During her first week of kindergarten, our oldest daughter radiated excitement and energy. Having heard at preschool that we should expect our kindergartener to fall asleep at dinner for at least the first two weeks, I was impressed that my child showed no such weariness with her new routine. On the contrary, she possessed more spunk than a teenager who'd just slept 14 straight hours and then consumed a Starbucks venti coffee while skydiving.
She would sprint out of her room at least two hours before the bus was due to arrive, bounce onto the bed with us, and begin an enthusiastic monologue about her teacher, the classroom activities, and who she was planning to play with at recess. Bleary-eyed, my husband and I would nod and smile, pleased that our daughter already seemed so well-adjusted. "She must have just been, you know, ready," we'd say knowingly to each other, confident in our choice to send her to kindergarten despite her summer birthday. After all, we thought, it was a family tradition to start school slightly younger: I myself entered kindergarten at 4.5 years old. At the small Catholic elementary school I attended in California, the teacher didn't mince words when she suggested my parents hold me back a year, warning, "She will struggle throughout her entire academic career!" My mom didn't flinch, and fortunately, I caught up to my older classmates, but I can see why the teacher was concerned. Apparently, I was quite a disruptive pupil during my first semester, singing loudly in class during story time (I remember belting out part of the chorus to the Bee Gees' "Tragedy," a favorite in my dad's music rotation at the time), daydreaming instead of listening to my teacher, and distracting my classmates, behaviors which led to me being marched over to sit on the "Black X" with regularity.
Despite our optimism, by the middle of Julia's second kindergarten week, as the newness of the experience faded, her happy exterior was beginning to show little cracks. "You know what part of school I hate, Mama?" she said to me one afternoon when I picked her up at the bus stop. "Lunchtime. Because my teacher isn't there with me."
At first, I simply took this comment as a positive indication that my daughter liked her teacher and enjoyed spending time with her. But a couple of days later, Julia was in tears as we got ready for the bus. Gone was the upbeat demeanor, the I-can't-get-enough-of-school attitude we'd witnessed just days ago. Now our morning routine included extra tissues and family photos in her backpack, hugs and promises of the fun we'd have after school. There was a chill in the air as we walked to the bus stop, rain and wind whipping at our faces, mixing with my daughter's tears. As Julia boarded the bus, still whimpering, she looked as heartbroken as I felt. I waved goodbye with a thin smile plastered across my face, wanting to push away the deep ache in my chest, to leave with a happier mental picture of my child who now looked so forlorn, staring at me from her front window seat.
She always returned from school with a neutral, if not completely delighted demeanor, but soon her pleading and negotiating began in earnest:
"Mama, I don't want to go to school, I think I'm sick."
Aside from the garden-variety nasal congestion that every school-aged child now has, my child seemed perfectly healthy.
"Can I be a parent pick-up today, please? I don't want to ride the bus. What if my friends aren't on the bus today?"
Our neighbors have two older boys who attend the same school. Julia adores them and I know we both feel better on the days when the boys ride the bus with her.
"It's such a long day...and I just miss you!"
This last one was tough for me to hear. I wanted to say: You're right, honey, it IS a long day, so much longer than preschool...and of course I miss you, too! I think about you all the time and wonder what you're doing! That is the truth, but I can't say it aloud. I know how sensitive my daughter is to my own anxieties and worries, and I'm trying to keep them in check so that she can see this experience as a positive and exciting one.
But I'm a person who loves information, and it's been a challenge to adjust to the fact that I only get pieces of Julia's day now. Bit by bit, I'll gather the fragments together, hoping one day to see it, the completed puzzle of people, activities and experiences that now represents most of my daughter's waking hours. Each day, there is a new clue, a fact that brings me closer to solving the puzzle: at lunch she sits at Table A. Recess is when she sees her friends from the other kindergarten classes. At one recess, she couldn't find her teacher, but "a girl in a yellow dress" held her hand, and they walked back to the classroom together. (Who is this girl in the yellow dress, I wonder, and might her mom be up for a coffee playdate sometime??) At rest time they get to read two books. The boy who sits next to her is nice but a bit rowdy. Free choice time is at the end of the day, and she loves the drawing center the best.
Many, many more things happen that I don't hear about, that I'll never know about. Maybe that's for the best. In the meantime, I've found that honest conversations (over coffee, e-mail, or even texting back and forth) with other new kindergarten moms have helped greatly to preserve my sanity in this transition period. One mom related how different kindergarten feels in terms of the level of attention and nurturing given to each child, and the amount of information shared with parents. This mom's five-year-old daughter came home from school the first week and casually announced she hadn't eaten her lunch that day because another student took her lunch box, and by the time the lunch monitor discovered the problem, it was too late to do anything. On another occasion, a kindergartener fell and bruised her hip at recess, and was given the option of seeing the school nurse, but no note or explanation was sent home to the parent otherwise. It's a disconcerting feeling, the knowledge your child may have been hurt, and you weren't there to protect her, to blunt the blow.
I've had conversations with some wonderful teachers locally, who assured me that this separation anxiety phase is normal (for both kids and their parents!) and it will pass. I'm also getting the sense that teachers are dealing with pressure from above to implement a more rigorous curriculum. Back in 1983, my kindergarten program was only a half-day, a cakewalk by today's standards, and I never even rode the bus. If everything seems much more intense and accelerated in school today, that's because it is. The best thing I can do, the teachers offered, is to make school as fun as possible. One teacher emphasized sharing enthusiasm about the cool aspects of "big kid" school, making after-school projects fun and special, and focusing on the positive ways kindergarten will help my daughter grow.
The kindergarten honeymoon might be over, but the coming year can still be exciting and rewarding. And I have a feeling I'll learn as much as Julia will.
~ ~ ~
At some point before my oldest child's second birthday, I had a conversation with another weary mom that ended with this punchline: "The days are long, but the years are short."
The full meaning of this saying struck me this week, as we prepared to send Julia to full-day kindergarten at our local elementary school. Since becoming a parent a little over five years ago, I've experienced plenty of days when the hours seemed to drag by, each minute of the dreary afternoon reverberating in my bones. Days when I didn't enjoy motherhood for more than a fleeting moment before the next crisis erupted, when it was only lunchtime and I wished desperately for the clock to strike 5 PM, or even better, 8 PM, because that meant bedtime.
Yet five years can also gallop by in a flash, leaving you blinking in the dust and wondering what just happened. Suddenly I'm sitting at kindergarten curriculum night in a room full of other parents, listening to the literary specialist talk about print concepts and phonemic awareness, and how our children--"yes, your little babies, who were probably still wearing diapers just two years ago"--would soon be reading and writing at a level once reserved for second graders.
I look around and in the sea of faces, I recognize two other moms from my daughter's preschool. We're not close, but our kids have played together on occasion. As each teacher presents to us, I take messy notes with a dull crayon that was stashed in the bottom of my purse; all of my regular pens seem to be missing in action. I feel off-kilter, unprepared to absorb the information, the weight of this milestone that my daughter is approaching.
The next day is the school's "Meet the Teacher" event. After navigating the crammed parking lot with both of my daughters in tow, we join the throng of other families lining up at the school entrance. We find Julia's classroom, and I work my way over to the small crowd of parents who are sifting through Target bags and dropping glue sticks, dry erase markers and Kleenex into the appropriately labelled buckets. I point out some baby doll toys to my younger daughter Lily, hoping she will be enticed to play with them for at least a few minutes.
I realize I've brought the wrong nap mat. It doesn't match the others, which are red and blue and neatly stacked on a nearby table. Suddenly Lily tries to make a break for it and runs back toward the hallway. "No, Lily!" Julia shrieks and practically tackles her sister to prevent her from escaping. I steer the girls toward the back of the classroom, directing them to some books, and I manage to finish sorting our supplies.
My nerves are raw with the effort of trying to negotiate this new environment smoothly, and I hope my daughters don't pick up on my stress. The classroom feels too warm, cramped with excited parents who all seem to know each other and the teacher already. As the teacher finishes meeting another student, I bring Julia over to introduce herself, and she says a shy hello. I feel a rush of pride and want to say, "Look, see, here she is!! My daughter, my superstar! Can't you just tell from the way she said 'hello' that she is really smart and creative??"
In the next moment, my daughter derails any hope of a pristine first impression when she begins to argue with her little sister over whose turn it is to sit on the crayon stool a few feet away. I can almost see it happening in slow motion as Julia pushes Lily off the stool in the swift, ruthless motion of an older sibling asserting her will. Lily's head hits the floor and she wails, her cries piercing the stuffy air, as the teacher turns away. After an apology and a hug, the conflict is over as quickly as it started, and I gather my kids and what remains of my composure and head back to the car.
On Labor Day, the day before school starts, we spend time as a family, lingering over breakfast, letting the kids goof around in the kitchen and indulging Julia's request to shop for some last-minute new school clothes. We spin through Kohl's, picking out pretty skirts in sparkly pink and purple, a new pair of sneakers for Lily and a belted black and white dress for Julia. After everyone tries on their new outfits, we take the girls to the park, then retreat from the humid weather with Frozen and popsicles back at home.
All day, there is a sadness I can't shake. Even my usual iced mocha, which normally has my endorphins buzzing by the first sip, tastes flat. Five years passed in the blink of an eye, and was I grateful for that time, when every second of my daughter's day was inextricably linked with mine? There were no limits on what we could do or how much time we could spend together, a gift I often took for granted. Did I teach her right, give her enough tools and knowledge to be resilient and self-sufficient, from opening her own juice box to knowing what to do if she gets on the wrong bus home? How will I cope with the fact that, from 8 AM to 4 PM every week day, a piece of me will be out in the world, out of sight and completely out of my control?
The days and months leading up to kindergarten seemed at times to be endless. But now we've arrived, and now it's time. Tomorrow I will walk my daughter to the bus and give her a hug and kiss. I will wave and smile as a piece of my heart floats away on a carefree late summer breeze, ready to find its own place in a new world, yet ever connected to me by the invisible thread of love.
~ ~ ~
I'm Gina, mom to two girls, writer, and seasoned coffee drinker.