Blue Moon

The summer's off to a roaring start as we juggle from kitchen to shoe rack to pool.  Damp towels curled up like heavy roadkill on the bathmat keep me absolutely insane.  The kids and I are pink and waterlogged before dinner.  It's been hot dogs a lot for dinner.  The days take on a choppy rhythm of ease, rush, ease, rush, then BLAMMO - exhaustion.  Seven pm comes before any of us have had dessert.

I would tuck in the children tonight but I don't want to even a little.  Me and my room temperature Blue Moon will not peel ourselves from this temporary hide and please have mercy on my soul don't seek.  The TVs on in the living room pushing out ocean spray and intermittent beeps from a captain's ship where, I'm sure, there is no television.

I've grown to detest TV.  It is loud box of noise which scrambles things in my mind that reach for each other then drop hold at their fingertips.  Less of a dying and more of a never met.

There is this story I want to write about the most darling broken kitten I found off a parkway on Father's Day and I will.   But stories are hiding behind eaves of frustrated bricks, stacking themselves tightly around something I can't name:  fatigue, angst, disappointment, fear, PMS?  I don't know but my skull feels dark with black cooking grease, the kind that pops off the pan and right into the crease of your garbage can.

I'm hearing thumps and echoes in the tub that is the kitten climbing and slipping with her legs outstretched like it's the Rebel Yell.  The only sound better is her purring.  A kitten's purr makes up for everything.  One slow blink of their almond eyes and all is forgiven.

It's been months since I've gone to bed willingly.  Like I'm fending off the moon with a desire to lay thoughts down on a table in singular file with all edges aligned.  Until the morning comes to scatter them to oblivion.

The kitten is quiet now.  She would tuck herself in if I never closed her kennel for her.  But I will do my rounds:  straighten covers, check doors, brush chlorinated hair from sweaty temples.  Then I'll return to this quiet room and stale Blue Moon to see about those stories.

Easy as ABCs

Abby's preschool teacher seems very concerned she does not know all of her letters or numbers yet.  I'm still very concerned Abby won't eat carrots anymore and cannot breathe through her nose.

Perspective.

Abby's 5.  She is in preschool.  Since my chat with the teacher I've thought really hard about things and my conclusions are:

A.) Preschool is where kids learn to stand in line, sit criss-cross applesauce, and try not to walk around with their hand in their pants.  If they're wearing pants.  Basic readiness skills.  Pre = Before.  Before School skills.  Seems simple enough.

B.)  What happened to readiness anyway?  Did Common Core eat it?  This preschool is well sought-after and typically wait listed and now I'm learning why.  They move forward with academics.  Which is awesome.  If your kids is developmentally ready for that.  While mine rolls her eyes, has mastered a straddle split, and mispronounces "evidentally" yet uses the mispronunciation correctly, she is not developmentally ready for letter/sound recognition.  Her brain is soaking things in at such a rapid rate that it will soon be ready.  But not yet.  Right now she is busy making rainbows on every pond stone in our garden and I am going to support the live arts dammit.

C.) Part of me is tragically embarrassed that I, a former special education teacher of 5 years, cannot get her child to learn her ABCs by the end of preschool.  What kind of credentials do I hold if my own daughter hands me a Q when I ask for a K?  Bless her heart, she is pushing for accolades.   "Watch me read, Mommy!"  And I do.  I watch her recite three BOB books in their entirety and marvel at her ability to memorize.  What kind of determined spirit memorizes - verbatim- three books of words she does not yet understand are words yet.  A very bright and hopeful spirit.

And then there is this.  "Mommy, did you know "a" is a word all by itself?"  She's getting there, it's a process.
Despite the fact that I have worked on ABCs with her, Abby's teacher has given her nightly homework and I agreed to it, like a chump.  The first one was completed this morning.  She cranked out those As like a star student.  Then she colored each one in the center with pink.  Then she connected them so they wouldn't be lonely like a lacy Valentine.  Because she's five.  A bright and hopeful five.

I do understand that the teacher's heart is in the right place.  She wants Abby to keep up with the class.  She doesn't want to leave Abby behind.

But that is where the trouble starts for me.  Behind.  Behind what?  Behind whom?  Is Common Core such a threat to the educational system that it is now infiltrating our nation's preschool curriculum?  Will my daughter join the other 5-6 year olds in the fall and not be able to sing The Wheels on the Bus?  Will she be a poor line leader because she thinks S is a C because it makes the "sss" sound?  Will Abby kick other children in the shins at the water fountain because they can find R without singing the entire alphabet song?  Maybe yes for the last one if the kid is mean about it.  

I am in the process of letting Abby be her five:  painting by number on the porch (she does all the 1s, is exhausted, and asks for a snack after that), dragging her stuffed animals along for a walk causing neighbors to rubberneck, feeding her babydoll spinach instead of more Goldfish.  I am letting Abby be her five.

But I didn't at first.  After conferencing with her teacher, my knee-jerk reaction was to buy ABC puzzles, games, books, that make learning "fun!"  Only a mother like me cannot make teaching a daughter like her fun to save her soul.  When Abby kept calling E a V, I lost all worldly compassion and drilled her with direct instruction until we were both in tears.  My investment was too high, her risk was too deep and our frustrations imploded all over the living room rug.

Suddenly I am the one kicking kindergartners in the shins at the water fountain.  I felt like I was bullying her into learning to slalom before she learned to ski.  My girl tries and tries but covers up her understanding with silly faces and clever insight, "Mommy!  Why did the walrus have a baby?  Because it wanted to kiss her all the time."

Green witch.  Flying monkeys.

But no more.  I'm releasing my teacher guilt to the universe where it can feed stars.  I was a teacher in another life.  It was awful.  It was glorious.  I have nothing to prove to anyone.  It is over.  Right now, I'm Abby's mom with her best interest at heart and I can't forget that.  I'm the one who knows when she's ready for something or not.  She's showing interest in letters and she's getting there to learn them, gradually.  At her pace.  I'm the one who protects her from pressures and stress.  I will not be the one causing it.