at times. Let us just say there are gulfs of generational and cultural opinion. And although my own mother shares some of "Amah's" ethnicity, the two are really polar opposites in almost all ways... except for in those really really annoying ways in which they AREN'T.
"So, Bean-girl," Husband said after he'd dropped his mother off at the airport. "Did you like having Amah around?"
Bean-girl gave us a dazzling smile. "Raise your hand if you don't like Amah!" she said, and raised her own hand high.
Husband and I burst out laughing. He is well aware of how difficult his mother can be--he has, after all, known her his entire life. She made Bean-girl cry while she was here (scolding and trying to shame her) and she said that Legume had the face of a Chinese peasant (not a compliment).
Husband immediately got on the phone to his sister to relate Bean-girl's remark. His sister's children are themselves petrified of their grandmother. Instead of laughing at Bean-girl's comment, Husband's sister responded with a worried "Oh, I knew she'd been there a while. I was wondering how you were getting on."
"Oh, it's fine," Husband laughed. "She [Amah] gets everyone else all riled up, but I'm fine."
Yeah, my husband is, seriously, a very model of equanimity. I suppose he had his training early, and although the results are admirable that perfect even-keeledness can also be freaking annoying.
***************
Bean-girl still has rough moments at school. She's clearly well-liked by her classmates--she has so many friends. She comes home chattering about a new game or song learned at school, and shows off her awesome art projects. But she still cries many days at drop-off. She almost NEVER cried at drop-off at her old daycare. She says kindergarten is not as much fun as daycare because you have to "sit and listen" instead of having free play. She says that she feels she "has to be perfect" in kindergarten. She doesn't seem to have trouble with the school's Kindercare (the daycare program run in the mornings before p.m. kindergarten). She loves the school's daycare. It's KINDERGARTEN that stresses the Bean-girl out. And I am still at a loss on how to help her through this.
"What!" said Husband. "I took them away from her!"
Bean-girl smiled. "I put them on Legume!" she said.
"Why on earth did you do that?" we asked.
"I put them on her to make her look cute!"
"You sneaked into the room and put balloons on top of Legume to make her look cute?"
Bean-girl nodded.
That's the kind of thing that happens around here....
********************
The balloons are left over from Bean-girl's fifth birthday party. Her actual birthday was a week ago, but her children's party was this past weekend. Seven children (five kindergartener/preschoolers and two toddlers) took over the craft studio of our favorite independent artsy flaming-liberal (for this corner of the Midwest)toystore. They decorated a birthday banner, made hats, paraded about the store, then made pizza and frosted cupcakes in the adjoining cafe. Bean-girl's best friend had a little meltdown at the sight of kids that she didn't know, but eventually cheered up (pink frosting has that effect). Bean-girl beamed nearly the entire time.
"Amah"--the children's paternal grandmother--was there for the party. She was here for ten days, and it was, ahem, rather trying at times. Let us just say there are gulfs of generational and cultural opinion. And although my own mother shares some of "Amah's" ethnicity, the two are really polar opposites in almost all ways... except for in those really really annoying ways in which they AREN'T.
"So, Bean-girl," Husband said after he'd dropped his mother off at the airport. "Did you like having Amah around?"
Bean-girl gave us a dazzling smile. "Raise your hand if you don't like Amah!" she said, and raised her own hand high.
Husband and I burst out laughing. He is well aware of how difficult his mother can be--he has, after all, known her his entire life. She made Bean-girl cry while she was here (scolding and trying to shame her) and she said that Legume had the face of a Chinese peasant (not a compliment).
Husband immediately got on the phone to his sister to relate Bean-girl's remark. His sister's children are themselves petrified of their grandmother. Instead of laughing at Bean-girl's comment, Husband's sister responded with a worried "Oh, I knew she'd been there a while. I was wondering how you were getting on."
"Oh, it's fine," Husband laughed. "She [Amah] gets everyone else all riled up, but I'm fine."
Yeah, my husband is, seriously, a very model of equanimity. I suppose he had his training early, and although the results are admirable that perfect even-keeledness can also be freaking annoying.
***************
Bean-girl still has rough moments at school. She's clearly well-liked by her classmates--she has so many friends. She comes home chattering about a new game or song learned at school, and shows off her awesome art projects. But she still cries many days at drop-off. She almost NEVER cried at drop-off at her old daycare. She says kindergarten is not as much fun as daycare because you have to "sit and listen" instead of having free play. She says that she feels she "has to be perfect" in kindergarten. She doesn't seem to have trouble with the school's Kindercare (the daycare program run in the mornings before p.m. kindergarten). She loves the school's daycare. It's KINDERGARTEN that stresses the Bean-girl out. And I am still at a loss on how to help her through this.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Baby Legume (not really a baby)--28 months.
This is the cute age, a friend said of our two-year old children. Her blond son draws smiles wherever he goes. She holds him with frank adoration. I can hardly keep my hands off my own two-year old Legume. They walk! They run! They even talk! And yet they still have round cheeks, round arms, dimpled thighs. Babies with personalities, babies with (semi) thinking minds!
I’m not a baby, Legume tells me.
She tells me other things, too, not all of which I understand. Did I really hear her sing about going to “the miracle moon?” Or was it “miracle room?” Do you know what your sister is saying? I ask Bean-girl, and Bean-girl, absorbed with a toy, says indifferently, No.
She is fastidious, our Legume. Which is sad, in a way, because she is also so very very sloppy. Which directly contradicts her fastidious intents. I spilled! she screams at dinner as a spoonful of soup slops onto the table. I spilled! she yells when food ends up on her chair and her shirt. She is constantly asking for napkins to clean up. Yesterday our family went out to lunch at a casual restaurant, and Legume mistook the cracks in the booth seat for some kind of spill or marking. Frantically she tried to wipe them away with a napkin. No, no, it’s fine, her father said, and tried to seat her on the cracked seating. Legume screamed in the purest panic that I’ve ever heard. (I rescued her by seating her next to me on my un-cracked seat).
Is it funny? she asks me, holding up a toy or showing me some simple object or action.
Um, okay, maybe a little bit funny, I say.
A little bit funny?
A little bit funny.
Is it a little bit funny?
Just a little bit.
It’s a little bit funny?
Only a little bit.
Is it a little bit funny?
And so on . . .
She is mysterious, this funny funny little girl. How can she eat so much and still be so tiny? What solo game is she playing as she arranges books and toys in complex patterns on the floor? Why does she hate it when I pour water on her head in the bath, but laughs when Bean-girl does it? Why does she erupt into laughter at the scary part of a movie? What on earth goes on behind those glinting black eyes?
Do you understand what she’s saying? I ask Bean-girl again, as Legume repeats a mysterious, incomprehensible phrase.
No, Bean-girl says, again indifferently.
So much for older siblings interpreting for the younger ones. . .
***********************
I haven’t been writing much, lately. I had thought—hoped—that I might have more time when I went to part-time status at my job. But really, once you have kids I think you never have time. Full-time stay-at-home mom, full-time working out-of-the-home mom, part-time working-from-home mom and part-time working-out-of- the-home mom—I’ve been through all the permutations now, and in every single case there STILL IS NO TIME! In some cases there is more time spent with the children, sometimes there is more time for work or home-cooked meals, but THERE IS STILL NEVER ANY PERSONAL TIME!
I admit that I fantasize about personal time. I imagine working out a gym, toning my abs and honing arms like Michelle Obama’s (my husband would be snorting if he were allowed to read this now). I imagine decking myself in the latest fall fashions, becoming one of the stylish, thin women I see and envy on the street. I imagine finally printing out the family photos that are stored in the computer, hanging up pictures and decorating our home to look like a magazine spread or at least like the other suburban bourgeois homes I see. I imagine that I have time to write, that I finally finish this damn short story I’ve been working on. I dream that I write a series of lovely, heart-catching short stories; I publish a book to critical acclaim. And along the way, I succeed in science and publish a few Nature/Science/Cell papers along the way.
And yeah, I imagine that I do all this while still retaining the status (both outward and inward) of “good mommy.”
*********************
Not sure where I’m going with this post. Guess I just wanted to say: I’m still here. I want to try to keep up with your blogs, your lives. I want to have the time to keep up with my own.
I’m not a baby, Legume tells me.
She tells me other things, too, not all of which I understand. Did I really hear her sing about going to “the miracle moon?” Or was it “miracle room?” Do you know what your sister is saying? I ask Bean-girl, and Bean-girl, absorbed with a toy, says indifferently, No.
She is fastidious, our Legume. Which is sad, in a way, because she is also so very very sloppy. Which directly contradicts her fastidious intents. I spilled! she screams at dinner as a spoonful of soup slops onto the table. I spilled! she yells when food ends up on her chair and her shirt. She is constantly asking for napkins to clean up. Yesterday our family went out to lunch at a casual restaurant, and Legume mistook the cracks in the booth seat for some kind of spill or marking. Frantically she tried to wipe them away with a napkin. No, no, it’s fine, her father said, and tried to seat her on the cracked seating. Legume screamed in the purest panic that I’ve ever heard. (I rescued her by seating her next to me on my un-cracked seat).
Is it funny? she asks me, holding up a toy or showing me some simple object or action.
Um, okay, maybe a little bit funny, I say.
A little bit funny?
A little bit funny.
Is it a little bit funny?
Just a little bit.
It’s a little bit funny?
Only a little bit.
Is it a little bit funny?
And so on . . .
She is mysterious, this funny funny little girl. How can she eat so much and still be so tiny? What solo game is she playing as she arranges books and toys in complex patterns on the floor? Why does she hate it when I pour water on her head in the bath, but laughs when Bean-girl does it? Why does she erupt into laughter at the scary part of a movie? What on earth goes on behind those glinting black eyes?
Do you understand what she’s saying? I ask Bean-girl again, as Legume repeats a mysterious, incomprehensible phrase.
No, Bean-girl says, again indifferently.
So much for older siblings interpreting for the younger ones. . .
***********************
I haven’t been writing much, lately. I had thought—hoped—that I might have more time when I went to part-time status at my job. But really, once you have kids I think you never have time. Full-time stay-at-home mom, full-time working out-of-the-home mom, part-time working-from-home mom and part-time working-out-of- the-home mom—I’ve been through all the permutations now, and in every single case there STILL IS NO TIME! In some cases there is more time spent with the children, sometimes there is more time for work or home-cooked meals, but THERE IS STILL NEVER ANY PERSONAL TIME!
I admit that I fantasize about personal time. I imagine working out a gym, toning my abs and honing arms like Michelle Obama’s (my husband would be snorting if he were allowed to read this now). I imagine decking myself in the latest fall fashions, becoming one of the stylish, thin women I see and envy on the street. I imagine finally printing out the family photos that are stored in the computer, hanging up pictures and decorating our home to look like a magazine spread or at least like the other suburban bourgeois homes I see. I imagine that I have time to write, that I finally finish this damn short story I’ve been working on. I dream that I write a series of lovely, heart-catching short stories; I publish a book to critical acclaim. And along the way, I succeed in science and publish a few Nature/Science/Cell papers along the way.
And yeah, I imagine that I do all this while still retaining the status (both outward and inward) of “good mommy.”
*********************
Not sure where I’m going with this post. Guess I just wanted to say: I’m still here. I want to try to keep up with your blogs, your lives. I want to have the time to keep up with my own.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Short comments
--Why are the "Supplemental Data" sections of papers often bigger than the main data sections themselves? And now there are even "Supplemental Discussions" to go along with the "Supplemental Methods" and "Supplemental Data." Somebody please make this stop.
--It's gray and cold. I have the kids bundled in winter-coat mode already. Happily, we are leaving for vacation to Florida tomorrow =)
--Bean-girl still cries when I take her to kindergarten.
--Hopefully, I'll have more interesting things to write when I get back.
--It's gray and cold. I have the kids bundled in winter-coat mode already. Happily, we are leaving for vacation to Florida tomorrow =)
--Bean-girl still cries when I take her to kindergarten.
--Hopefully, I'll have more interesting things to write when I get back.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
New post at The Alternative Scientist!
I have a new post over at The Alternative Scientist! The lovely Emily Monosson has generously agreed to let me post the responses from her survey of a number of different science writers (including yours truly). And if you don't know who Dr. Monosson is, check out her book and blog here.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Growing pains---redshirting is in and we're the outsiders who didn't do it
It doesn’t get easier, more experienced mothers have warned me darkly. As the kids get older, school activities start piling up and it just gets crazier and crazier. The kids still need you—in some ways, they need you even more.
I want to close my ears when these battle-hardened mothers speak, and I want to shout LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
But I’m beginning to understand what they mean.
Bean-girl has only just started kindergarten and our family calendar is booked with school meetings and events to remember; there are still endless forms to fill and a parade fund-raisers to remember. Wow, my husband said, standing in front of the calendar. Yeah, I said grimly. Think of what it will be like when both of them are in school.
And it’s not just the new notes and folders and projects to keep track of… Bean-girl has hit a bit of a rough patch this week. And bean-mom’s confidence has been shaken a bit as well.
The rose is off the bloom, as my husband would say. The first week of kindergarten was filled with the excitement of novelty—there was kindergarten itself, and the “Kinder-care” pre-kindergarten daycare program in the morning (which she says is more fun than actual kindergarten), and then a separate after-care program after 3:30 pm. Bean-girl was shuttled from one room and environment to another and seemed to find it all thrilling. Her very first full day she did something astonishing—she went down the playground’s tall, twisty slide, encouraged by some older school girls in the after-care program who have taken her under their wing. This is the same girl who for years refused to go down even the meekest toddler slide—and suddenly she was happily going down the biggest slide on the playground! Bean-girl seemed to be making new friends easily, and everything was sunlight and roses.
Then the second week rolled around, and it seemed to sink in that she wasn’t going to be seeing her old friends from her old daycare anymore. The novelty began to seem confusing and intimidating. “I miss my old friends,” she said, tearing up in the backseat on the way to her new school. “You’ll see L (her best friend) at ballet this week!” I replied heartily. “But I miss my other friends, too!” Bean-girl replied. Then she began to talk about how she wished she were back at her old preschool/daycare. She said the teachers were nicer there, the kids were more fun, and that she missed the physical look of the room itself.
She was in that daycare/preschool for two solid years. From the ages of 2 to 4. She met her first and best friend in that room, and they grew up there together like sisters.
Bean-girl has already bonded closely with a new girl in her Kinder-care program and already been invited to the birthday party of her new friend. But understandably, she still misses her old school. Last week she had, in her kindergarten teacher’s parlance, a Tough Day, and started crying in frustration about something. And today, when I dropped her off for the afternoon kindergarten session, I asked her to walk down to the classroom herself, following all the other children who were walking by themselves and leaving their mothers in the school lobby. Bean-girl got upset, and before I could even change my mind, the school chaperone took her hand and led her away, saying that she was a big girl who should leave mommy behind (all the other kids have been walking in on their own for days now).
Bean-girl was led away crying.
The school counselor called me at home later that afternoon to let know how Bean-girl was doing. Apparently, the counselor saw Bean-girl crying in the hallway and followed her into the classroom to talk to her and help her calm down. She had a difficult time. She calmed down, but then a stray word set her off again, and she had to spend a little quiet time with the counselor in a separate classroom. It’s perfectly normal, the counselor assured me. I just wanted to let you know how she’s doing. We’re trying to teach her techniques—like taking deep breaths—to bring herself under control. By the way, is she a perfectionist? (She is, I admitted). I thought so, the counselor said. We’ve noticed the way she gets frustrated at some tasks.
All this is feeding into new insecurities raised by a new acquaintance of mine. There is a phenomenon known as “redshirting” where parents deliberately hold their children back from kindergarten an extra year to give them more time to mature. Bean-girl is on the cusp of the cut-off age for kindergarten in our state—she turns five in November, and in our state children who turn five after December are not allowed to enroll in kindergarten. We had the option to put her in the school’s “Young-5s” program instead of regular kindergarten, but we figured she was ready for the real thing. Some people expressed surprise at this, and suggested that we should hold her back, but we shrugged them off.
But most of the kids in the Young-5s program are OLDER than she is. It seems every single kid in the district who has a September birthday or later is enrolled in Young-5s as opposed to kindergarten.
And these are kids who are bright. These are kids who are mature. These are kids who can read and write and are clearly ready for kindergarten. But they are being deliberately held back by their parents for a social advantage.
“Did you know that Bean-girl is the youngest kindergartener in the entire school?” a new acquaintance called to tell me, worried. Worried Acquaintance (let’s call her “A”) helps to put the school directory together, and decided to look up all the children’s birthdays. “I know this is bold of me, but did you think of enrolling her in Young 5s?”
I’ve only just met “A.” She’s the mother of Bean-girl’s new best friend from the school’s daycare program—a very smart girl who is already 5 years old, who stands a full head taller than the Bean-girl, and who is in Young5s instead of kindergarten.
“I know it seems brazen, but I just want to talk to you as one mother to another,” A told me on the phone. “I have older children—my oldest is in high school now. I just want to tell you that this is a VERY competitive school district. We struggled with the decision to put our youngest in kindergarten, because we know she is so bright, but we’re looking ahead to the years down the line. We want her to fit in socially and be able to handle the pressures to come.”
I was taken aback, but I could tell that A was sincerely concerned for her daughter’s new best friend. I thanked her for her concern, and said that while I understood these reasons, I was philosophically opposed to holding a child back just for these social advantages.
“Oh, I hate it too,” the mother responded. “I HATE it. But you have to understand that everyone in this district does it. 99.9%. Everyone.”
And she’s right. It appears that everyone really does do it here.
Have I doomed my Bean-girl by putting her in kindergarten according to the supposedly regular schedule? I don’t think so. I think in the long run she’ll be fine either way—although perhaps I should have thought more about Young5s, and perhaps she would benefit from it. Apparently, Young5s, is the new kindergarten, which makes kindergarten the new first grade and first grade the new second grade… Bean-girl’s kindergarten teacher said she would check to see if a transfer to Young5s is even possible at this stage, just to see. I have a late December birthday myself and was always the youngest student in school. I was shy and socially awkward, but I attribute that more to innate temperament than to the accident of my date of birth.
But it just keeps getting clearer and clearer: school is not what it was when my husband and I went through the system. For both better and worse. And it does not get easier as they get older. The tug of the heart is as painful as ever.
I want to close my ears when these battle-hardened mothers speak, and I want to shout LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
But I’m beginning to understand what they mean.
Bean-girl has only just started kindergarten and our family calendar is booked with school meetings and events to remember; there are still endless forms to fill and a parade fund-raisers to remember. Wow, my husband said, standing in front of the calendar. Yeah, I said grimly. Think of what it will be like when both of them are in school.
And it’s not just the new notes and folders and projects to keep track of… Bean-girl has hit a bit of a rough patch this week. And bean-mom’s confidence has been shaken a bit as well.
The rose is off the bloom, as my husband would say. The first week of kindergarten was filled with the excitement of novelty—there was kindergarten itself, and the “Kinder-care” pre-kindergarten daycare program in the morning (which she says is more fun than actual kindergarten), and then a separate after-care program after 3:30 pm. Bean-girl was shuttled from one room and environment to another and seemed to find it all thrilling. Her very first full day she did something astonishing—she went down the playground’s tall, twisty slide, encouraged by some older school girls in the after-care program who have taken her under their wing. This is the same girl who for years refused to go down even the meekest toddler slide—and suddenly she was happily going down the biggest slide on the playground! Bean-girl seemed to be making new friends easily, and everything was sunlight and roses.
Then the second week rolled around, and it seemed to sink in that she wasn’t going to be seeing her old friends from her old daycare anymore. The novelty began to seem confusing and intimidating. “I miss my old friends,” she said, tearing up in the backseat on the way to her new school. “You’ll see L (her best friend) at ballet this week!” I replied heartily. “But I miss my other friends, too!” Bean-girl replied. Then she began to talk about how she wished she were back at her old preschool/daycare. She said the teachers were nicer there, the kids were more fun, and that she missed the physical look of the room itself.
She was in that daycare/preschool for two solid years. From the ages of 2 to 4. She met her first and best friend in that room, and they grew up there together like sisters.
Bean-girl has already bonded closely with a new girl in her Kinder-care program and already been invited to the birthday party of her new friend. But understandably, she still misses her old school. Last week she had, in her kindergarten teacher’s parlance, a Tough Day, and started crying in frustration about something. And today, when I dropped her off for the afternoon kindergarten session, I asked her to walk down to the classroom herself, following all the other children who were walking by themselves and leaving their mothers in the school lobby. Bean-girl got upset, and before I could even change my mind, the school chaperone took her hand and led her away, saying that she was a big girl who should leave mommy behind (all the other kids have been walking in on their own for days now).
Bean-girl was led away crying.
The school counselor called me at home later that afternoon to let know how Bean-girl was doing. Apparently, the counselor saw Bean-girl crying in the hallway and followed her into the classroom to talk to her and help her calm down. She had a difficult time. She calmed down, but then a stray word set her off again, and she had to spend a little quiet time with the counselor in a separate classroom. It’s perfectly normal, the counselor assured me. I just wanted to let you know how she’s doing. We’re trying to teach her techniques—like taking deep breaths—to bring herself under control. By the way, is she a perfectionist? (She is, I admitted). I thought so, the counselor said. We’ve noticed the way she gets frustrated at some tasks.
All this is feeding into new insecurities raised by a new acquaintance of mine. There is a phenomenon known as “redshirting” where parents deliberately hold their children back from kindergarten an extra year to give them more time to mature. Bean-girl is on the cusp of the cut-off age for kindergarten in our state—she turns five in November, and in our state children who turn five after December are not allowed to enroll in kindergarten. We had the option to put her in the school’s “Young-5s” program instead of regular kindergarten, but we figured she was ready for the real thing. Some people expressed surprise at this, and suggested that we should hold her back, but we shrugged them off.
But most of the kids in the Young-5s program are OLDER than she is. It seems every single kid in the district who has a September birthday or later is enrolled in Young-5s as opposed to kindergarten.
And these are kids who are bright. These are kids who are mature. These are kids who can read and write and are clearly ready for kindergarten. But they are being deliberately held back by their parents for a social advantage.
“Did you know that Bean-girl is the youngest kindergartener in the entire school?” a new acquaintance called to tell me, worried. Worried Acquaintance (let’s call her “A”) helps to put the school directory together, and decided to look up all the children’s birthdays. “I know this is bold of me, but did you think of enrolling her in Young 5s?”
I’ve only just met “A.” She’s the mother of Bean-girl’s new best friend from the school’s daycare program—a very smart girl who is already 5 years old, who stands a full head taller than the Bean-girl, and who is in Young5s instead of kindergarten.
“I know it seems brazen, but I just want to talk to you as one mother to another,” A told me on the phone. “I have older children—my oldest is in high school now. I just want to tell you that this is a VERY competitive school district. We struggled with the decision to put our youngest in kindergarten, because we know she is so bright, but we’re looking ahead to the years down the line. We want her to fit in socially and be able to handle the pressures to come.”
I was taken aback, but I could tell that A was sincerely concerned for her daughter’s new best friend. I thanked her for her concern, and said that while I understood these reasons, I was philosophically opposed to holding a child back just for these social advantages.
“Oh, I hate it too,” the mother responded. “I HATE it. But you have to understand that everyone in this district does it. 99.9%. Everyone.”
And she’s right. It appears that everyone really does do it here.
Have I doomed my Bean-girl by putting her in kindergarten according to the supposedly regular schedule? I don’t think so. I think in the long run she’ll be fine either way—although perhaps I should have thought more about Young5s, and perhaps she would benefit from it. Apparently, Young5s, is the new kindergarten, which makes kindergarten the new first grade and first grade the new second grade… Bean-girl’s kindergarten teacher said she would check to see if a transfer to Young5s is even possible at this stage, just to see. I have a late December birthday myself and was always the youngest student in school. I was shy and socially awkward, but I attribute that more to innate temperament than to the accident of my date of birth.
But it just keeps getting clearer and clearer: school is not what it was when my husband and I went through the system. For both better and worse. And it does not get easier as they get older. The tug of the heart is as painful as ever.
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