Moving along
Skipper hates going to preschool. She doesn't actually hate preschool itself; she seems to like her teachers and classmates and the classroom and the yard and everything they do. But she loathes going to preschool.
In practice, this means that I spend about 45 minutes, three days a week, listening to her yell, over and over again, variations on the theme of "I really don't want to go to preschool! I REALLY don't want to go to preschool! I really DON'T WANT to go to PRESCHOOL!". She chants this while we get ready to leave, while we bike Dutch to school, while we're saying goodbye to Dutch, while we're biking to preschool, as we put away the trailer in the preschool's yard, as we go up the steps, as we open the door. It is very wearing on one's nerves, particularly when one's nerves are already frayed from the screaming match one had with one's older daughter, who has a precocious gift for really pissing one off.
Skipper is not fond of transitions, and never has been. She is suspicious about many things that adults and many other children take for granted, like permanence, safety, and the reappearance of parents. Apparently, she sternly told one of the preschool teachers "I go to preschool because I am a BIG kid. I will stay here, but I do NOT belong to you. I belong to my mama and my daddy and my Dutch. I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU."* And when they leave the little-kids house to cross the street to the big-kids house after lunch (the preschool owns two houses across the street from each other, and half the kids in each house leave after lunch, so they consolidate the rest of them in one house for the afternoon...), she's been completely freaking out, which they diagnosed is because she thought they were leaving this place for a whole OTHER PLACE and come ON, people, what the hell is going on!?
However, the preschool puts up a blog post** every day with photos and news, so I can see for myself that she does eventually stop crying and howling, and has some fun.
* I particularly like the suggestion that my shaggy, grubby child, in stained pants and a soggy diaper, worn out after singing the I-Don't-Want-To-Go-To-Preschool song for nearly an hour, thinks that she's a very appealing adoption/theft prospect.
**The blog should be titled "A Day in the Life of Privileged White Children With Yuppie Names". And all the kids seem to be wearing exactly the sort of gorgeous, eccentric, ridiculously expensive clothes I always hope to find really cheap on ebay and never do. It's a really nice preschool, and it attracts people who have money and who value thoughtful care and organic food, like, you know, me. It's just so... I don't know. Precious. I feel a little icky about that. But mostly I just want those clothes. I'm going to pick the best-dressed kid I can find who's a few inches taller than Skipper, and make friends with her parents.
In practice, this means that I spend about 45 minutes, three days a week, listening to her yell, over and over again, variations on the theme of "I really don't want to go to preschool! I REALLY don't want to go to preschool! I really DON'T WANT to go to PRESCHOOL!". She chants this while we get ready to leave, while we bike Dutch to school, while we're saying goodbye to Dutch, while we're biking to preschool, as we put away the trailer in the preschool's yard, as we go up the steps, as we open the door. It is very wearing on one's nerves, particularly when one's nerves are already frayed from the screaming match one had with one's older daughter, who has a precocious gift for really pissing one off.
Skipper is not fond of transitions, and never has been. She is suspicious about many things that adults and many other children take for granted, like permanence, safety, and the reappearance of parents. Apparently, she sternly told one of the preschool teachers "I go to preschool because I am a BIG kid. I will stay here, but I do NOT belong to you. I belong to my mama and my daddy and my Dutch. I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU."* And when they leave the little-kids house to cross the street to the big-kids house after lunch (the preschool owns two houses across the street from each other, and half the kids in each house leave after lunch, so they consolidate the rest of them in one house for the afternoon...), she's been completely freaking out, which they diagnosed is because she thought they were leaving this place for a whole OTHER PLACE and come ON, people, what the hell is going on!?
However, the preschool puts up a blog post** every day with photos and news, so I can see for myself that she does eventually stop crying and howling, and has some fun.
* I particularly like the suggestion that my shaggy, grubby child, in stained pants and a soggy diaper, worn out after singing the I-Don't-Want-To-Go-To-Preschool song for nearly an hour, thinks that she's a very appealing adoption/theft prospect.
**The blog should be titled "A Day in the Life of Privileged White Children With Yuppie Names". And all the kids seem to be wearing exactly the sort of gorgeous, eccentric, ridiculously expensive clothes I always hope to find really cheap on ebay and never do. It's a really nice preschool, and it attracts people who have money and who value thoughtful care and organic food, like, you know, me. It's just so... I don't know. Precious. I feel a little icky about that. But mostly I just want those clothes. I'm going to pick the best-dressed kid I can find who's a few inches taller than Skipper, and make friends with her parents.
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