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School Daze I am confident that our boy is ready. He flourished in preschool, but there were times when he needed me. A typical boy, Anton does not let loose with emotions in the same way that his younger sister does. He is most open to sharing his experiences or emotions just before he falls asleep. On his first day of preschool, he did not fuss when I slipped out of the room. Afterwards, his teacher informed me that he had participated well. I was so relieved that I dismissed my observation that he wore a "funny" look on his face. It was only after story time that he accused me. "You left me alone today." Guilt ridden, I explained that moms did not stay at school every day, that it was a time for him to be with his friends. We discussed the matter until he fell asleep. On the next preschool day, he was eager to go, and he waved me off at the door to his classroom. He had gotten over his concerns. But I will carry the scars from those five devastating words carved forever into my heart. My son learned a great deal in preschool, and he dutifully shared many of these "truths" with the rest of us. Justin, a classmate, informed him that the Easter Bunny was not real, that he had seen the straps at the back of his costume when visiting him at the mall. I was appalled. I did not want my son to lose his innocence at five. But then again, I have always found the mall’s six-foot tall, white monstrosity a far cry from how I envision Peter Cottontail. I was not sure how to handle this potential landmine. Anton saved me from having to; he provided his own explanation. "Mom," he confided. "He’s not really a rabbit. He’s a man in a suit, like Santa. He pretends to be a bunny so he can give kids candy and treats." I could live with this explanation, but I made Anton promise not to tell his sister. One afternoon, Anton shared another preschool truth with me when he came running inside. His eyes were huge. "I don’t want to lick a frog!" he shouted. Okay, that was a no brainer. I was in total agreement. "Then, don’t lick the frog." I proceeded with cleaning up the lunch dishes. "I don’t want to lick a frog," he repeated fearfully. I clearly was missing something. "Anton, you don’t have to lick a frog. What’s wrong?" "Matthew said that if you lick a frog, you die." "That’s not true." Though why the child was contemplating licking frogs remained beyond me. "No, Mom. You’re wrong. I’m right. Matthew saw it on TV." He had just invoked an authority that he considered infallible. I took a deep breath, preparing to embark on the usual discourse about not believing everything that you see on TV when I had a mental image of poison dart frogs on a National Geographic special. "Well, there are some frogs that can kill you if you lick them. But they’re in Brazil. I’ll show you how far away that is on the map." I pointed out the great distance between the two countries, and this satisfied him. He headed back outside. It was only as I finished cleaning up that I thought to shout out the window, "Anton, even though Wisconsin frogs aren’t poisonous, we still don’t lick them." Every Wednesday at preschool, Anton’s teacher encouraged parents to come in and assist at centers. On a lovely day in May, I shepherded the five-year-olds through colors Bingo while another mom assisted in the planting of sunflowers. While in my group, Anton was in a happy frame of mind. Ten minutes later, the groups switched. By the time that I had finished with this group, my son had reentered the room. He was clearly distraught. "What’s wrong, honey?" "The flowers! The flowers!" His tone suggested that he really meant: "The horror!" "What about the flowers?" "Samantha said . . . hiccup . . . sob." "Honey, calm down. Tell me what happened." "She said that if you swallow the seed, you’ll turn into a flower, and your ears will twist all up! Your ears, Mom! Your ears will get all twisty!" The ear thing really had him. "Honey, no. She’s teasing you. That’s only pretend." It took awhile, but with the reassurance of another adult, his teacher, he did eventually accept that we were telling the truth. But I, for one, have never looked at sunflower seeds in quite the same way. Summer time is also mosquito time in the Midwest. With the little flying varmints come fears of West Nile Virus. So, I hold my kids to the dawn-to-dusk rule. One evening, Anton asked me: "Mom, can we ride our bikes longer please? It’s not that dark yet." "No, Anton. The mosquitoes are coming out. It’s getting late." He leaped off his bike and began running with it towards the garage. "Anne, come on! The mosquitoes are coming." Anne did not respond. "They’re gonna get you, Anne! They’re gonna suck your blood! All of it! Like juice!" The juice part really got me. I could imagine what Anton was envisioning: an enormous, Kafka-esque creature descending from the sky, pinning him down and sucking him dry. He had the concepts right, but not the details. A literal world can be a very scary place. Lately, I have been trying to ready three-year-old Anne for her first year of preschool. We read books. We talk about it. I want to make it clear to her exactly what will happen, including the fact that I will be leaving her. "Mommy," she snuggles up against me as I tell her about how she will get to paint, play with play dough, sing, and play with other little girls. "Will you stay with me at school?" I feel a familiar ache in my heart. "Angel, school is for kids. You’ll have a great time, and I’ll be there to pick you up when you’re all done." "If you leave me, I won’t paint. I won’t sing. I’ll kick the other little girls . . ." "Sweetheart, I’ll be right in the hall. Don’t worry. You’ll love it. . ." I try to prepare each of my little darlings as they take these first steps towards independence. Perhaps, along the way, I will get myself ready a little bit as well. Caroline Akervik is a freelance writer whose humorous reflections on family life have been published in both print publications and on e-zines. Her romantic suspense novel, Calypso’s Secret, written under the pen name Isabelle Kane, will be released by Whiskey Creek Press in May of 2005. Look for more of her work at www.isabellekane.com. |
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