Looking Back

Facebook was saturated this week with posts of first day of school pics, little kids carrying backpacks half their size, comments of "how did they grow up to be this age?" and #sniffsniff.  We joined in with our own picture of Oliver standing in his locker.

Oliver turned five this summer, and everyone wanted to know if he is going to kindergarten.  Friends, relatives, coworkers, the clerk at the grocery store, the guy selling us a pizza.  I answer them all the same.  No, he is not. He is doing another year of preschool.  He's totally ready for kindergarten, I'm quick to point out.  But we decided that it was best to wait because of these 37 reasons: and then I proceed to list them off.






I hate that I do that.  I feel like I have to point out that he is bright enough and socially confident enough for kindergarten. And he is, but if he wasn't, that would be absolutely fine, we would be just as proud of our Oliver.  But if I just answered, "no, he's not going to kindergarten," there's this pause where the other person waits for me to explain, or they are quick to add their own explanation, to make sure I know that it's okay that we may be going against a societal norm.  This is absolutely stupid.  Every child and family is different and there is no universally correct decision on when summer birthday kids should start kindergarten.  Yet if feels like we should be at the ready with our reasons, especially when others ask Oliver excitedly, "are you starting kindergarten this year?!" I worry that he thinks he should be doing something that he isn't, that he is somehow being held back, or isn't good enough for something.  I worry that he picks up on societal expectations that his mother is picking up on, too. So I have answers at the ready for him. No, I tell them on his behalf, but he is going to a new school, in a new building, and gets to go every day because he's five now! I'm trying to protect his confidence but I wonder if I'm doing a disservice by acting like I have to have an excuse for our decision.






In case you're curious, in Oliver's case, we're thinking about his future.  Would it be easier for him to be the youngest or the oldest in his class?  We thought about sports, academics, and development in general.  Some teacher friends of mine advised that it's not necessarily about kindergarten readiness, but that often in the 3rd to 5th grade is when they see a big maturity gap between the early starters and late starters, especially with boys.  Adults who started early have shared with us that they wish they had waited because they felt like they were always struggling to catch up.  Without the availability of a crystal ball, we based our decision on the best information we have at this point in time.  Another year could only benefit Oliver.  And Michael said something that solidified our decision: he has his entire life to hurry up and grow up. If he can have another year to be more of a kid, we're going to give it to him. 






I'm reading a book* called "A Year of  Learning Dangerously: Adventures in Homeschooling " by Quinn Cummings.  In it, the author talks about her decision to homeschool her child.  I came across this sentiment that illustrates my wish for Oliver as he grows:






"...I was also concerned that her homework load would increase with each passing year, leaving her less free time to follow a sudden curiosity, delve deeper into a random subject, absorb herself with a pointless activity or create something for no better reason than the muse struck her.  I was greedy.  I wanted her to stretch her mind and self-confidence, but I also wanted her to play with friends, read books, listen to music and glaze over with the pleasant boredom of a long afternoon with no place to be and nothing to do."






So yeah, more of this:

Without the parental trauma of sending my little itty bitty 5-year-old off on a bus to be at school for seven hours each day, I expected today's drop off to be emotionally uneventful. He had done preschool all last year for half days two days a week, and we have prepped him well this year.  He was excited to meet all new friends in a new school building.  The biggest difference is that he will be going five days a week instead of two.  Which is a perfect way to get him ready for next year. 




Yes, five days a week will be a really good thing, I told myself this morning.  And then in the van after drop-off, I fake-cried to Michael, "Oliver won't be with us in the mornings any more."  But then I heard what I said, and added, "Ever," and my fake sobs turned into real ones.  During the school year, from here on out, Oliver won't be spending lazy mornings with me in PJs, watching the garbage trucks come, waiting for the mailman, going to morning story time at the library, eating a mid-morning snack on the trampoline, or helping me mash bananas for bread.  That chapter is gone.  Gone.



Oliver walked into his classroom without us this morning, waved and gave a dimpled smile to his new teachers. He didn't look back at us once, but we sure looked back at him.  It will always be going by too fast.












*A Year of Learning Dangerously: Adventures in Homeschooling" by Quinn Cummings (Penguin, 2012)