10-25-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 1027 words
Experience helps with a kindergarten teacher
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
Life has this
strange way of throwing you curve balls. When my husband and I took our
seats in the tiny little chairs of our youngest's kindergarten classroom, we
were prepared for the worst. After all, this was our third child; the third time
we had wedged our grown up bodies onto a tiny little chair to face off with a
kindergarten teacher, and we pretty much knew what to expect.
The first time
we went a round with the kindergarten teacher, we were naive. I guess both of us
fully expected to be congratulated on our fine parenting skills; to be praised
for sharing such a wonderful and well-rounded child with the school, and
certainly we expected to hear how brilliant our first-born son was. What we were
in no way prepared for, was the onslaught of bad news his kindergarten threw our
way. Our son, the light of our life, was progressing slowly in motor skills, he
had no interest in coloring (a sin, it seemed, for a kindergarten student), he
was restless, he interrupted, he continually talked, he had trouble following
directions, and then, she dropped the big bomb. "You might want to
consider," she said, "that because he had an August birthday, and is
so young, allowing him to repeat kindergarten."
What the.....?
This was our
bright light; our shining star, our prodigy. It only took my husband a moment to
recuperate from the shock of hearing her assessment before he retaliated with
his own theories about education; how it is more important to make the child
LIKE school than to force him to color; to encourage each and every child on his
or her own level--that we would certainly NOT consider holding back our
bright,bright son, and, (here he pulled out his big guns) when HE was a child in
kindergarten, the most challenging task of the day would involve poking
toothpicks into a sweet potato and watching it grow over the next few weeks.
"And
now," he concluded, leaving the teacher nearly in tears from his onslaught,
"I am an aeronautical engineer. So I don't think I suffered any from lack
of education."
Round two was
just two years later when the teacher told us our second born; our gregarious
and personable child ALSO could not sit still; that he would rather run than to
write (a sin, it seemed, that both of our boys shared at the age of five), and
most of all, they were terribly worried because he drew his people without any
appendages at all. No arms, no legs, just a head and a body with a wobbly smile.
"But he's
just five years old!" I protested, when she pulled out the drawing he had
made of our family. The four of us were just eight stacked balls with wobbly
smiles and misplaced eyes, a sign, she noted, of a deeply disturbed child.
"Only a
child with zero self esteem draws himself without any arms or legs." She
concluded.
Before I could
even shed one tear over my poor son's diagnosis, my hubby ripped into her with
HIS analysis of why he felt that if our child was not succeeded to his
potential; the failing was in HER, the teacher, and not in our son. Once again,
he finished with his sweet potato story, and once again, the teacher ushered us
out, beaten and agreeing that we should indeed give the boy some time.
As it turned
out, both boys got through their early school years and are flourishing well.
Both are now well-rounded, good students, and manage to sit entire school days
without falling out of the chairs or causing any problems. They now draw people
with arms and legs, and both of them STILL don't like to color.
So there we
were, once again, in a kindergarten classroom, perched in tiny chairs, and
bracing ourselves for the worst. Though it had been eight years since he had
uttered it, I could see my hubby practicing his sweet-potato big finish, and I
steeled myself not to take anything my son's teachers said too seriously.
They thanked us
for coming, and then opened the folder. "We'd like you to take a look at
your son's handwriting." They said, handing us a sheet of paper. Uh-oh.
Here it comes. I thought, willing myself to look. And here it came..... they
dropped the bombshell. "We think he is doing fabulously!"
What? What did
they say?
"We just
LOVE him!" One of his teachers gushed, (she GUSHED, I SWEAR she did!) and
the other added,
"Oh yes, we
LOVE him! He is such a smart boy! He is so wonderful; a great student; just look
at his handwriting- it is marvelous!" They continued to onslaught us with
praise for our son, offering nothing but good words about him, and finished it
with the traditional "Any questions?"
This was usually
the part where we retaliated. Instead, we were struck dumb with the knowledge
that our child, it appeared, was perfect. Finally I thought of something.
"What about his behavior? He's so much younger than his brothers.....
sometimes he can be a bit spoiled."
"Oh, no,
not him!" They chimed. "In fact, he is an example of good behavior! He
had a rough day or two at the beginning of the year, but once he learned the
rules; he has never broken them since. We wish all of our students could be as
well behaved as your son."
Curve ball
indeed. We walked to the car unable to speak. In some strange way, it was a
letdown- here we had all these great stories of our older children who were
given such grim outlooks in kindergarten and now were taking honors courses and
making straight A's..... and no forum to share.
“He's
perfect." I turned to my husband.
"I knew
that already." He replied. "They all are. It's just too bad," he
concluded, "that I wasn't able to tell them that I know they are all
perfect, whether or not they agree."
"Yeah."
I concurred. "And I really missed the sweet potato story."