Kid Amnesiac

Somewhere in the large and cluttered main office of Shary Hyman, the Director of Keneseth Israel Preschool, I imagine a thick file folder marked “Whitworth, Simon”. If you were to peek inside, you would find a group of papers neatly clipped together. The top of the stack is comprised of the usual boring administrative stuff: emergency contact information, enrollment papers, Simon’s immunization record. But just below that you’d find Shary’s ever-growing dossier on us, Simon’s parents.

Note 1

“January 2008. Mother stopped by to ask about son’s registration. Not pre-registered according to my notes. Mother seemed agitated despite our having an opening to accommodate her. Still enroll? Could be trouble.”

Note 2

“August 14: Both parents arrive to drop off rather timid child. You can sure tell those older first-time parents! My son is currently driving from California to Guatemala! Child went home with school property (car).”

Note 3

“August 15. Both parents arrive again. Both parents also picked up child yesterday. Unemployed? Ask Billie in accounting for tuition check status. Child went home again with school property (car).”

Note 4

“August 18. Child wailed on entrance to school. Agitated mother arrived for pick-up at wrong time and spot, and then talked to 4 of child’s 6 teachers as they tried to help with school lunch. Total neurotic.”

It is, I tell you, painful to be the living, breathing embodiment of a stereotype. But here I am, exhausted after the emotional highs and lows that accompany being the neurotic, agitated, older first-time parent to a rather timid boy entering the Keneseth Israel Itsy Bitsy class. The drop-off today was pretty bad. By mid-morning, I was editing a Power-Point presentation for a big meeting Tuesday while simultaneously making plans for what to do if/when I am forced to disenroll Simon from school.

By 11:45, when it was time to go pick Simon up, I was in a complete lather and sped all the way to school while an array of images of Simon sobbing played in my head. I literally ran through the parking lot and the back door, where I was greeted by his head teacher, Lana, who told me that they weren’t sure when I was coming today, so Simon was eating lunch with the other kids in his room.

He was? Not huddled in a corner, too weak to cry any more, clutching his (er, the school’s) toy car for dear life? That was certainly unexpected good news.

Lana gave me a bit more information as we chatted. Despite the drop-off disaster, Simon actually did better today. But he is having a hard time adjusting-more so than the other kids. He’s also not participating much, and he doesn’t like being in the midst of a crowd. While the other kids worked on art at the big table, he was off in a corner with a teacher. When it was story time, he avoided the big circle and instead sat on a teacher’s lap away from the group and flipped through books on his own. When the kids played outside, he found a ball, found a quiet spot, and played on his own.

Lana even used the “o” word: Simon is an observer. “It’s OK,” she assured me, “he’s very sweet, and he’ll get used to it here. And he needs this, because we can tell he’s very smart. He needs the enrichment.” I listened to her without interruption, but once she finished, I’m afraid I launched into a neurotic barraged of questions. “Is he having the hardest time? Are any of the other kids having as hard a time? Is he sucking up an unfair portion of classroom resources?  How long does it usually take for timid kids to come around? How long do we have?” I even teared up a little.

Next I bumped into Fira and Laura outside the lunch room. Both added to the picture Lana painted. He’s not good at transitions. He doesn’t like being in a crowd. When the door opens, he thinks class is over and makes a run for it. But he’s very sweet, very social in a one-on-one setting, and very smart. Fira even leaned over to whisper in a conspiratorial voice “It’s always harder for the smart ones. They understand everything and are the most sensitive.” She then went on to tell me how they discovered today that Simon loves books, balls, cars, and cheese crackers.

Finally, on my way to the office to pick up an entry badge, I ran into Inessa. She smiled and told me how much better Simon did today, detailing his areas of improvement. This should have been reassuring, but some of his areas of improvement included items I hadn’t realized were problems. Then she, too, joined the chorus: “He’s such a sweet boy. And we can tell he’s smart.”

By now I’m beginning to suspect that “smart” is preschool code for “chicken.” Certainly the “s” word is pushing my buttons. On the one hand, I want to think he’s smart. On the other hand, they’ve seen him for nine hours. How can they know? And anyway, I have personally seen one 18-month-old who could work a puzzle of the United States and a 22-month-old who speaks in three-word sentences in Mandarin and English. He ain’t that smart!

Fifteen minutes and four interviews later, I finally mustered the courage to get up on my tip toes and watch Simon through the door. He was seated at the end of the table with his back to me, one of about eleven kids arranged in tiny little chairs. I could see him eating his sandwich, drinking from his cup, and talking to the other kids and teachers in the room. I could tell he was smiling by the divot in his cheek in profile. Once or twice he turned around and I could see his smiling face before I ducked down out of sight.

It may seem a small thing, but seeing him part of the group-even if were only for 15 minutes out of the entire day-made the rest seem worthwhile. I am shored up for another day.

OK, more info soon but when I picked Simon up today, he was sitting at the table with the other children, happily eating his lunch, and talking to the kids and teachers.

Panic averted.

I had a whole different post planned for today, but it’s not seeming terribly relevant at the moment. Maybe later.

Matt dropped Simon off at Keneseth Israel this morning, and he began crying the minute he realized where he was. He managed to give the school director a high-five at the door, but this promising beginning soon dissolved into whimpers in the hall and full-on shrieking once he arrived at his classroom. When Matt  left, Lana and Laura were attending to Simon while he cried and lifted his arms to Matt, begging to go home.

Matt tells me the other kids seemed fine. I feel terrible. I’m sure we’ll get through this, but knowing that Simon is more upset than any of the others is not making me feel good this morning. I’ve got so much work to do that my head is about to explode, but instead all I can think about is Simon. And let me tell you, this has triggered the catastrophic thinking like nothing else in ages. Will I need to withdraw him? Will they kick him out for being a disruption? Is he fundamentally under-socialized?

The most likely scenario is that he will continue to cry for a week or so, then settle into the school and have a great time. That’s what they tell me, and that’s what I’m trying very hard to hold on to. I know this. I know this. I know this. But I really wish I could go pick him up right now and have Molly back for six months.

…was ok. Not great, not tragic, just ok. We got off to an inauspicious enough start: Simon woke up at about 6:20 this morning. That’s a good hour earlier than his usual early waking time and more like an hour and a half earlier than his standard one. Meaning that today, a day we all asked him to accept a huge change in his schedule, physical surroundings, and care-takers and peers, he started off tired.

At 8:45 or so we walked through the doors of Keneseth Israel expecting to see pure bedlam. Instead, we were greeted by the school’s director, who was standing by the door and saying hello to everyone. Simon was in high spirits as we headed for the Itsy Bitsy room, a place he’d already explored twice this week. His look turned to puzzlement once we got to the room, however, as this time about seven other kids and six adults were in the room. You could almost see him thinking, “Who are all these people, and what are they doing in my secret play hideaway?”

Right away, Matt and I could spot the kids who had been in day-care before, as four of them were seated around a table having a kids-only tea party. Certainly these kids had been in a similar situation before, right?

Simon, bless his heart, barely made it inside the room. He spotted a hot-wheels toy just inside the door, sat down, and began to play with a near obsessive compulsive focus. The head teacher Lana came over to play with him, and the two of them seemed to hit it off just fine.

While he settled in, I went to hang his diaper bag on the hook at the back. And that’s when I discovered my own rookie error: Simon was the only kid without his own backpack! It was listed on the supply list, but I assumed that was for older kids only. Surely little not-quite-two-year-olds weren’t hauling their own gear! Except they were. Or, as one of the teachers explained to me, “Some of the really independent kids love carrying their own bags, and the others just like seeing that they have their own.”

Poor Simon. His old and out-of-touch parents made him look immature in front of his peers. Looks like I have some shopping to do! I found some pretty cool Dante Beatrix bags online, and now have only to decide if I’m getting the penguin one that matches his stroller’s color scheme or the green dinosaur one that made him say “dino” when I showed it to him.

At 11:50, I arrived at KIP to pick Simon up. This time it was bedlam, as all the teachers had all the kids lined up in the hallway. It didn’t take long for me to spot Simon, standing beside one of his (six!) teachers, clutching a plastic car for dear life, and crying. I didn’t get the full story because it was hard to hear over the noise, but it sounded like Simon was fine until it was time to leave his precious cars. He played a bit outside and ate part of the cereal bar they offered as a snack, but had a hard time making the transitions between activities, may have a hard time during some of the day’s activities, and absolutely melted down in the chaos of the hall.

I’d normally be bullish that tomorrow will go better, but since his last impression wasn’t favorable, I’m not so sure. I think much will depend on whether he gets his full 11-hour component of beauty sleep. Then I just have to decide if I’m better off staying with him for a bit tomorrow, or if I should clear out quickly and let the professionals do their thing.

Sometimes it’s the grace notes in a given day that end up making the biggest impact. Today seemed especially full of small gestures or moments that left me smiling and feeling very blessed.

The first was Simon’s head tilt when Molly arrived this morning. It’s hard to explain, but when Simon is very drowsy or very happy, he leans his head over the side. He did it when I came home from Las Vegas, and he did it again today when Molly walked through the front door. Once I told him she was at the door, he hurried down the steps (still on his bottom for this) all the while crying out “Mawee! Mawee!” But once he laid eyes on her, he turned away as though embarrassed by the degree of his emotion and laid his head down sideways on the couch while he collected himself. I thought it adorable.

Later this afternoon, I took him to KIP (Keneseth Israel Preschool) to spend some time in his classroom and on the playground before school starts Thursday. We both enjoyed exploring the room: The primary joy for him was the huge array of wheeled toys; while I got the biggest smile from the various places I found his name. Like his other classmates, his name was in a jewel on the door to his room, on a birthday mural in one corner of the room, and again next to a growth chart in the opposite corner. Then there was a tidy little row of hooks where he and his classmates will hang their back-packs and coats. Each had a star above it with the child’s name printed neatly inside.

I wish I could explain why the sight of this made me smile and get a bit choked up, but I don’t completely understand yet myself. As best I can tell, it’s the combined realization that Simon has become a real little person combined with my appreciation for the care that went into this room-a room that hasn’t been renovated since I was in it for Sunday School in 1976 and that features a wide array of low-tech plastic toys, but that nonetheless oozes a genuine love for children from the train-track rug to the tiny table with 13 chairs that sits on top of it to the butterfly cutouts hanging overhead.

The final grace notes are two newish developments with Simon. For the past few days, he’s been experimenting with his tiptoes. At any given moment, I will catch him out of the corner of my eye getting up on his tip toes and strutting/staggering as he walks like a drunk ballerina. The second is the way he now backs into my lap for a story. Where once I used to get the books and put him in my lap, he now brings me the book he wants to read, turns around, takes several steps backward, and plops himself down when he thinks he’s lined up with my lap.  As he hasn’t mastered walking backwards yet, he does so with a slightly hunched posture and with his derriere-made all the fuller by his huge diaper-sticking out in my direction.

I tell you, even in the midst of a stressful work week, it’s well nigh impossible not to laugh and feel warm inside when I see tanned little legs topped by a protruding tushie come my way ever-so-slightly off center. Sweeter still, these are the few still moments in a given day when I can lean into him, wrap my arms around him, breathe in his scent, and relish his physical presence.