Stumbling Toward Success

Both girls have begun another year of preschool now – Cecilia in the 2 class and Ellen in the 4 class, her last year before the Big K.  Cecilia had a fabulous time on her first day, and she now requests frequent sing-alongs.  “Mommy, SING with me” is my cue to begin either the “Choo Choo” song or “Twinkle Twinkle.”  At the end of class on her first day, she waved and smiled brightly at her teacher, Miss Kathy, who rewarded her with an enthusiastic, “What a nice goodbye!”  For the next day or two, when anyone in our family asked her what she thought of preschool, her proud answer was, “I’m good at saying goodbye!”     

            Ellen’s class activities will provide copious material for blog posts, I have a feeling.  Her 4 class will do a repeat of one of my favorite activities from her 3 class – the bringing home of the Class Stuffed Animal, naming it, then sharing its adventures with your classmates.  (Last year, when we opened our home to the Class Bear, the Bear was christened Elizabeth and then wed to Ellen’s own bear, Melissa, in what must have been the first Stuffed Animal gay marriage in the nation). 

            About a week before school began, Ellen received a 3x5 index card via snail mail.  One side was blank, and the other had a note from her teacher instructing her to draw any picture, of anything she wanted, so that she could talk about it with her classmates on the first day.  As I leafed through the pile of mail and saw the index card, I figured that Ellen would set to work on her drawing as soon as I could tell her that she had had something in the mailbox.

            “Ellen!” I exclaimed as I came through the door.  “You have something in the mail today!”  She came running over and I showed her the card and read it to her.  Her eyes did not alight as I assumed they would.  “Do you want to do it right now, and then you’ll be all set for school next week?” I asked. 

            “Nah,” she said.  “I’ll do it in a bit.”  I put it on the kitchen island and let it go.  When she never came back to it, I set it in plain view of her dinner plate, so she would be reminded of it that evening.  Dinner came and went and she never mentioned it.

            Two days before school was to begin, I said, “Ellen, your index card is in the kitchen.  I’ll go grab it so you can get started.  Are you going to use crayons or colored pencils?”  No reaction.  This was getting tricky.  What to do?  Ask again?  Launch into reasons why she should do it?  Make her sit at the table until it’s done?  Now (realizing that the following Words may have a “Famous Last” ring to them), I do not plan on being the kind of mother who hovers over her kids’ homework, at least once they’re old enough to understand what would be the natural consequence of not turning in an assignment.  And I like to start as I mean to continue, so now would be the perfect time to get into the habit of not being a homework nag.  But…this index card isn’t really “homework” per se – it’s just a little project the preschool teacher wants the kids to do so that they have a starting point for introducing themselves.  My desired Mother Persona is still intact (where homework is concerned, anyway), if I do a bit of reminding here.  This is the very first thing her brand new teacher has asked her to do this year.  And Ellen is only 4.  She still puts on a nighttime Pull-Up before bed, for crying out loud.  Surely if she showed up without her index card, that would reflect poorly on ME, not on her.  Better to be seen as a nag by my daughter than as an un-involved and/or disorganized parent by her teacher, right?  All these thoughts swirled and collided in my brain as I tried to decide what to do about this damned index card. 

            I came to the conclusion that two days was still plenty of time for her to get it done on her own terms.  I would just keep putting it where she could see it, and hope she’d do it without another reminder.  I would only bring it up again on the morning of her first day of preschool.  The index card went back to the kitchen.    

            The next day came and went, and the index card still lay blank on the table.  Finally, the First Day dawned.  “Ellen, we have to leave in half an hour,” I said, “so you should make sure that you’ve finished your drawing on your index card.  You might feel really sad if you were the only kid who didn’t bring one.”

            “I already DID it, Mom,” she replied.  “It’s by my backpack.”  What welcome news!

            “Oh, that’s GREAT!” I said, excitedly.  “Tell me about your picture!  What did you decide to draw?” 

            “Just a coupl’a brown scribbles.” 

            Brown scribbles on an index card.  This is the 4-year-old’s version of the extended middle finger.  “Hmm,” I said, mulling over how I would broach this issue.  “Really?  But you’re a great artist.  You didn’t decide to draw a picture of yourself, or of your family or something?”

            “Nah,” she said, with satisfied complacency.

            So I launched the discussion about doing our best work, so that we can feel good about what we’ve shown our teachers, and so that they know our potential and can best help us learn things we didn’t know before.  I led her back to the crayons and handed her the index card.  She wrote her name in the corner, then added some colors between the lines of the original brown scribbles, creating a stained glass effect.    

            Later, I relayed the story to Dave.  He grinned and said, “Sounds like the way I used to do homework – at the last minute and with the least amount of effort possible.” 

            Here was some food for thought.  I used to do homework as soon as it was assigned, obsessively and to perfection.  Excelling was the key to happiness, and any career path could be the right one, as long as it let me keep pumping out A-plus-work.  Go Go Gadget Brain, to a high school diploma, Bachelor’s degree, and Master’s degree, without really thinking about how what I was learning would serve me in the end, and definitely neglecting to recognize that excelling doesn’t mean much unless you’re excelling in the right thing.  Now, seven years after closing the last blue book after the last final of graduate school at the U of MN, I have a waaaaay over-educated hobby of choral music, and an overdue (albeit freeing) realization that my true calling is not music, but writing.  The career path I chose was no “path” at all, but a deception – like a trail in the woods that looks promising for just enough steps to lure you in, then peters out so that you are utterly lost and being whacked by low-hanging foliage to boot. 

            On the other hand Dave, Mr. At-the-Last-Minute, is now properly addressed as Dr. At-the-Last-Minute, and hasn’t questioned medicine as his true calling since he graduated.       

           
           “Yep, she’s like you alright,” I said to Dave, and I walked away without a shred of worry.