To their tremendous credit, it was not dubbed a graduation ceremony. In fact, the certificate each child received mentioned nothing of the finality of the kindergarten era. It was rather an award, individually created for each child specifically designed with their unique personality in mind.
Zia’s?
I know what you’re thinking, but no.
The last time I checked, I had successfully completed the third grade. OK, successfully might be stretching it as a descriptor but I made it through. And no, I do not have a diploma or letter of recognition to commemorate the occasion. But then again, I come from an era where mediocrity was not celebrated.
It was expected.
It was generally assumed that if at the end of the third grade school year your name is on the list of students moving to the fourth grade that you had completed the requirements for the third grade. There were no ceremonies, no pomp. Just move along.
How is it, then, that I find myself once again in Mrs. Reed’s third grade classroom?
Zane’s science teacher stopped me in the lunchroom yesterday, said she just had to let me know about what he had said in class.
“Oh Lord,” I audibly muttered.
Seems the discussion of the day involved something about adequate fluid intake. The teacher had asked the class, “does anyone know what it is to be dehydrated?”
My mind immediately flashed to a morning just a few weeks earlier. I had just picked up Zia and the twins from their morning classes and was loading them into the car. I was literally standing in the parking lot–mere feet from the schoolhouse door when my cell phone rang.
It was the school nurse who was calling to let me know that Zane was in quite a bit of discomfort and I should probably come and get him. Seems he was constipated. (The problem was immediately resolved upon arriving home for in the comfort of familiar facilities he was able to rid himself of the offending load. Yeah, I checked my kid out of school so he could go home and poop!))
Anyway, Zane and I had a long discussion about making sure he drinks plenty of water and keeps himself adequately hydrated so that this doesn’t happen again.
So when the teacher asked if anyone knew what it was to be dehydrated I just knew Zane would be regaling the class with his tale of the reluctant turtle. I suppose I was a little bit relieved when she said Zane had immediately piped up and said, “I’m not for sure. But I know your pee gets real yellow. And orange!”
4 + 4 =
Personally, I think schmarm is over-rated but you gotta admit, them’s some cute kids. Here’s a little montage I threw together of pics from the kids first days of school. Enjoy.
(My apologies to my sister-in-law who I made wait so long for these. Hopefully it was worth it.)
The evenings are long but not nearly enough. Silent and still. But likewise, not nearly enough. Fatigue has taken a stronghold and is poised, ready to declare victory. Of what I’ve yet to determine, still it rages on.
I am stirred each morning by Guaraldi but would prefer the sun. The sun gets to sleep in. There’s things that need being done and I can’t wait for a lazy ball of gas to illuminate the day. There’s coffee to consume, lunches to prepare, notes to and from. Breakfast. Shoes to find.
Children who read and play games long into the night and far beyond bedtime do not appreciate morning reveille. My bugling is not what it used to be. It never was.
The excitement of the first days of school has waned, tempered by the fact that their waking hours are defined by light and by rest both of which are seriously lacking at such early hours. I’m tired, too. But I don’t have time to be. My voice rises with each plea for them to.
“Please get up! We’re going to be late!”
Today was different. A bit more buzz, a tad more electricity. Eager anticipation with a hint–ever so barely noticeable–of trepidation. There were words of encouragement from Zane. Comforting words from an older brother that knows. Who has been there. There were last minute tips from Zoë. Little things. How-to’s and what-not-to’s. Instructions from an older sister that would do well to heed her own advice.
Zia just shoved them and told them to stay out of her way. No special treatment from her but I suppose they didn’t expect any.
Today Zander and Zella, started preschool. A milestone in a lifetime journey filled with stones and many, many more miles. They stepped from the house dressed in the new carrying their Spiderman backpacks. Their heads full of dreams.
The other children in the class were immediately friends and buddies and the classroom was their domain, their wonderland. They moved with confidence, self-assured and at-ease. There were no tearful goodbyes or clinging, no long drawn out negotiations. There was no hesitation, no cause for encouragements or reassurances.
They never looked back–they didn’t need to.
They were ready.
Today, Zander and Zella started preschool and I can’t help but think of Zane’s words this morning to his little brother. “Zander, you look different…. Bigger!”
He is bigger, man. They both are.
“Light! Give me light!” was the wordless cry of my soul .. Helen Keller
The true miracle of schooling our children, enlightenment through oration, erudition and rote memorization is not that they will learn anything but that they will remain passionately curious of the world around them.
I spent the better part of Saturday afternoon shopping for school supplies with the kids. Excruciating is the closest word that even hints at how painful the experience was. Is it just me or have the required school supplies gotten just a bit too specific? I mean, seriously. Glue sticks 0.74 ounces, white only. There is no such thing!! It’s all disappearing purple or some weird greenish looking crap.
1 package of Crayola markers. 8 count. Primary colors.
They come in a ten pack! There are no 8 packs. It’s ten or twenty four. No eights!
A 1 subject, wide-ruled, spiral bound notebook. Yellow.
“Why yellow?”
“I don’t know why it has to be yellow. They didn’t give an explanation as to why it had to be yellow, only that it had to be yellow.”
“Why not blue?”
“Because it says YELLOW!”
“Why couldn’t it be green?”
“IT. HAS. TO. BE. YELLOW.”
And so it went–for each item on each of the three lists. Fortunately the twins, who will begin their matriculation with preschool two days a week, need only a backpack. Easy enough.
Initially, Zander had his sights on a brownish colored camo looking bag. Zella, a black and white one. They seemed happy but I knew there had to be other options. We made our way to the other side of the store where we found exactly what we were looking for. Almost.
The kids were so excited about their new backpacks that they could hardly stand themselves. They are ready to begin classes tomorrow. We rushed home to show Mommy our purchases.
Zander was literally screaming for Mommy to look at his brand new, red, Spider-Man backpack. On cue, Maura oohed and ahhed.
Then Zella almost equally as excited showed Mommy her brand new, blue, Spider-Man backpack. Maura almost died laughing and looked immediately in my direction asking, “why in the world would you get her a Spider-Man backpack?”
“Because I couldn’t find a Batman!”
So what did you do in school today, Zia?
We started numbers. Today was Zero (0). Then we’ll do 1, then we’ll do 2, then we’ll do 3….. It’s a review.
(For the record, Zia’s pre-K class has been working on the letters of the alphabet all year long. A different letter each week. Last week they completed the alphabet and have now moved on to numbers for the remaining two weeks of the school year.)
Zia, that’s great. But you already know your numbers, don’t you?
Yes, Dad. (In a totally frustrated tone that only a just turned five year old little girl can make.) That’s why its called a review!
The behavior chart is a daily exercise. The squares of the calendar weekdays are filled, always green. A monochromic reminder that the boy is for all practical purposes–good. These are things I know.
The sheer repetitiveness of the drill makes it easy for me to gloss over, to ignore it’s presence in the reams of paper that are couriered to and from the schoolhouse. But like a trained monkey, I initial each square, occasionally offer a few words of praise and place the paper back in the folder.
I can’t imagine having to address behavioral issues with Zane at school. Sometimes, though, I secretly long for variety, a different hue in the seas of green.
Careful what you wish for. I’ve heard that before, but where?
Oh yes, it’s in my byline.
Yesterday’s behavior chart was alive with color. Greens, yellows and reds. Red is the really bad one. Shocked (though smiling on the inside), I asked for an explanation.
In return I got a sullen face and silence. He knew but wasn’t saying. I asked again.
Nothing.
I seem to recall accusatory words like, “you know” and “your silence is the same as lying.” There were other words, words with consequential meanings attached. Words like “you had better” and “time to think.”
I don’t care about what he did at school or what happened. I really don’t. I know if it was really egregious, I would have received a note from his teacher. There was none. It’s all benign stuff and typically classroom unruliness, the exercise is designed for the kids to gauge their own behavior on a daily basis and own up to it. They fill out the chart.
What bothers me is his unwillingness to stand up and tell me what he did. To do the right thing. He said he can’t remember.
He’ll have plenty of quiet time to clear his head when he gets home.
I asked her not to do it. Actually, I told her not to do it. NO MORE NOTES! My tolerance reserves have been tapped out and there is no foreseeable replenishment on the horizon. Frustrated hardly comes close to describing my general state right now.
Zoë, fresh off of her stint in detention, has brought home another note from her teacher. Another note that magnifies and over-inflates the most trivial, yet meaningless and common of second grader actions and activities. And as has become the norm, the note begins, “Zoë has made a poor choice…”
Really? Poor choice?? Is that really what you are trying to say? Are those the carefully chosen words you really want to use? Poor choice or rather, “Zoë has once again done something to annoy me and I don’t know how to cope!”
Poor choices, to me, would be something akin to “Zoë thought it would be fun to test the fire alarm during mass,” or “Zoë thought it would be a good idea to show the third grade class her underpants.” Poor choices, to me, might be be somewhere along the lines of, “Zoë decided to see how much tissue the third floor bathroom toilet could hold without it overflowing and flooded the two floors beneath it,” or “Zoë thought sharing food was acceptable and threw her peanut butter sandwich across the lunchroom starting the most horrendous food fight in St. Mary’s history.”
Those are poor choices.
But “Zoë pressed the buttons on her friend’s digital watch and messed up the settings.” That is not a poor choice. That is a kid doing what a kid is supposed to do. They explore. They touch. They feel. They press buttons.
Unfortunately, she pressed your buttons.
Certainly there were no malicious intents and, she asked her friend’s permission. The same friend, of course, that sold her up the river when she realized you were annoyed and denied having granted permission.
Zoë rarely expresses frustration. Ask her how her day was and without fail you will get a “Great!” or “Fantastic!” or “Best Day Ever!” She’s happy and content to the very core. But this morning I got a glimpse of something else.
While talking about an appointment we need to reschedule, I told her it may not be until June and that at least we wouldn’t have to worry about missing school. She said it was OK if she had to miss class for the appointment. I explained to her that the earliest we could get the appointment was June and that we would be out of school for summer.
She looked up with widened eyes at the realization that the school year is coming closer to an end and pumping a fist said, “Yes! Finally, my teacher won’t be yelling at me anymore!”
It has been a long–loooonnnnggg–school year made ever more so by the ridiculous focus on the minutiae of the life of a second grader. The scary part is, I’ve got 4 more I’ll be sending her way over the next several years. And she thinks Zoë is a handful. God help us all when the twins get there!
“Dad….I’ve got something to tell you and you’re probably going to be mad.”
“Oh, I don’t know Zoë. When you put it to me like that.”
“Did my teacher call you?”
“Oh Lord, Zoë. No, she didn’t What is it this time?”
“I got detention.”
“For what??!!”
“Not doing my homework.”
I suppose I should stop the recounting of our conversation here. Zoë does her homework. Daily. We have a homework routine that would rival many Harvard scholars. I credit my wife here for if it were left to me, the kids would wile away the afternoon hours idly playing in mud puddles, counting clouds and throwing rocks into the river.
As it is, we spend the time more productively with our studies: reading, mathematics, geography, spelling….you know–school stuff. To that mix there are a couple of study books in which Zoë is to complete daily lessons. Her only task is to make sure she brings the books home each night so that she can complete the lessons and return them to school the next morning to be checked.
Zoë has yet to embrace the significance of her daily shuttle missions and on more than one occasion forgotten the books at school. According to her detention slip–4 times. Seems her teacher was counting. (I know. It really seems pretty benign but there are rules…..sigh)
So my little girl, my trail blazer, my rebel is scheduled to serve her first detention. (Notice I said first. There will be more–of this I feel certain.) True to form, though, detention is just one more check on Zoë’s Great List of Adventures.
She was busy yesterday evening making wardrobe plans for the next dress down day. I told her that maybe she shouldn’t be so hasty there as if she recalls she had just informed me she was serving detention. Maybe there should be some consequences to that.
“But, Dad,” she said smiling, almost giddy. “There’s not. I just get to sit with the teachers for a while after school!”
Today marks the 100th Day of the school year. Not that I’ve been counting, but the school has. And my kids have certainly marked the day for themselves. It’s a dress down day. (That’s a big deal when you have to wear a uniform to school every day.)
Yet for some reason, this dress down day meant more work for me. Isn’t that always the case?
For it was not just any dress down day but a celebration of the 100th day and a huge school spirit kind of day.
Complete with face painting….
And green hair!
(It’s supposed to be a fleur de lis—in case you were wondering. It was early and I had not had nearly enough coffee!)
What we’ve got here….
I’ve used the phrase too many times to count. My kids can finish it. They know the movie, though never having seen it. In a pinch, they could probably give you a brief synopsis of the film and tell you who spoke the line. With very few exceptions it has been used in jest, a lighthearted addendum to the frustrations that surround any attempt at communicating with small children.
I would prefer to keep the phrase in that context. Light and playful. Never really having to experience the exasperated futility and frustration as did Strother Martin’s character, Captain. I’d also like a personal media room or to go the bathroom uninterrupted. But that ain’t happening.
The phrase stays–as does it’s implications with many of the people I find myself interacting on a regular basis.
The Bar Remains High
Apparently, I was unclear. You must have
Misunderstood when I used words like
Free spirit and bundle of joy.
Phrases like Full of energy, smart
As a whip, Loves life and
Laughter more. I know–
Very confusing.
I told you then that your task
Round pegs do not fit into square holes.
And whittling will not be tolerated.
(As always, Sunday sonnets does not adhere to the true form and
structure of a sonnet. It does not rhyme and may or may not have 14
lines. I just liked the way it sounded. Today’s Sunday sonnet was
inspired by a recent telephone conversation. You may remember this letter.)
“Hey, guys. How was school today?”
Typical question and I generally receive the typical answers. “Good.”
“Great.” “All Right.” “OK.” I’ve come to expect that. I’ll inquire
further requesting details and recounting of the day’s events with
varying levels of information provided in return. I know they’re not
trying to hide anything from me, it’s just that your typical kid thinks
very little about relaying the particulars of a general school day,
even at six and seven years old when school is still very exciting for
them.
I suppose my hope is that they will continue to share when they get
older and I am even further removed from the daily events of their
lives. (A guy can dream, right?)
I get progress on spelling words and writing journals, progress on math
addition and subtraction skills. Occasionally, they’ll throw in a
story or two about who they played with during recess or who they sat
with at lunch. Yesterday, however, was a classic.
“We got to sing for the Holy Family Luncheon!!” they both exclaimed.
“Really? That’s great. But I thought you guys were singing for the school on Friday.”
“Dad, we are. Today was the Holy Family Luncheon. The high school
choir was going to sing but they couldn’t make it because of the ice.
So we got to sing.”
“Oh….So what is the Holy Family Luncheon?”
And Zoë explained, “It’s a lunch that they have once a month for all of the Holy People who work for the church—–
and Grandma.”
All this time I’ve been referring to my mother-in-law as a saint.
Seems that while Grandma may be able to attend and participate in the
Holy Family Luncheon, Zoë is not so willing to consider the descriptive
moniker holy for her.
(To clarify, my kids attend a Catholic school and my mother-in-law is
the Director of Religious Education at the church there, a well
respected member of the church’s Holy Family. And regardless of what Zoë says, I still think she’s a saint.)
Tripping With UpTake
