Caden started preschool this year. The whole debacle began last Spring when I realized that my imperfect little barrel of random phrases (sometimes explosions of fervor involving words better suited for a prison inmate, ie: "come at me bitches" referring to his older brothers) needed to start preschool. I trembled at the thought of a macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken preschool teacher taking on this child. Common preschool redirect phrases such as, "that is so sad ... we don't eat glue .... put down the sharp scissors" exist in Caden's world as starting points of negotiation.
I live in a very ... conservative community. I found a neighborhood preschool in said community. I interviewed the macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken preschool teacher last Spring (her idea, certainly not mine, and whether or not I gave Caden benadryl preceeding the interview is not relevant to his incoherent silence during said interview, kidding). Caden was quiet (he was not high, maybe), I was hopeful our family would pass. We did, he got in, and I've spent the better part of the summer biting off my fingernails trying to make my erratic mess (Caden) socially acceptable so he doesn't get kicked out of conservative neighborhood preschool.
I live in a very ... conservative community. I found a neighborhood preschool in said community. I interviewed the macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken preschool teacher last Spring (her idea, certainly not mine, and whether or not I gave Caden benadryl preceeding the interview is not relevant to his incoherent silence during said interview, kidding). Caden was quiet (he was not high, maybe), I was hopeful our family would pass. We did, he got in, and I've spent the better part of the summer biting off my fingernails trying to make my erratic mess (Caden) socially acceptable so he doesn't get kicked out of conservative neighborhood preschool.
Open house. When you are a new mom, open house is a competetive sport. You look perfect, your child is perfect, and every other parent is simply hoping to be that sort of perfect. The reality is, it's a sham. You are clueless and the first time you catch a clue is when your child utterly and completely shatters your image of perfection. They will, you wait. You will be called to the floor of humility on more than one occasion trying to explain their stupidity. You will be mortified in the beginning, but with time you will realize the farce of perfection takes alot of effort when faced with, "is that your son eating dirt?" Yes, yes he is.
When you are a veteran mom, you are no longer concerned with this idea of perfection. Your once competetive edge is replaced with reality. Your child will eat dirt, maybe even glue, they will romance the idea of a vocabulary better suited for the gutter (in public places, of course), they will tantrum and scream, "don't spank me!" (again, in public). As their vocabulary takes off they will tell you they hate you and all the reasons you "suck". They will lie, they will work you over like a well oil machined until you take the bullet train to reality town. And finally, you, you my friend, are no longer a slave to bedazzled jeans. One does not draw attention to 38 years and 4 children worth of backside.
When I looked around the preschool realizing I was not a)pregnant b) recently delivered c) bedazzled, I suddenly realized I am a veteran. Honestly, I felt very smug and full of wisdom. I am the token older Mom in this preschool, but with that age comes an appreciation my younger counterparts have yet to realize. I love that Caden asks me for a kiss every day when I drop him off at school... because I know sooner than later he will roll his eyes when I ask for a hug in public. I love the school projects he proudly brings home to display because I know the day will soon be here when those little art projects end replaced by the days of "I can't doooooo it!" homework.
I have been told, "I hate you!" and even though I thought my heart would break into a million pieces, I survived to realize that phrase is really an emotionally packed shock value of, "listen to me, I'm hurting but I don't have the words to tell you how much". I've dried tears, felt intense pride (and intense embarassment). I have learned to not place my aspirations of perfection on my kids ... they will be what they will be, imperfect, flawed, and amazing.
Caden is doing amazingly well in conservative neighborhood preschool. His favorite part is snacks ... and yes, the teacher has already gently and apologetically explained to me that Caden cannot have his self-requested 2 snacks, only 1. It's okay macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken-prechool-teacher. I can handle it. Hopefully, you will do the same if/when Caden graces you with his ever expanding vocabulary skills, which until this time, he has not demonstrated for the class.
I have been told, "I hate you!" and even though I thought my heart would break into a million pieces, I survived to realize that phrase is really an emotionally packed shock value of, "listen to me, I'm hurting but I don't have the words to tell you how much". I've dried tears, felt intense pride (and intense embarassment). I have learned to not place my aspirations of perfection on my kids ... they will be what they will be, imperfect, flawed, and amazing.
Caden is doing amazingly well in conservative neighborhood preschool. His favorite part is snacks ... and yes, the teacher has already gently and apologetically explained to me that Caden cannot have his self-requested 2 snacks, only 1. It's okay macaroni-necklace-wearing-soft-spoken-prechool-teacher. I can handle it. Hopefully, you will do the same if/when Caden graces you with his ever expanding vocabulary skills, which until this time, he has not demonstrated for the class.
