Saturday, April 21, 2007
Russian Lessons…in Preschool?
A four-year-old girl named Enga moved from Russia to our town very late in the school year. Every day at drop-off time the other kids, who’d had six months of practice, would file into school calmly, waving good-bye. I felt so bad for this girl and her mom as Enga would erupt into tears, screaming and clinging every morning for over two weeks.
“Why don’t you try to be her friend?” I asked my kids. They told me they couldn’t because she didn’t speak any English.
“Well, try to teach her. You can wave and say, ‘hi.’ Or show her your necklace and say, ‘necklace.’” (The female bond of accessorizing is universal, I’m sure.)
One day my daughter came home and reported back: “I said something to Enga and she said something back.”
“That’s great. What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, she was talking in Russian.”
The next day my daughter came home and proudly declared, “Momma, Enga said her first English word today and it was all because of me...”
“Awesome,” I said, expecting something profound—the kind of sentiment that brings nations together or fosters world peace. . .something like “necklace” or “hello” or “friend.”
“Well, Mom, she was running around the corner and she bumped right into my head....When I picked her up off the floor she said ‘Ouch!’!”
“Ouch.” Well, it’s not world peace, but I’ll take it.
A four-year-old girl named Enga moved from Russia to our town very late in the school year. Every day at drop-off time the other kids, who’d had six months of practice, would file into school calmly, waving good-bye. I felt so bad for this girl and her mom as Enga would erupt into tears, screaming and clinging every morning for over two weeks.
“Why don’t you try to be her friend?” I asked my kids. They told me they couldn’t because she didn’t speak any English.
“Well, try to teach her. You can wave and say, ‘hi.’ Or show her your necklace and say, ‘necklace.’” (The female bond of accessorizing is universal, I’m sure.)
One day my daughter came home and reported back: “I said something to Enga and she said something back.”
“That’s great. What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, she was talking in Russian.”
The next day my daughter came home and proudly declared, “Momma, Enga said her first English word today and it was all because of me...”
“Awesome,” I said, expecting something profound—the kind of sentiment that brings nations together or fosters world peace. . .something like “necklace” or “hello” or “friend.”
“Well, Mom, she was running around the corner and she bumped right into my head....When I picked her up off the floor she said ‘Ouch!’!”
“Ouch.” Well, it’s not world peace, but I’ll take it.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Preschool Visit or “Hopefully, Honey, They Accept Bribes”
My kids are at the age where they have no edit key.
“Mommy, I like the hair on your chin.” [Note to self: Buy face cream]
“When are you having your baby?” [Said enthusiastically to the woman had her baby eighteen months ago.]
This is why, as we ushered them around the manicured lawns of Very Pricey Private School for their campus tour, I experienced more armpit wetness in fifty-nine minutes than during my ten-hour wedding day.
Arrive in Waiting Room On Time: [Note to prospective parents: The admissions committee strategically tells you to arrive twenty minutes before they will actually greet you; this is to see if little Billy will pick his nose, bite his sister, or have a meltdown as he tries to wait patiently.] While we waited we were allowed to preview a video. Cut to Opening Scene: A toothy, handsome, very preppy 20-something is sitting on the lawn at Harvard. He’s the valedictorian of his class… all because of Pricey School. While I was ready to sign the tuition check on the spot, my son was not impressed: “Do you have a Thomas the Train DVD?” he shouted… very loudly. Too loudly.
Ten Minutes Later: Fidget, fidget. Is that the beginning of a whine? And then: a piercing noise took me back 34 years—a fire drill!
The siren sent my daughter, who is very sensitive to noise, covering her ears and running around in spastic circles. Is this a set-up? A clever plot? I envisioned the Admissions Staff: “What can we do to make these kids crack?” Okay, maybe not.
When the tour guide finally arrived, my daughter was still covering her ears. She brought us into the library and held up a book: “What does this say?” she asked my son. Wait a minute….Foul! The brochure said they didn’t teach reading until kindergarten…This means my son has a whole year…
Phew, he said it right. She picked up another book. What is this, the Great Reading Inquisition?! The poor boy was concentrating on the title. Hard. So hard that his brain hiccupped and he farted. A silent, but very smelly fart. Should I take the fall and pretend I did it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. How could she NOT notice?
I could just see his application: In the space earmarked for “Any Special Talents” she would write: “Silent But Deadly.”
As we exited the library, and my son’s giant stink bomb, we visited some classrooms: children making “Faberge eggs,” a science room with a live iguana. This was a far cry from when I went to school: “Do your work,” as they handed you a mimeographed sheet with a cartoon hippo on it so you could practice your cursive.
Again, my son was harsher critic.
“I’m bored!” Bored? No, he didn’t say bored, he said, “I’m a boy!” He’s very gender aware. Did I really just say that?!
Ten minutes to melt-down mode. Thankfully, for us, the tour ended just shy of nine minutes.
Next week is our “activity visit,” where our kids will join eleven others in a Survivor-like game show called Pricey Preschool Showdown. There they will spend an hour rotating through seven interview stations. While my husband insists the only question that matters is, “How big is your parents’ bank account?,” I know that spaces are limited. (The Florida public school system doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, especially with all the changes being implemented now.)
Even so, I have resisted the urge to drill my kids with flashcards and play Spanish CDs while they sleep. But, if all else fails on interview day, I am not above trying the fool-proof, never-fail diversion tactic: Pull the fire alarm.
My kids are at the age where they have no edit key.
“Mommy, I like the hair on your chin.” [Note to self: Buy face cream]
“When are you having your baby?” [Said enthusiastically to the woman had her baby eighteen months ago.]
This is why, as we ushered them around the manicured lawns of Very Pricey Private School for their campus tour, I experienced more armpit wetness in fifty-nine minutes than during my ten-hour wedding day.
Arrive in Waiting Room On Time: [Note to prospective parents: The admissions committee strategically tells you to arrive twenty minutes before they will actually greet you; this is to see if little Billy will pick his nose, bite his sister, or have a meltdown as he tries to wait patiently.] While we waited we were allowed to preview a video. Cut to Opening Scene: A toothy, handsome, very preppy 20-something is sitting on the lawn at Harvard. He’s the valedictorian of his class… all because of Pricey School. While I was ready to sign the tuition check on the spot, my son was not impressed: “Do you have a Thomas the Train DVD?” he shouted… very loudly. Too loudly.
Ten Minutes Later: Fidget, fidget. Is that the beginning of a whine? And then: a piercing noise took me back 34 years—a fire drill!
The siren sent my daughter, who is very sensitive to noise, covering her ears and running around in spastic circles. Is this a set-up? A clever plot? I envisioned the Admissions Staff: “What can we do to make these kids crack?” Okay, maybe not.
When the tour guide finally arrived, my daughter was still covering her ears. She brought us into the library and held up a book: “What does this say?” she asked my son. Wait a minute….Foul! The brochure said they didn’t teach reading until kindergarten…This means my son has a whole year…
Phew, he said it right. She picked up another book. What is this, the Great Reading Inquisition?! The poor boy was concentrating on the title. Hard. So hard that his brain hiccupped and he farted. A silent, but very smelly fart. Should I take the fall and pretend I did it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. How could she NOT notice?
I could just see his application: In the space earmarked for “Any Special Talents” she would write: “Silent But Deadly.”
As we exited the library, and my son’s giant stink bomb, we visited some classrooms: children making “Faberge eggs,” a science room with a live iguana. This was a far cry from when I went to school: “Do your work,” as they handed you a mimeographed sheet with a cartoon hippo on it so you could practice your cursive.
Again, my son was harsher critic.
“I’m bored!” Bored? No, he didn’t say bored, he said, “I’m a boy!” He’s very gender aware. Did I really just say that?!
Ten minutes to melt-down mode. Thankfully, for us, the tour ended just shy of nine minutes.
Next week is our “activity visit,” where our kids will join eleven others in a Survivor-like game show called Pricey Preschool Showdown. There they will spend an hour rotating through seven interview stations. While my husband insists the only question that matters is, “How big is your parents’ bank account?,” I know that spaces are limited. (The Florida public school system doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, especially with all the changes being implemented now.)
Even so, I have resisted the urge to drill my kids with flashcards and play Spanish CDs while they sleep. But, if all else fails on interview day, I am not above trying the fool-proof, never-fail diversion tactic: Pull the fire alarm.
Labels: preschool admission frenzy
