Archives for posts with tag: Kindergarten

Daddy guest post (thanks!):

Bedtime snuck up on Girl again tonight, and she needed to pee before she could settle down and sleep. Her trademark sing-song drifted out of the bathroom as she sat on the potty, mulling things over. When I went in to extract her from the bathroom and send her off to bed, she looked up earnestly and said, “I’m not so sure about going for the whole day tomorrow. Maybe I should just stay until lunch and then come home before nap time. I’m not a good napper. Yeah, maybe I’ll just ask my teacher if I can come home after lunch.”

She and her Mama share a mind sometimes. Mama isn’t exactly eager to let others watch over her girl for seven hours a day, five days a week, and Girl isn’t so sure about it, either. We’ll have to wait to see where these tentative steps into unfamiliar territory lead, but Girl summed things up perfectly as she snuggled Mama in bed: “I’ll miss you tomorrow.” We’ll miss you, too, love.

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Before

Before

After

After

Girl doesn’t look so different from one to the other, does she? She smiles, she has sparkly eyes, her hair’s a little messy. They’re only taken about fourteen hours apart.

There’s a big difference, though, that’s not so clear to the naked eye: in the first, she’s still my preschooler, the home-with-me-93-to-100%-of-the-time-most-weeks girl. In the second, she’s the home-with-me-only-79%-of-the-time-most-weeks girl. She’s a kindergartener who just completed her first day of elementary school (wearing the dress of her choice).

Yesterday, Girl began kindergarten.

It was only for thirty minutes at most, but it was her first day nonetheless, and I got to be nearby in the hallway the entire time.

I don’t think I’ll get to spend all of her school days in such close proximity. After August, we’re not even supposed to walk her to her classroom.

She’s excited, but I feel less certain, walking on this precipice dividing her previous life at home and her soon-to-be life at school. I can see the appeal of homeschooling: you set the sorts of freedoms and controls that fit your needs and beliefs. You shield, you expose. You work to maintain the joy that “10:00 – 10:30: Phonics” every day may not be able to.

My heart is so full that there’s not much more to say – and yet look at what she says in each photo without any words. Hello, I see you, I greet you; hello, I see you, this heart is for you.

I love you, schoolgirl.

“We walked down those steps,” my daughter said, gesturing to the opposite side of the car.

“And did you cross the street in the crosswalk?”

“Yes. And we had a really short recess.”

Today, she and the other kindergarten-bound preschoolers in her class walked across the street with their preschool teachers for a visit to the elementary school. Each was paired with a kindergarten buddy, played outside, and got to eat in the cafeteria (for $2.25).

For such a short physical journey, it feels like the start of a very long emotional one.

“They paired me with a boy.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t play with me. He was supposed to play with me, but he didn’t. My friend didn’t play with me, either – I said we didn’t just have to play with our partners, but she wouldn’t play with me.”

Ooph. Let the blows to the gut begin. So much of what she’s experienced so far is what we’ve arranged for her – and, since she’s only in preschool three mornings a week, most of what happens in her life is something I experience and witness as well, an observer and frequent participant, protector and guide. When kindergarten begins in the fall, the twelve hours of school will morph into thirty-five. She won’t be the only one transitioning.

“You had chicken nuggets?”

“Yes, but I didn’t have time to eat my broccoli.”

“What?”

“Or my cookie.”

“Oh, no! So you had chicken nuggets and chocolate milk?”

“I didn’t finish my milk, either.”

She’s a bit of a dawdler at meal time – unless she’s eating some salty meat product like bacon – and bolting down your food isn’t really good for you, so we haven’t minded. Kindergarten, apparently, will require more lupine-like behavior – but not on the playground, I hope.

“I heard they only have twenty minutes for lunch.”

“But I got to eat my orange cup,” she said. She sounded slightly satisfied with that admission.

“And he got me a spork.”

I assume and hope this was the not-play-friendly partner doing his duty.

This is probably what we have to expect of the coming years, isn’t it? Times of growing autonomy, of new experiences, of hurt feelings, of being rushed, of gratitude. I hope the years will also be filled with kindness, with hope and anticipation, with satisfaction and pride. With learning, too – and more of the creative, inspirational variety than merely the worksheet-driven sort.

And with this walk across the street, with this toe-dip into kindergartenhood, it (so much to hold, those two letters, i-t ) has begun.