Mar
3
I recently wrote about fretting over kindergarten, and it’s true, I am. Fretting, that is. Sort of. I mean, during the times I forget that it’s not sort of ridiculous to fret over kindergarten.
I’m not thrilled about the school’s policy of daily homework, but I realize I have no idea what that means yet. It probably doesn’t mean, like, five consecutive hours of long division (SHOW YOUR WORK!), right?
I’m torn on whether we should start Riley in full day or not. On the one hand, I didn’t plan on doing so, because why not take advantage of the fact that I’m at home while we can, he’s sure got plenty of years ahead of him when he’ll be required to spend his entire day in classrooms. On the other hand, it sounds like he’d miss a lot of fun stuff (basically everything outside of reading and math) if we only do half days, and maybe more importantly to my decision-making, be one of only a tiny handful of kids who go home at 11:30.
(Note that half days are free while full days cost $350/month. I assume one of the reasons so many kids do the full day option is because it’s so much more affordable than daycare.)
(Oddly, the entire Bellevue school district is released after lunch on Wednesdays. That must be a nice pain in the ass for working parents.)
(WHAT IS WITH ALL THE PARENTHESES OH GOD I CAN’T STOP.)
I don’t know how much I should worry about the fact that his school has relatively low testing scores as compared to the rest of Bellevue, or whether or not it’s even politically correct to helplessly wonder if the large percent (40%) of transitional bilingual students slows down the rest of the classes.
Our neighborhood is a microcosm of low/mid income in the midst of a ridiculously opulent suburban area. The best schools, at least according to scores and ratings? Situated in areas we could never afford to move to.
I catch myself spiraling down a rabbit hole of lip-chewing and I grab for perspective but I don’t know, I feel completely unqualified for thinking about these sorts of things. There’s so much I hope and want for my kids in school—not really in terms of amazing grades, but in happiness and a sense of adventure and an appreciation for the outdoors and not getting caught up in the bullshit of comparing yourself to others—and I know it’s up to us to help guide them.
Which is exactly what makes me worry, I guess. Wondering if there’s something I should be doing now to improve their chances.
Feb
28
The other day we were driving home from somewhere and Riley was rooting around in the cupholder attached to his booster seat, grousing because he couldn’t find a Lego he’d dropped in there. For no particular reason I said well, maybe the tiny alligator that lives in the cupholders accidentally ate it.
No way, Mom, he said. Alligators are too big to live in cupholders.
Not this one, I told him. This alligator is super tiny, because it lives on the crumbs that fall in there.
It’s too tiny to bite people? he asked.
Oh yeah, I said. Besides, this alligator’s really nice. It doesn’t want to bite people. It just wants to eat the crumbs from your crackers and cookies and things.
Well why don’t I ever see it? he asked.
Because it’s scared of people. I mean, to the alligator you’re like a huge giant. The alligator doesn’t know you’re actually a friendly boy.
Riley asked all sorts of questions about the alligator, and later he wanted to make a little bed for the alligator so it wouldn’t get too cold at night. He made a pillow out of an old sock, tucked in a washcloth for the blanket, and dropped a piece of waffle on top. There, he said with satisfaction.
The next day when we got back in the car, he shouted with surprise at the note waiting for him in his cupholder.
This is from the ALLIGATOR, he breathed. Its name is Al . . Allie.
He went on: I can’t believe it! I can’t believe the alligator left me a note! I’m so happy the alligator likes me, Mom.
So, you tell me: was that wrong?
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