It will get easier.
I can finally become a full time teacher.
I can make more money.
I will have time to myself again.
There will be less pressure.
These are all things I have said to myself in passing when I think about how much easier things get once babies become kids become students in school. Yes. I too have thought of school as a kind of daycare.
And that is where the problem lies, for me.
I have come to realize more and more, with each passing anecdote, that school has become glorified daycare. Daycare with tests and worksheets and, in my area at least, knife fights.
There was an all out brawl between two freshman boys in front of my apartment building last week because one boy stole the other boy's iPhone 5. The boy getting beat up was the one attempting to reclaim his stolen property. He ended up on the ground, receiving several kicks to his head and stomach, before the police finally arrived.
Flash forward to my child in her first year of high school. What do I tell her? Let people steal from you. No. That's not right. Stand up for what is right. And get beat up? No. That's not right either. Pay attention in your self defense classes?
Ugh.
Add to the issue of violence the one of test driven classrooms. Worksheets being sent home to the students I tutor that involve basically filling in the blanks. These answers can be found with a simple google search. The work takes less than ten minutes (depending on your internet speed), and my students are learning nothing. The night before a test, they memorize the information, get an A on the test, and forget everything before dinner the next night. These examples come from an area of wealth, from schools that are supposedly highly competitive and catering to children of educated parents. Imagine what schools in my inner city area are like.
Learning should be about critical thinking, about challenging expectations, about asking questions and communicating with peers. Ideas.
Fun.
A recent study published on education in kindergarden in the U.S.
http://www.thestrong.org/sites/default/files/play-studies/Crisis_in_Kindergarten.pdf
found that fewer than 30 minutes a day were dedicated to play for kindergardeners in school.
Apparently, teachers simply do not have the time to allow for play in the classroom anymore because of the intense curricular demands placed on them by districts pushing for improved test scores.
Test scores!?
For a five year old?
In kindergarden children learn letter recognition, beginning phonics, and phonetics. They work on colors, shapes, and basic counting with numbers. These are all things that can be taught through play. I know. I do it with my almost two year old.
We are now placing test taking pressure on five year olds to excel in literacy tests?
It is ridiculous.
Fine, you say, how about private school?
Here is my problem with private school then: is it really any better? Is private school also not just glorified daycare? I know kids who go to private school. For the most part, in my experience, private school is very child driven, giving children an overinflated ego and sense of superiority. This is not to say that there are not wonderful private schools with strong critical thinkers and creative ways of teaching. There are. I have taught at some of them. But my students complained that their peers were doing cocaine in the parking lots and having sex parties while their parents were out of town. So. Private school has its own set of problems.
As a teacher, I cannot imagine sending my five year old off to a classroom to be taught to sit still, shut up, do well on tests, and get good grades.
She is not a bank, or a safety deposit box. I will not have teachers attempting to simply "deposit" information into her brain.
My favorite quote runs through my head every time I get caught up in my education rant: "Children must be taught how to think, not what to think."
Yet, as a mother, I cannot imagine spending thousands of dollars each year on a private school education that may or may not be any better than public school (except for the knife fights).
Here I am then. What choices are left to me?
Working harder to find a small private school that fits my desires for Celaya's education, that it be creative, that she be taught how to think critically, that she is challenged daily, that she has room to play, that she is encouraged to love learning.
It might work. Maybe I will find an affordable, revolutionary, local private school that serves all of these purposes.
The reality more likely brings me to the last two possibilities I have come up with:
Open my own school...
or
Homeschool.
I know. I know. Open my own school? What do I know about running a school? Where would I get the resources? Who would attend? Who would teach?
Ahhhh!
Homeschool?
When I mentioned this to my brother he raised his eyebrows at me and shook his head, "do not homeschool your kid."
Right? The image of the dorky kid with no social life flashes through everyone's mind.
Can I do better than that image with Celaya? Maybe. Hopefully.
What I know for sure is that the first option is out. I just cannot, in this moment, imagine sending her out into the wild world of public school.
We have also decided we will definitely keep her home for at least the first year. I can teach her kindergarden.
Beyond that? I am not sure. But I do know that the work begins now. I have to begin researching, preparing, planning, allocating resources, networking, and on and on.
I will keep you posted as I become more informed, better educated, less overwhelmed, and less terrified that "when my kids are in school" may not be a reality for a long, long time.
It will get easier, right?
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
It's a Joke! Kind of.
"How was your break?" Asks one of my coworkers on my first day back from having eighteen days home for the holidays.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. So much fun. And I'm so glad to be back at work."
"He he he," is the general response in the room of a few of my coworkers.
It is an uncomfortable kind of laughter that people produce when a joke is inappropriate, or just lame.
And then again, tonight:
"The problem with Elmo is that he is supposed to be a typical four year old, which is cute, in moderation. But being with a small child like that all the time can get grating, which is what happened when Elmo was all of a sudden everywhere."
We were discussing children's programming at the end of the evening as a group of us were walking out, and the conversation turned to Elmo's irritating qualities.
"I know. I know. Why do you think I was so happy to come back to work? And mine's only almost two!"
Again: "He he he." Or even, "awww don't say that."
It's a joke! Kind of.
I am so happy to be back to work. Before my daughter was born, I thought I would go into a PhD program full time. Barring that, I figured I would find full time teaching work. After my daughter was born, I decided to be a stay at home mom.
Three months later, I went back to work part time.
This situation has been ideal for me. I have a Master's Degree in Comparative Literature and I get to use my education to pursue my passion for teaching and discussing language and literature.
I also get to be a full time mom who works part time, instead of the two alternatives: full time employee who is with her kid part time, or stay at home mom.
I am fully engaged with Celaya when I am home with her, playing, teaching, exploring, listening, reading, and those are just the things I do that center around her. Everything else I do when she is awake still involves her somehow. She empties the dishwasher with me. She helps me cook. She helps with laundry. She holds the cord while I vacuum. Or I hold her. She dusts my already dusted shelf while I am dusting. She is the absolute ultimate without question center of my universe when she is awake and we are together, which is the vast majority of my time.
And dear goddess is that exhausting. She wears me out.
But it is a good kind of worn out, like a great workout, or a productive day at work. Being a full time, fully engaged mom is hard work.
Going to my profession work is actually a break for me. It also reminds me that I have a vocabulary and reading and writing level beyond Olivia Helps With Christmas, an added benefit.
It is interesting to me that so many people are uncomfortable with a mother saying, "man it's nice to take a break from my kid."
Now, to be fair, all but two of the people I work with have no children, so obviously, in their minds, children are cute and cuddly or annoying and repulsive. The complexity of children and what is involved in raising them is beyond anyone who does not actually have children. I know. I was in the cute and cuddly camp before Celaya burst into my world with strong lungs and a thirsty, sponge like mind.
And the one woman I work with who has children asked today, when I mentioned how rigid I am about Celaya's schedule, "how do you get your husband to put her to bed on time?"
She was genuinely interested. There was a clear sense of "Mama needs her alone time" camaraderie.
She gets it. Parents get it. Or at least they should.
I read a blog on the Huffington Post today by a woman who was confessing to her rage issues with her children:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-bradford/the-part-of-parenting-were-too-scared-to-talk-about_b_4531665.html
I will confess, I cannot relate. I have never felt rage toward or because of Celaya. And I have felt some pretty extreme rage. But I know I am fortunate to be an older mom. Having my daughter at 33, after graduating from graduate school, and being married to an incredibly supportive and involved husband makes for an enormous capacity for patience and empathy. I have always tried to see things through my baby's eyes. How difficult it must be to be separated from her mother, how painful it must be to have colic, or to be teething, how frustrating it must be to want something and not understand why she cannot have it.
Yes, I get frustrated, but I have learned (over years and years of practice and dedication) to breathe through my frustration, and I try to reason with my quickly developing, energetic, anxious, eager toddler, in whatever way possible.
Rage? Never.
But I can empathize. I can try to imagine what it would be like to feel the rage I have felt in the past toward the person I love most in the world, and then the guilt and shame that must come from that. Since I have become a mother, I have tried not to judge other mothers who are clearly just trying to do the best they can with what they have. I have not always achieved this goal, but it is a work in progress, thanks, in large part, to having read Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother. This book should be required reading for anyone who gives any thought at all to criticizing a parent.
My daughter pushes me to my limits. And I know that my limits are different than other parents' limits. And I know that I only have one child to push me (one big reason I have chosen to wait a bit longer before having another limit pusher). And I know that my child is not even two years old yet. Hopefully my limits will grow along with my little bundle of chaos warrior princess in light blue Converse.
She drives me crazy. She is the greatest reward I have ever been given. She makes me laugh. I cry when she hurts. I worry more, fear more, love harder, and push farther for her than I ever have before for anyone in this way. And yes, I am so happy to be back to work, back to balance, back to short, temporary breaks from my beautiful brazen bossy baby.
So please, parents and non-parents, just laugh at my jokes.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. So much fun. And I'm so glad to be back at work."
"He he he," is the general response in the room of a few of my coworkers.
It is an uncomfortable kind of laughter that people produce when a joke is inappropriate, or just lame.
And then again, tonight:
"The problem with Elmo is that he is supposed to be a typical four year old, which is cute, in moderation. But being with a small child like that all the time can get grating, which is what happened when Elmo was all of a sudden everywhere."
We were discussing children's programming at the end of the evening as a group of us were walking out, and the conversation turned to Elmo's irritating qualities.
"I know. I know. Why do you think I was so happy to come back to work? And mine's only almost two!"
Again: "He he he." Or even, "awww don't say that."
It's a joke! Kind of.
I am so happy to be back to work. Before my daughter was born, I thought I would go into a PhD program full time. Barring that, I figured I would find full time teaching work. After my daughter was born, I decided to be a stay at home mom.
Three months later, I went back to work part time.
This situation has been ideal for me. I have a Master's Degree in Comparative Literature and I get to use my education to pursue my passion for teaching and discussing language and literature.
I also get to be a full time mom who works part time, instead of the two alternatives: full time employee who is with her kid part time, or stay at home mom.
I am fully engaged with Celaya when I am home with her, playing, teaching, exploring, listening, reading, and those are just the things I do that center around her. Everything else I do when she is awake still involves her somehow. She empties the dishwasher with me. She helps me cook. She helps with laundry. She holds the cord while I vacuum. Or I hold her. She dusts my already dusted shelf while I am dusting. She is the absolute ultimate without question center of my universe when she is awake and we are together, which is the vast majority of my time.
And dear goddess is that exhausting. She wears me out.
But it is a good kind of worn out, like a great workout, or a productive day at work. Being a full time, fully engaged mom is hard work.
Going to my profession work is actually a break for me. It also reminds me that I have a vocabulary and reading and writing level beyond Olivia Helps With Christmas, an added benefit.
It is interesting to me that so many people are uncomfortable with a mother saying, "man it's nice to take a break from my kid."
Now, to be fair, all but two of the people I work with have no children, so obviously, in their minds, children are cute and cuddly or annoying and repulsive. The complexity of children and what is involved in raising them is beyond anyone who does not actually have children. I know. I was in the cute and cuddly camp before Celaya burst into my world with strong lungs and a thirsty, sponge like mind.
And the one woman I work with who has children asked today, when I mentioned how rigid I am about Celaya's schedule, "how do you get your husband to put her to bed on time?"
She was genuinely interested. There was a clear sense of "Mama needs her alone time" camaraderie.
She gets it. Parents get it. Or at least they should.
I read a blog on the Huffington Post today by a woman who was confessing to her rage issues with her children:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-bradford/the-part-of-parenting-were-too-scared-to-talk-about_b_4531665.html
I will confess, I cannot relate. I have never felt rage toward or because of Celaya. And I have felt some pretty extreme rage. But I know I am fortunate to be an older mom. Having my daughter at 33, after graduating from graduate school, and being married to an incredibly supportive and involved husband makes for an enormous capacity for patience and empathy. I have always tried to see things through my baby's eyes. How difficult it must be to be separated from her mother, how painful it must be to have colic, or to be teething, how frustrating it must be to want something and not understand why she cannot have it.
Yes, I get frustrated, but I have learned (over years and years of practice and dedication) to breathe through my frustration, and I try to reason with my quickly developing, energetic, anxious, eager toddler, in whatever way possible.
Rage? Never.
But I can empathize. I can try to imagine what it would be like to feel the rage I have felt in the past toward the person I love most in the world, and then the guilt and shame that must come from that. Since I have become a mother, I have tried not to judge other mothers who are clearly just trying to do the best they can with what they have. I have not always achieved this goal, but it is a work in progress, thanks, in large part, to having read Ayelet Waldman's Bad Mother. This book should be required reading for anyone who gives any thought at all to criticizing a parent.
My daughter pushes me to my limits. And I know that my limits are different than other parents' limits. And I know that I only have one child to push me (one big reason I have chosen to wait a bit longer before having another limit pusher). And I know that my child is not even two years old yet. Hopefully my limits will grow along with my little bundle of chaos warrior princess in light blue Converse.
She drives me crazy. She is the greatest reward I have ever been given. She makes me laugh. I cry when she hurts. I worry more, fear more, love harder, and push farther for her than I ever have before for anyone in this way. And yes, I am so happy to be back to work, back to balance, back to short, temporary breaks from my beautiful brazen bossy baby.
So please, parents and non-parents, just laugh at my jokes.
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