Rushing? Too Slow?

Corey went to an in-home daycare just before he turned one. It was a fabulous place, but took about half my earnings to keep him there. A year later, he was able to go to nursery school where Grandma (AKA Saint Margaret of the Children) was the director. It was good in terms of academics and potty training and excellent for my wallet. Nursery school on the family plan cost the same as about seven days at the in-home daycare.

On the other hand, within about a week Corey learned about Power Rangers, guns and fighting. And he found out what it felt like when a cute little red headed girl with an equally fiery personality chomped on his arm. A few times.

Preschool was at a private Christian school (yes, my son heard the word of god. No, no lightning strikes at pick up or drop off. I am not surprised). Academically excellent, this place was more expensive and the parent population was older and more professional, which seemed to translate into calmer classmates. Only by then, genetics and environment and who knows what else combined to begin giving hints of what was in store from my beloved son. And the preschool had one teacher who insisted that the children move from one room or space to another with their hands clasped on top of their heads.

Like mini criminals being taught to assume the position.

Whether it's fair or rational or not, I associate preschool with the start of Corey's problems. The place where testing would show that he was functioning academically like a seven year old, but where brief observation would point out glaring deficiencies.

Apparently I harbor a grudge against preschool.

Having Grandma care for our girls in her home, teaching them their letters and numbers, shapes and colors, and keeping them away from those yucky kids with foul mouths and hurtful hands...

I won't lie, it has been a dream come true.

For the better part of two years, Madelyn has been talking about going to preschool. We told her she could go when she turned four.

And then we made her wait another four and a half months until the new year started up.

I got referrals from no fewer than three sources and ended up with a list of about 25 places in the cities around my job.

Looked at online reviews, made a few calls and narrowed it to six.

Note to preschools and daycare centers everywhere: If you have an outgoing message instead of a person answering you're phone, it's a no. If your outgoing message talks about your "curriclium," it's a hell no.

Presented the list to Margaret, who chopped one off.

Tom, Margaret and I came up with a list of questions aside from the ones I'd used to grill whomever answered the phone at each site.

Yes, I did organize the questions into four categories and make a spread sheet so we could do forced scoring after each visit.

Note to preschools and daycare administrators everywhere: Your teachers should acknowledge the parents of their potential future students. Ignoring us and/or scowling in our general direction will not encourage us to leave our special snowflakes with you.

Special note to Montessori schools: If you spend "the first two hours doing paperwork with the kids," then you are not a Montessori, regardless of how many fun looking wood toys you have sitting off to the side. And if you are the owner of said school because you "fell into it while going to medical school" and then "decided to go for it while pursuing a criminal justice degree and working on computers" you really don't have the focus we are seeking. Also, "ingredience" is not a word. It's bad enough that you charge $165 a week and make the parents provide meals and snacks. At least have the decency to spell check your damn list of demands.

Do I seem overly harsh? I probably am. As I say, I hold a grudge against preschools and day cares everywhere. I didn't even know it until recently.

Madelyn started preschool last week. She had a "free day" to check it out toward the end of August.

We signed Mad up to go twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. Of course, school started the week of a holiday, but I'd rather her be shorted one day than miss the whole week.

She and I had a few good talks about school. One went like this:

"Blah blah blah and then Mama will come pick you up after lunch."

"You're going to leave me there?"

"I am. Well, I mean... you'll see that the other parents don't stick around. I could stay if you're not comfortable with me leaving you, it's just not how most people do it."

"I'm comfortable with you leaving me."

"Well, alrighty then."

The free day went well enough. There was a cash register to play with, and Madelyn decorated a dog tracing with little pieces of brown yarn.

(Saint Margaret of the Children says that she would never make a tracing; children should be allowed to use their own imaginations. In case you were wondering. Rowr!)

But when we picked her up, she burst into tears.

Because Mama left her.

Wednesday morning, Fynn left with Daddy in the wee hours and headed off to Grandma's. I'd taken her with us on the free day and it was hard to explain to her why Sister was over there doing that while she was supposed to stay over here with me.

Madelyn and I had talked a few times about how I would stay for a little while, until she was comfortable, and then I would go to work and return after lunch, but before the other kids went to nap. She seemed to get it.

She would venture off for a few seconds and then come back for a quick hug or to ask a question. This checking in reminded me of her crawling and toddling stage when she was just starting to explore away from me. Once she was settled in, I repeated our plan.

"I am going to work. I'll be back after you eat lunch, but before the other kids go to nap."

And then I left after a smooch and a hug.

At some point in the morning, her teacher got a break. Who knows if she pointed out the new adult in the room or not or said that she would be back? Most of the kids have probably been "going to school" for years already. Probably at that same place.

Madelyn was upset and crying when Ms. Juanita came back.

And then, there was this point where the kids had to come in from playing at the playground outside.

Oh, the tears!

Well, listen. I know my girl. This is the one for whom there are "let's not have a meltdown" discussions before during and after a trip to the park.

But Ms. Juanita actually seemed to attribute all of Mad's crying (off and on for two hours) to the fact that, you guessed it...

She missed Mama.

Here's what I don't get: I am not the one she clings to at home.

She has mostly stopped asking Tom to go to the potty with her in the past couple weeks. Me? Months ago. Yeah, because I make her head off on her own and then show up when she's almost done.

At night when she calls downstairs to say she needs someone to go with her? I ask her to feel around on the wall and flip the switch.

"Now you can see where you're going. Go ahead and go."

I am that mom. Not the coddling, babying, delaying independence type of parent at all.

But when I went into her room and the teacher said, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. She's crying. She wants her mama." And then my girl runs over to me sobbing with swollen, red eyes and a red nose...

I scooped her up and was rocking her in a toddler sized chair and whispering little words of love into her hair when Tom walked in (a total surprise to Mad and I that momentarily made the sobbing start up again).

We decided to try again on Monday. Sunday evening I took her out to get new school shoes. She talked about not wanting to be left at school. About feeling sad and missing me.

"Daddy and I really want you to try again."

She hung her head and quietly said, "I know." Like it was her duty as our daughter to go and do this terrible thing, but she would. For us.

Monday morning I suggested she wear a particular shirt.

"Do you see the word right there? Do you know what it says?"

"Yeah, what's it say?"

"It says peace. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, what's it mean?" (We have never had a problem with her saying no. She says yes to everything.)

"It's a calm, good feeling that means everything is going to be okay. It's how I want you to feel while you're at school."

With tears welling in her eyes, she said, "I just don't want to go. I don't want you to leave me there."

I opened my mouth to say something wise.  All that came out was, "You do not have to go."


That afternoon I spoke with Ms. Juanita about Mad's time in class last week on Wednesday. No surprise to me, she did great on all of the schoolwork. (During and around the crying, she did all of Wednesday's assignments, plus made up for being out on Tuesday. This is our girl who thinks reading is good, spelling is fun and counting her money is awesome.) Mad did well socially, too. She played with the other kids and had no problems sharing.


Although he denies it, I suspect Tom was pretty upset with me for not making her go on Monday. Or something. We were all upset for maybe different reasons, I guess.

I have strong feelings about what the right thing is to do here.

To me, she is simply not ready. This is a girl who knows what she is thinking and how she is feeling, and she knows how to express herself clearly. I believe that should be respected. (Plus, why are we paying for her to be tortured eight hours a week? I think we could at least wait until she's a teen to do that. Makes a lot more sense!)

Unless I'm wrong. Because there is this history with me, my kid and preschool. Going through all the prep work to find the right place for Mad made me realize that. And if there's one thing that having your first two kids 15 years apart can teach you, it's that some of those times when you thought you made the best decision... you did not.

Or, as I said to Tom, I am prepared to stand my ground on this one. I will fight to the bitter end. However, I don't want you to just agree with me.

Yeah, because that's not crazy talk.

This is probably not much of a surprise, but Tom and I didn't rush into a decision regarding Madelyn and preschool. We discussed with one another and with others. We weighed options and tried to discern which freaking way would be the best one for Madelyn.


Note to jackasses everywhere: The statement, "She's gonna have to learn sometime," is asinine. She is four. In our world, preschool is an option. As long as that's true, she does not have to learn it right now.

Also, I am not kidding when I say that my motto for this school year is, "I have a limited tolerance for jackassery." Forewarned is forearmed.


We talked with Madelyn. Mostly I stayed back from those conversations because I wonder if I'm projecting something that she's picking up. I hope not.

Somehow in all the brouhaha between Monday and yesterday, Madelyn decided that she would go to school again. But she would bring her stuffed rocket.  She changed her own name to Rocket, too. (Yes, again.)

It was all going so well. Right up to the point when I called Tom. I was there and I'm still not sure what happened. We ended up going straight to Grandma's house.

I floated the idea of trying again later.

"Maybe we can try again when you're a little older, like four and a half or in the spring."

"Maybe when I'm five."

"What about when you're four and a half?"

"What about when I'm five and a half?"

So... that went well.

Corey, Corey, Corey

It's been a while since I've aimed a blog post at my son, but it seems like now is as good a time as any. Plus, this is good news, so I've got to get while the getting's good.

Today my son finished tenth grade. Sure, the school year ended for most kids around here somewhere between two and three months ago (why is there such a spread?!?). But Corey's been doing an independent study program since starting eighth grade. He's done well, too.

I'd had him held back for various reasons in sixth grade. One of the reasons this worked was that he was barely up to my shoulder (I'm 5'7"). Imagine my chagrin when he sprouted about six inches and grew a mustache at the age of 12. No, not just a peach fuzz 'stache; a full-blown, my-grown-friends-are-jealous-and-are-you-sure-Magnum-PI-isn't-his-dad doozy.

One thing Corey has always had on his side (if only he would use his powers for good and not eevilll) is that he's smart. Very smart.

During his seventh grade year he completed seventh and eighth grades. The following year he took a more leisurely approach and completed ninth grade about seven weeks into his tenth grade year.

Surprisingly, we both lived.

Somewhere around the middle of October, he began plugging away on the current curriculum. One of the assignments was a math packet that the teacher explained was the hardest one he'd face. He added (not that Corey was listening) that all of the remaining packets are fairly easy in comparison.

Aside from his other work, that packet took nearly 10 months. It should have been done well within a few weeks. He tried everything, and I do mean everything to get out of doing it.

Don't believe me? I have the chest Xrays, neurological assessments and MRI results to prove that, no, he does not have a heart malady, seizure disorder or any other health impairment along those lines.

Ahem... I said this was good news. Got a bit off topic there. Sorry.

So last week he finally got to the part where it was time to take the test. There were three days of antics surrounding that, and ultimately, he failed. Yesterday he was all set to take it again. Naturally he left the study guide (which has to be submitted to take the test) at home.

I should mention that I was off yesterday, so I did drive it to him... 55 miles each way to make sure he wasn't getting away with anything.

Oh, I'm gonna win this one.

After a brief pep talk that excluded all the other things I was thinking, he went in and passed the freaking test.

Whoop whoop!

Here's where things get a little tricky: Corey wants to go to a traditional high school, but if his units completed don't match up with the school year in progress, he's screwed out of credit for work completed.***

The neighborhood high school starts in a few days. He still had a couple of units to complete in an earth science class or he'd have to take the semester over.

Today he passed both tests.

Tonight he got his first cell phone. He would have loved one, oh, five years ago, but he's never been in need of one.

Tomorrow we're enrolling.

Thursday he starts school. Up here. Fifty miles from my job. Seventy miles from Tom's.

He's a boy with a history of acting goofy and/or obnoxious just to get attention.

His temper can flare pretty quickly, although it generally has been under control lately.

He wants to make friends, but hasn't really mastered that aspect of life. So identifying the good'uns versus the baddies isn't a skill he's acquired.

I'm not afraid.

I'm not afraid.

Okay, I'm scared out of my mind, but I don't think he knows that.


***Oh yeah. Remember that math test he took yesterday? Well, he will be getting the one credit that comes from it, but he will still have to redo that semester. Ask me how much I care? G'head, ask me.

Tough Day

Something must have been in the air today. Corey started off with an attitude and energy that was so bad, neither Madelyn nor Maisy wanted to be near him. Neither did I, but not the same as them, haha. Not sure what his deal was, but by the time we were on the road this morning, he seemed to have settled back down.

He had school today. When it was over, he reported having passed three tests. An hour or so later his teacher called to discuss his lack of progress. Thankfully, Mom was able to take Corey back so he could do some of the things he had claimed to have completed. Between his problems today and the fact that he's grounded indefinitely from the computer for checking out porn... again... and causing problems on our computer... again... I'm not clear why my mom let him play Civilization this afternoon.

Every school I stopped at today had something come up that took longer than expected. One stop was supposed to last about 10 minutes, max. Forty-five minutes later, I finally clawed my way out the door (okay, that's a wee exaggeration... I love that class and would have liked to stay longer, but my schedule was slammed).

The teachers I met with or spoke to on the phone had one drama after another. At one school, I arrived just as one student was being wheeled out of the classroom and into an ambulance. It had taken the school nurse two minutes to locate her pulse because she is over-medicated. Her foster mother stood there claiming it was "not medical, it's behavioral." Yeah, right. A mentally retarded girl is feigning being unconscious with a weak pulse. We all get that the girl is "hell on wheels" without medication, but I still want to know who put this woman in charge of kids?!?

When all was said and done, I went out to see Ken and Nance at the hospital. Another friend, Evie, was also there. I walked in and proceeded to put three masks on my head. One over my nose and mouth and the other two over my ears. I can't always make them laugh, but it worked today.

Nancy has requested that the doctors and nurses continue to give Ken blood products until he is unconscious. That way he will never feel like he gave up or was a quitter. After my shenanigans, I went over to greet Ken. He looked so sad. He was so sad. He knows things are not working. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, expecting that he would ask me to pray. Instead, he shook his head no and said there was nothing anybody could do. I held his hand and told him I loved him and we all just tried to breathe our way through the pain. Ken's concentration on his breathing reminded me of being in labor.

We got through the moment and talked about cars and yards. I held back from saying anything like, "When you come up and see the house... ," but those thoughts were still right there, even though I know he won't.


I'm not sure why there were no tissues in his room, but we all agreed that the toilet paper is soft and absorbent, and thank goodness for that.

Sometimes he pulled one knee up as he lay there. That's how he was when I walked in. I honestly didn't understand that it was his leg at first. I thought maybe he had some sort of device to keep the blankets off his legs. It didn't seem possible that it was his leg.

When their son and his fiancee arrived, I hit the road. The drive to get Corey was uneventful, but between Mom's (where Corey stays) and Dad's (where Mad goes), there had been some sort of pursuit and an entire neighborhood was blocked off. Sometimes it's really good that all of my voice mail messages don't get to me right away. Here's the one my dad left:

"Hi Sis, just wanted to let you know there's a lot of police activity in the area. They're looking for someone from a pursuit. Call me before you come over. All of our doors are locked, but we don't want you having any problems getting out of your car and maybe getting hurt or having your car taken."

Then in true, Mr. I'm-In-Control-of-the-Situation, he added, "But we're fine so don't worry."

Tom just arrived home from what he said was his worst softball game ever. The man never curses... apparently unless it's his worst softball game ever.

So it seems like the best thing to do right now is to shut this computer off, crawl into bed and pull the covers... and possibly the pillow... over my head.