Kid Amnesiac

With a few minor hiccups, kindergarten was off to a very strong start in our house. According to Simon’s own reports, the bus ride was getting better once he and Gwyneth, a girl from our stop, started to sit together and the regular driver returned from his National Guard duty. His class was quieter than last year’s, a big plus in his book. He loved the feeling of independence that came from going through the lunch line on his own, walking to his class from the bus on his own, and having a job in the classroom. I was even starting to hear a bit about Chinese (“A mei mei is a little sister, but not a baby. More like a toddler like Anyieth … Our teacher said she ate rice at every meal—even breakfast! That’s crazy!”), science (“There’s a skeleton in the room, like a real dead person”), and the playground (“Shaina and Adarius chased me and Rhyse. If they caught us in the castle, they cut our heads off. But Rhyse and I were too fast!”)

This Monday marked the start of week 4, a time when barring Simon’s freak-out over check pluses and his regular ravenous afternoon hunger (the class snack is not big enough for him), he should have been really hitting his groove. So what happened? His teacher got called up for jury duty. Does it ever, ever come at a good time? While Mr. Sowder is off fulfilling his civic duty, the strains are starting to show. Monday and Tuesday the class got a regular sub who knows the school well. Simon reported that his friends were giving her a thumbs down, but that he liked her and that she was a lot like Mr. Sowder. Yesterday he got a different sub. This one apparently did not control the class well, and Simon reported that it was too loud for him all day.

Also, his class was put on silence in the gym, which only happens when kids are getting rowdy.

Also, he got confused in the lunch-line and ended up with a sloppy joe instead of grilled cheese, meaning he was starving all day.

Also, yesterday’s snack was gummies, which violate class rules and left Simon even hungrier (and possibly with rotted teeth).

Also, the sub did not understand that Simon has a class job right now and wouldn’t let him out of his chair to count the class money.

The only highlights to his day? Investigating Taliyah’s beaded braids (“She says she can do my hair for me.”) and Bobbi’s decorative clips (“They’re the colors of the rainbow! She’s so pretty…”). And learning to log in to computers in the lab.

Pretty please with sugar on top circuit court people, let this end before my son decides he hates school and before poor Mr. Sowder has to start settling his class in over from scratch. And really, isn’t teaching kindergarten a civic duty in its own right?

Once again, Simon and I are proving to have something in common I’d just assume we didn’t. Believe it or not, he’s starting to stress about his grades. Let me repeat that for a moment so it can sink in: Thirteen days into kindergarten, Simon is concerned that he gets mostly checks on his work instead of check pluses. Ay yay yay.

Simon brought home check pluses on his first two graded assignments, indicating his work was neat, error-free, and above grade-level. Then he brought home some “math” workbook pages, all of which earned him unadorned checks, meaning it contained few errors, was reasonably neat, and met grade-level expectations. I put “math” in quotes because the exercises were about number recognition, matching, and counting. Simon himself told me that they don’t do math in math class, and coming from a kid who has told me within the last week that $20 is the same as 2,000 cents and who corrected me when I said “10 to nine” by saying “you mean 8:50″, I get where he’s coming from.

Anyway, this math work is mostly about learning to do workbook work, and it emphasizes neatness, completion, and drawing. Simon occasionally misses a part of the assignment, he’s tied for being the worst artist in his class, and his handwriting is shaky. It wasn’t ever very neat (he’s mine, he’s a boy he’s a lefty, ’nuff said), and three summer months of never holding a pencil did not help matters any. So intellectually, he’s there. With a plus. But when it comes to demonstrating and formatting his work, he’s got some catching up to do.

Which I am fine with, but Simon is not. I know this because without my ever commenting upon his grades, he brought the subject up. This was Friday’s report about drawing a picture and writing three words above it:

“I got a check,” he told me. “If I had written five words, I would have gotten a check-plus.”

“A check is fine,” I explained, sounding even and vaguely disinterested. “A check means you only made a few mistakes, did your best, and are doing what you are supposed to.”

“No, mommy, a check isn’t good. A check is just okaaay. I want a check-plus.”

“Well, I think all that matters is that you try hard and do your best. And as long as you do those things, I’m happy and you should be too.”

“I don’t think so, Mommy. I want a check-plus.”

Sigh.

“Well, I tell you what. A lot of what you are doing in school is learning how to work on work-sheets and in books. It’s new. And the more you practice, the better you’ll get at it. You might even get a check-plus before it’s all over.”

“Mr. Sowder says that he wants me to do things like dot my “i”s smaller and write all my letters smaller. Then maybe I can get a check-plus.”

Now I’ve got some questions. Is Mr. Sowder coaching all the kids this way? Simon says no, but I’m not convinced he’d know. Is he specifically pushing Simon because his sloppy writing is masking his ability? That’s a nice thought, but I doubt a teacher can judge potential in 13 short days. Or is he coaching Simon because the first time his work wasn’t perfect, he sat at his desk and cried? I’m guessing it’s that.

I don’t know, and I don’t plan on asking unless Mr. Sowder feels the need to reach out to me. His first report card is due in a month, and Simon has already told me that he wants to get more than checks in it. I wonder if Mr. Sowder knew what he was getting into—or more precisely getting me into—when he described grading to class this week?

When our school school search began last November, I realized early on that diversity was a criterion for me. Much as our neighborhood school was a beautiful and charming choice, it’s homogeneity got to me. Nearly every class I visited was comprised of 20-21 white kids from the Highlands, most of whom looked like they walked out of a Hanna Andersson catalog, and 4-5 African American kids, most of whom clearly arrived from poorer households closer to downtown or from Louisville’s west end as part of the district’s mandatory desegregation plan.

It’s not that Louisville doesn’t have an African American middle class; it’s that compared to cities like Chicago or Atlanta our African-American middle class is undersized. What’s more, the majority of black professionals we do have don’t live in my neighborhood. I didn’t know it when I moved, but the Highlands, with its mixed-income housing, small lots, and older homes attracts a hippy-dippy demographic that is overwhelmingly white.

I wanted Simon to understand that the whole world isn’t like our neighborhood and get used to the multi-everything society he’s likely to encounter wherever his educational and career pursuits take him. So I traded in a preschool full of Isabellas, Olivias, Brians, and Elliots for an elementary school full of Ayokunies, Nimishas, Meneliks, and Rohans.* And if you can’t pronounce or place all those names let me explain that (1) neither can I; and (2) that was the point.

Simon’s class this year is over 60% non-white, with students coming from African, African-American, South Asian, East Asian, and Central and South American backgrounds. I was—and am—ridiculously happy with all the diversity he will encounter at his school. I also was—but no longer am—looking at things from an insultingly simplistic perspective.

While I was busy being pleased at what a heterogeneous class could do for Simon (how educational! how worldly! how enriching!), I somehow forgot that diversity is not something you take in passively. These kids aren’t museum pieces designed for my own aesthetic pleasure. They’re just kids, and diversity is a two-way street.

I learned this when Simon came home after discussing his “All About Me” sheet with his class. Of course Simon was the only kid to list “A Hard Day’s Night” as his favorite movie or “indigo” as his favorite color. I was a little more surprised that no one else said they wanted to be a computer programmer when they grew up, but that’s hardly significant. No, what got my attention was that Simon was also the only kid who listed Chanukah as his or her favorite holiday. In fact, he’s the only kid in his class who knew what Chanukah was.

Whoa. I don’t think we’re at Keneseth Israel Preschool any more.

Mr. Sowder told the class that they’d learn more about Chanukah later, no doubt when they cover other non-Christmas holidays ahead of their winter diversity fair. I told a confused Simon to wait a few days. Surely a few of his classmates would name holidays like Diwali or Eid as their favorite. With all those Africans and Indians, it was inevitable, right?

Nope. They all said Christmas except for the two who said Halloween. And so it would appear that one of the children contributing to Brandeis’s diversity is my own, and instead of marveling at all the “differences” around us, we’re going to be one of them. I guess this All About Me thing happened just in time, because in two weeks Simon will miss school for Rosh Hashanah, another holiday I can assume no one else in his class has ever heard of.

*In all fairness to KIP and its director, it is an amazingly diverse school for what it is (Jewish, expensive, private) and where it is (the Highlands). At its peak, Simon’s class last year had 14 kids in it (one moved), five of whom were non-white, largely owing to the outreach and openness of it’s director. In this regard, KIP far outpaced our neighborhood public school.

Today the whole Whitworth gang gathered at my in-laws’ for one last blast of summer. Taking center stage in the day was a huge outdoor festival their church hosts each year a short walk from the house. Simon always has a great time, so it’s become an annual tradition. As it’s kind of like the midway at the state fair with less smoking, fewer fried items, and no price-gouging, it has a lot to recommend it.

Other than friends of the Whitworths, we don’t usually bump into anyone we know. Today was no different for me and Matt. But Simon did. Towards the end of the day, he and a new classmate made eye contact and yelled across the crowd at each other. I mosied over to introduce myself, and suddenly this very unusual (for us) encounter took on a very familiar tone.

Me: “Hi Shaina! So nice to meet one of Simon’s friends from Brandeis.”

Shaina’s mom: “Oh, is this Simon? Are you Simon’s mom?”

Me: “Yup, this is Simon. How nice to bump into you.”

Shaina’s mom: “It is. We hear about Simon at home. Shaina tells us he’s the cutest boy in kindergarten.”

Zing! It’s truly a shame that Simon is too young to understand and appreciate this now. Because I have a sneaking feeling that right around the time he’s going to want to be the cutest boy in class, some combination of geekiness, acne, and sensitivity is going to torpedo his status. Possibly all three.

Kindergarten cuteness is wasted on the kindergarteners…

The big first day of school was today. And honestly, I’m fried, but not for the reasons you’d expect. Here’s what my last 48 hours have looked like:

The Lead-Up

Sunday at around 7 p.m.: I run into my sister-in-law at the grocery. We chat about school of course. During which I time I learn that I’ve chosen the hardest way to pick up Simon in the afternoon, that her kids were all tired and grumpy for months after kindergarten started, and that her oldest cried every day the whole year. Zen-like calm suffers a stress fracture.

Monday at around 3 p.m.: I run into the outgoing Brandeis PTA president at Target. “Are you putting your son on the bus?” she asks. “Yes,” I reply. “You are?!” she practically shrieks at me. “You told me to!” I shriek back. “I know I did. But I didn’t expect anyone to listen to me.” Then she motions to her daughter and tells me that she finally put her on the bus during third grade. “And how do you like it?” she asks the daughter. “I hate it” comes the not-so-reassuring reply. “See,” she says. “But at least I’m not driving her any more.” Also, she thinks I chose the wrong kindergarten teacher. Complete break opens in zen-like calm.

Monday at 8:30 p.m.: We put Simon to bed, and he has trouble getting to sleep. It’s finally hit him, and he’s scared about the changes. He wakes up several more times during the night, once telling Matt that he dreamed someone died. Zen-like calm suffers multiple, compound fractures. Matt not-so-reassuringly tells me he knew this would happen.

I compensate by fixating on lunch. Simon has an online account, which I fund. Worried the funds won’t show up yet, I then put cash in an envelope. Worried he won’t know how to use cash, I leave note with my cell on envelope. Envisioning him going hungry, I then stuff three snacks in the back-pack just be safe. Then I pour a glass of wine, breathe shallowly, and wait for him to wake up again.

Game Day

Tuesday morning, a tired mamma wakes up at 6:30 in the insomnia room, aka the guest bedroom. Simon will sleep for another half hour or so in our bed with Matt. This room shuffling being the result of an aforementioned middle-of-the-night awakening by Simon. I’ve told the school I will be there by 8:00 to help sort kids from the bus. As I leave, Simon is having breakfast and Matt is getting him ready for the big event.

At 8:00 a.m. I roll into school, meet the new assistant principal, chat with other parent volunteers and staff, and learn how we’ll be checking in kids as they arrive from the buses. There is paperwork to check, cross-check, and in some cases fill out. Just as I’m reviewing the procedure with my table-mate, the first bus rolls in. With Somalis. Lots and lots of Somalis, none of whom have paperwork, all of whom are sent to my table. After they leave, the assistant principal tells me he’s glad he had a seasoned parent (me) at that table. I tell him my one and only is starting kindergarten. He blanches.

I then find out that I have signed up for the whole day. All  my cash has gone to Simon’s lunch back-up fund, I’ve packed nothing, and there is no real food near the school. I am now facing another five hours in the school gym fueled by nothing more than peanut butter crackers from the vending machine in the staff lounge and trips to the water fountain.

For the next three to four hours, each class is sent back to the gym to check paperwork again, make sure bus tags have been created for the trip home, make sure incomplete paperwork is now complete, and make sure that we have a parent signature or phone call to verify everyone’s means of getting home. And let me tell you right now that getting kids home from school on the first day requires more blood, sweat, tears, and man-hours than I could have ever imagined.

By 3:10, the kindergarteners and first-graders are sent back to the gym one more to be put in lines for buses, have their paperwork checked once more, and be escorted onto the buses. By now I’ve seen many of these kids three times. “Shreya,” I’ll ask, “Are you all set with your new depot number? Great! Hey Idris, you just finished your first day as a kindergartener! How awesome is that?” I give hugs, pats, and high-fives to most. I congratulate them all. One boy who knew me from KIP runs over to hug me three times. And at 3:45 I go and collect my own child, who tells me that he saw me this morning and this afternoon, “three times when you didn’t see me.”

Aftermath

He falls asleep on the way home, watches an hour of tv, and then is ready to play ball, go out for dinner, and grab celebratory ice cream. We run into the lovely Caroline at the ice cream store. Simon tells me that he loved everything except for the bus, ironically, which was too loud. He likes his class. He likes all the rules. He likes being one of Mr. Sowder’s “super-stars.” He got a sticker for behaving. He ate two bowls of mac and cheese and fresh watermelon for lunch.

Tonight he went to bed without event or agitation. I’m about to tuck in myself, tired, but no longer suffering from anticipatory jitters. Helping to sort out the transportation plans of ca. 500 kids was no picnic, but it sure beat coming home, clock-watching, and fretting. I’d say the school year was successfully launched.

This spring and early summer, Simon and I kept track of a few birds’ nests via the web. There was a red-tailed hawk family in NYC, another red-tailed hawk family in Philadelphia, and a bald eagle nest in rural Minnesota.

You wouldn’t believe the drama these three nests provided. In Philadelphia, the male hawk got hit by a car and died just days after three eggs hatched. In Minnesota, the eaglet somehow got stuck in a divet in his nest, couldn’t get out, and was literally flapping himself to death while his parents and birders the world over looked on helplessly. Thankfully, everyone got happy endings. In Philly, a new male appeared, took over hunting duties, and became the world’s first documented hawk step-dad. And in Minnesota, raptor rescuers captured baby Harmon, treated him, and returned him to his nest before the parents abandoned it.

This all happened in May. Then, in June and July, something every bit as dramatic but much more predicable happened: The babies all fledged. First the nest in NYC, then Philadelphia, and then Minnesota all emptied out as the young raptors took flight for the first time. For the next few months, their parents will follow them around and show them how to hunt to prepare them for the independence that arrives this fall.

Over here on Cowling Avenue, I can’t help but feel that Simon is peering over the precipice of his own nest. Simon’s fledge period will last 13 years instead of three months, but come Tuesday things are going to change around here. He’ll be gone until after 4:00 each day, and his peer group will become much more central to his life as the march to independence ramps up. It’s a bitter-sweet time. The impulse to regret, to delay, and to protect is strong. Thankfully for Simon’s sake, his desire to fly and my impulse to let him are even stronger.

This Wednesday, we had two trial runs at quasi-independence. First was his kindergarten kick-off at Brandeis. Parents and kids assembled in the school gym at the beginning, then the principal called for each kindergarten class to leave the bleachers and their parents behind, line up before their teacher’s table, and walk out of the gym for their morning’s activity. The principal was pretty funny about it.

“All right parents, she said with a smile. This is it. Consider it practice for the big day. You can do it. It’s time to let your babies go!”

Some kids left the bleachers with reluctance, heads turned back towards mom and dad with hesitation. A few kids clung to their parents and sobbed. And others marched down the bleacher steps without any visible hesitation at all. I wouldn’t have predicted it when he was 2 or 3, but Simon was in that latter group. An hour and a half later, he emerged all smiles. He toured the building, had a snack in the cafeteria, met the librarian, played on the playground, and had his first circle time with his teacher, Mr. Sowder, whom he immediately liked.

Three hours later, we crossed another threshold: I let Simon mostly walk home from his hair-cut unsupervised. We go to a neighborhood joint three long blocks from our house. Walking from Cowling to Bardstown  Rd. keeps us on residential streets, but they don’t all have sidewalks, and they are all intersected by various alleys and cross-streets. Once we reach Bardstown Rd., the busy commercial street, it’s a matter of staying on the sidewalk and watching out for blind driveways.

After the stylist gave him his just-in-time-for-family-pictures trim on Wednesday, we walked out the door together, at which point Simon gave me an impish grin and took off down the street, around the corner, and out of sight before I could catch up with him. My first instinct was to yell, sprint, and admonish him to “never leave my sight” like that. But then I considered it. He’s almost 6 now, and he’s got a decent head on his shoulders. What good is it to admire his quest for independence if I squelch it at every turn?

So I didn’t. I jogged around the corner, called for him to slow down, and then laid down the ground rules. He had to stop at every alley and look before crossing, and he had to stop and wait for me at Chichester so I could show him how to cross when there is on-street parking obscuring the view of traffic. He did well. Then I told him he could proceed the rest of the way home, but that if I saw anything I didn’t like, I’d yell and he’d have to stop. As I hung back and observed, he stopped at the corner of Murray and Cowling, looked carefully both ways, and turned up our sidewalk-less street. Every time he saw a car, he stepped off the road up into a yard to wait for it to pass.

He did great, and he loved being in charge. My baby bird is ready to fledge, which is making it easier for me to at least think about letting go. He is nagging me to have sleep-overs with friends and family, and he wants to do everything on his own. I know where this ends. This ends with him demanding “away camp” at 10 or 11, finding a way to spend at least one high-school summer out of town,  insisting on going out-of-state for college, studying abroad for a year, and then moving several time zones away from us after he graduates. At least, that’s how things ended with me, and we didn’t even have Skype or flat-rate long-distance back then!

So I of all people should understand, welcome, and encourage these yearnings for independence. And I intend to, starting this Tuesday when the school year officially begins.