9-23-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 791 words
Legacy from Kindergarten
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
Everyone has a legacy. This is the legacy I have given
to my youngest son. On his folder, which tracks his daily activities as a brand
new kindergarten student, he has two check marks. One says: "Talked
excessively." The other: "Did not follow directions." Yesterday
he came home from school on the bus with his big brothers. I could tell he had a
secret lurking.... he was avoiding my eyes and not screaming in joy at having
been recognized for being "extra good." So I asked him: "How was
school?"
"Fine."
He replied, still avoiding eye contact.
"Did you do
anything great?"
He became
animated. "Yes! In gym class we played a cool game; and snack time was
really great!"
Then I asked:
"Did you get in trouble?"
"I don't
remember." He said.
"You don't
remember?" I queried, incredulous (the kid has a fabulous memory),
"well, let me see your folder."
Reluctantly, he
pulled the blue plastic folder out of his backpack and began to well up with
tears. "I might have done something wrong," he admitted, as the tears
threatened to spill.
Then I saw the
check marks: "Talked excessively" (#3 on the list of infractions) and
"Did not follow directions." (#7 on the really extensive list of
kindergarten "should not do list").
What could I
say? I wanted to burst out laughing. Really. Because if you were to say:
"Talks excessively, and does not follow directions...... who am I talking
about?" to anyone who knows me, who is related to me, who is my friend, but
most especially to my husband or my mother, they would scream, "YOU ARE
TALKING ABOUT KIMRA!"
I have always
talked excessively. In elementary school, middle school, high school, college,
and now in whatever group setting I participate in. I was recently told by my
husband, who teaches our Sunday School class, that if I could not enter the
class quietly, without disturbing everyone, I would not be allowed to enter. (I
arrive about 20 minutes late due to working with the children's music for the
first 20 minutes of Sunday School.)
The first Sunday
after he gave me the ultimatum, I entered the classroom, on tiptoe; my eyes
extra-wide with exaggerated concentration; my finger to my lips in the "shhhhhhh!"
motion. I made my way to my seat without a sound, while every eye was glued to
me. Finally, I plopped down in my seat. "Whew!" I belted out, "I
didn't think I would make it! Raymond told me that if I couldn't enter the room
quietly without disturbing everyone; I would not be allowed to come!"
Everyone laughed
because somehow I had managed to make my "quiet" entry even more
disruptive than my usual chatter-filled arrivals.
And directions:
Forget about it. I have never yet completed one successful sewing project from a
pattern. I can make stuff up, with minimal and mixed success, but give me a
pattern and a page of directions and all is lost.
And now my poor
baby had inherited all these traits straight from the mommy gene pool. What
could I say? First, I tried to be the "good" mother I knew I should
be. (I've read a lot of PARENT magazines). "I know it is hard to be quiet
and follow directions," I said, in my most sincere and mother-esque voice
(I still find it hard to believe that I am in charge around here), "but you
really need to work on it some more."
"Mommy."
My little guy said, leaning his head on his small hands. "I am VERY NEW to
kindergarten, you know. It's going to take some getting used to."
Spoken like a
true Kimra. When cornered with behavior modification, rationalize, rationalize,
rationalize.
Then I got soft.
"I have to tell you, though," I said to him, "that Mommy is 38
years old and I still get in trouble every week at choir practice." Putting
on my best "Mr. Jerry" voice, I said, "KIMRA HERB, COULD YOU
PLEASE YOUR VOICE MORE FOR SINGING AND LESS FOR TALKING?!"
My son giggled
at the thought. "Mr. Jerry yells at you?" He laughed.
"Every
week. Multiple times, every week." Okay, I am not proud of it, but my
talking brings a cohesiveness to the rag tag ensemble which makes up our choir;
a consistency from week to week, something for the other choir members to look
forward to.
Or so I
rationalize.
We're two peas
in a pod, myself and my youngest, and at this point all I can do is send him to
his father for counseling because frankly, I want to rationalize it all away,
saying, "well, he can't help it, he takes after me."
What a legacy.