I started researching preschool options for my first born well in advance. A friend of mine was so impressed with my thorough checklist and comprehensive file that she told me she'd send her daughter wherever I decided to send mine. The school I found was a perfect fit. It was accredited by the National Association for the Education of Young Children, utilized a developmentally appropriate play-based curriculum, implemented the security features that I felt to be of utmost importance, and was located in a church with prayer before snack, celebration of Christian holidays, and monthly story time with the Reverend. My daughter thrived at this school, and when it came time I enrolled her younger brother.
Tony was the opposite of his sister. He liked preschool well enough, but instead of the detailed accounts that I got from her I was told that he "forgetted" what he did, what he read, and even what he ate. All of my teacher education training told me not to push him, so I waited it out. I pored over the class bulletin board, viewed the art work in the hallway, and daydreamed about the big breakthrough when he would be ready to talk about his day. Would he bring home a precious piece of art and describe it in detail? Maybe he would come home one day and proudly write his name using mostly lower case letters. Perhaps he would retell me his favorite tale from story-time or sing me a song.
After much anticipation, the big day came. When I arrived to pick up Tony, he looked as if he might burst with excitement. "Guessa what Mama? Guessa what? I learn-ed sumpin' new today. Do you wanna know what it is?" Did I want to know?? I had been waiting for this day for weeks. I knelt down to his level, looked him in the eyes, and prepared myself for the precious memory that I would rush home to write about in his baby book. And then he said "I learn-ed that Nicholas's butt stinks too, just like mine. He tolded me. Isn't that great?!"
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