Raw Drip

From the moment we started receiving negative feedback on Adam from Preschool X, we’ve gone through something akin to a grieving process. Initially there was the Denial stage. We simply could not believe that the child they described to us was our son. Then we moved into the Anger stage and found ourselves commiserating over seemingly endless sessions of, “I don’t get it. Why are they picking on our kid?”. Eventually, we found ourselves Bargaining with the Administration – “If you’ll let him try another classroom, we’ll send him to a child psychologist for an evaluation…”. Then we moved into a Depression, where we both felt hopelessly lost and confused by our situation, “Where had we gone wrong?” we wondered. And now, I’d say we’re squarely in the Acceptance stage. Dick and I know that Preschool X is dead to us…and after my latest conversation with the Administration Fembots, they know it, too.

Last Friday Dick dropped off the children so he could enjoy the Preschool’s annual “Doughnuts with Dad” day in honor of Fathers’ Day. As Dick was munching on doughnuts in a tiny chair in Adam’s room, it occured to him that he’d forgotten to bring Adam’s swim gear for water play. On his way out the door around 9, he called me as I was on my way out the door at home. I grabbed Adam’s gear and arrived at school around 9:15 to drop off it off. Walking into the Director’s office, I found my son sitting sitting in the chair next to her desk. Here’s roughly the conversation that ensued:

Fembot:I was just about to call you. Can we talk? Adam’s had a rough morning.

Me: Certainly. But how rough could his morning be? His father just left here 15 minutes ago and he told me that Adam was reading a book by himself in the corner. I mean, in the past 15 minutes what could he have possibly done that would merit his removal from the classroom?

Fembot: When I walked in to check on the class, it was utter chaos. Unfortunately, all of the chaos was centered on Adam.

Me:What was he doing?

Fembot: He was being disuptive…

Me: Well, explain to me – disruptive…

Fembot: Well, the teacher was saying that he was just at the center of a group of loud, excitable children, and…

Me (interrupting): There are so many things wrong with what you just said. First of all, THE teacher? Is that class at capacity, because if it is, that’s 26 students and only one teacher which is not only out of state guidelines, but also a heckuva burden for one person. If I were alone with 26 children I’d be surrounded by chaos, too! Secondly, IF that teacher was by herself with 26 kids, how could she single out my son as the source of all the chaos? Finally, is it not normal for 4 & 5 year olds to get excitable on a day that involves eating sugared doughnuts with their dads followed by water play? I get pretty excited about those things and I’m a grown-up!

Fembot:Well I can assure you that we were doing our best to react to the situation with the teacher in the room. The second teacher’s car broke down so she was running a little late. I was keeping a very close eye on that room, myself.

Me:I doubt the state guidelines make exceptions for tardiness. My understanding is that it’s YOUR job as the Director to make sure another body is physically in that room at all times or you’re out of compliance.

Fembot:Well, regardless I just don’t think that Adam’s well suited to our environment here and he is a disruptive influence in the classroom…

Me (interrupting): Oh, we all agree that he’s not well-suited to your environment. That’s why the 20th will be his last day here. So, let’s cut the crap, shall we? If there is no blood, death or dismemberment involved, I expect that you will not call me to come pick him up over every little vague incident or basic displinary task for which I am paying you to handle. Instead, you will take that opportunity to coach the teacher on how to better handle the situation because it’s a lot easier to show her how to adapt her approach than it is try to brainwash a 4 year old.

Fembot: I think you’re misunderstanding, here. We care deeply about Adam. He’s a wonderful, bright, charming little boy, but he’s just not a good fit for this environment. You see, we’re very structured here…

Me (interrupting again): You mean inflexible. And thank god he’s not a good fit! I consider it a positive reflection on my parenting skills that he’s not just another compliant kid who lacks spirit. He’s a thinker and I assumed our partnership was designed to support thinking and problem-solving. I see now that we were wrong about your priorities as educators. And, please, spare me the whole, “We care…” routine? For the next 5 days, all I ask of you is that you continue to pretend to care about my child and I’ll continue to pretend that I don’t notice that you don’t, okay? No more phone calls and notes unless it’s serious (blood, death, dismemberment). If he’s disruptive, deal with it. If he hits a friend on the playground, deal with it. If he sets the school on fire, then call me. Do you get the distinction?

Fembot (sighing): I understand where you’re coming from.

Me: Fine. I’ll walk him back to class, then.

As I kissed my son goodbye outside his room, I found my eyes tearing up. I wasn’t upset because of the unpleasantness of the conversation I had to have with the Director. I was absolutely torn in a way I’d never felt before. I was fighting every instinct in my body which screamed out to me to scoop him up and protect him from these heartless people.

Now, I’m a pretty level-headed person so I don’t really think that Preschool X administration are a completely heartless bunch – that’s just how I feel. But I do believe that their goal is to operate a profitable business and providing childcare is merely a means to an end.

Arriving at the Acceptance stage was a long and difficult road, but at least it’s all out in the open now. In fact it’s so out in the open that my morning drop off consists of averted glances and a noticeably pleasant lack of pleasantries from the administration. No more fake enthusiasm from these people – they know we’ve seen right through them.

As I close this chapter in what I’m sure is going to be a life-long book of child-rearing drama, a great and dramatic parting line from one of my all time favorite films, “All About Eve”, occurs to me. In the movie, Margo Channing tells phony, fang-bearing ingénue Eve to put her award where her heart ought to be. In my version it goes something like this…

“Preschool X, I wouldn’t worry. You can always put all your profits, your structure and your rules where your hearts ought to be.”

I love happy, bitchy endings, don’t you?

There’s a quote I read while pregnant with Adam that continues to mean a great deal to me because it so beautifully captures the inner conflict of being a parent.

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” ~Elizabeth Stone

Every day I’m reminded of this idea as I drop off my children at their daycare center and alternately long for their growth and independence as I strategize every possible way to protect them.

Upon returning to Florida, naturally, we were looking for the very best, highest quality preschool we could afford. We thought we’d found that in Preschool X, as I’ll call them. With their exalted reputation in the community, spotlessly clean, wall-papered & carpeted hallways and the interchangeably cheerful blonde staff members, the image they projected certainly went a long way towards persuading us that theirs was the finest, most urbane, civilized environment for educating our children.

But, as it turned out, we were wrong about the importance of image in selecting a daycare provider, and wrong about a great many other things, as well…

About 6 weeks ago I got a report from Adam that he had lost his good behavior sticker for the day because he argued with his teacher about cutting airplanes out of construction paper. Apparently his table had been assigned to cutting out airports – NOT airplanes and when he asked to cut out an airplane, the teacher refused. After several minutes of debate, they reached a stalemate ultimately ending up with Adam losing his sticker for the day and missing out on his first chance to redeem his stickers for a toy from the treasure chest. Of course, he was devastated by this turn of events.

Later, when I spoke with his teacher, her explanation of the whole airplane/airport activity didn’t make any sense to me. The objective of the exercise was to help the children learn how to use scissors. But if that was the case who cares what they cut out? As far as I’m concerned, let them cut out little terrorist and shoe bomber shapes. Whatever. Heck, 4 years old have the rest of their lives to spend sitting still in their chairs, dutifully performing uninspiring activities so why are we trying to thrust such tasks upon them now when we’re supposed to be nurturing their imaginations? I can see why order needs to be maintained in a classroom of twenty-six 4 & 5 year olds, but did she really need to take this one to the mat?

By the time we were nearly 8 weeks into our time at Preschool X, the situation had deteriorated further. Dick and I began to dread the sound of our cell phone ringing for fear it was the Preschool’s administration fembots calling us to tell us that Adam was being disruptive in class, or Adam was hitting his friends on the playground. I wanted to yell into the phone at them, “Why are you calling me to tell me he’s a normal 4 year old boy. Are you not trained to deal with misbehavior?” But instead, I allowed my own insecurities as a parent to get in the way of my instincts. Rather than question their approach, I feared that my kid was somehow abnormal and began heading into that panicked territory all of our mommy brains go where you can envision their entire future in an instant complete with the details of their inevitable incarceration.

As my mind stayed in a constant panicked state, waiting for the next phone call or note to sign, Adam’s morning drop-off routine began to resemble an Anthony Robbins motivational lecture – 30 minutes of pep-talk with me desperately trying to convince him that school is fun if he makes it fun. “Everyone has more fun when we all follow the rules,” I would plead – myself only half believing the pitch.

And yet I couldn’t disagree with the poor little guy. School was clearly not fun for him. With daily reports coming home from the teacher with commentary such as, “Adam lost his good behavior sticker today for standing next to, rather than sitting in his chair during his table work” or “Adam lost his sticker today for touching his neighbor’s food during lunch” it became obvious that his teachers viewed him as a precocious trouble-maker and that Adam was feeling constantly ridiculed.

Finally we came to realize that it was ridiculous of us to expect Adam to abandon his natural curiosity in favor of obeying rules that were largely beyond the grasp of a 4 year old. Even more worrisome to us was seeing how this whole situation (with its constant negative feedback) was the perfect set-up for a life spent disdaining authority, or worse avoiding the challenges of leadership or academic achievement for fear of failure. I may regret these words when they’re used against me later by my teenage children, but if we only taught children to be fearful of rules and to obey them without question, how would we teach them to think? Any intelligent adult will tell you that a day at the office perfectly illustrates this point. The world is overflowing with people who can follow the rules and do as they’re told, but very few people are very good critical thinkers or creative problem-solvers.

Our biggest mistake with Preschool X was that we allowed ourselves to be distracted by the tidy appearances, shiny marketing, and positive word of mouth. We were snowed by a lot of talk about forming nurturing partnerships with parents, when in reality, Preschool X’s idea of partnership is to micro-manage and report up.

It’s hard to forgive yourself for assuming that all the trouble lies in your own flawed parenting. It’s really hard to forgive yourself for putting your kid in an environment that operates contrary to all the values of your household and then blames him when things don’t go well. We’ve learned a lot from this experience and know now that if we do nothing else well in this world, we need to be vociferous advocates for our children – period. Sadly, with this Preschool X fiasco, I know now that it wasn’t Adam that could’ve done better, it was we that could have done better for Adam.

Of course my son is nothing if not bright, tenacious, and resilient. Much to my relief, he’s completely unlike his unobservant father in his ability to absorb every little detail of his surroundings and then talk about his observations at length with us. As with most children, his is the flexible mind of an artist and a scientist all wrapped up in one. While it can be exhausting to keep up with all of this mental dexterity, seeing his elastic mind grow in all directions almost simultaneously is a beautiful and remarkable thing to behold. I remain hopeful that we can find a place for Adam that cherishes that growth and seeks to foster it through play and creative expression, that partners with parents in a meaningful way and that favors the fair and yet stringent application of caring & tolerance over inflexible rules. Our delicate little hearts walking around outside our bodies deserve no less.

I’m not sure how many of you out there have a great room floor plan but I can assure you that the same expansive space that seemed to say “modern living” also poses some substantial decorating challenges. Paint color is a particularly challenging matter since the rooms are ill-defined and the spaces flow one into the next. Where does the color stop & start? What about choosing a color for a part of the room that gets a lot of natural light, versus a part of the room that’s a little darker? Model home tours have taught me that the right paint color in a great room will carry your eye around the space and make it feel spacious and yet intimate and cozy, while the wrong color can make it feel clinical, cold & stark. In my great room, the cheap builder-provided wall paint in a soulless shade of yellow-beige had always made our space feel like the latter.

On top of the coldness of the paint color, the bottom 4 ft of any given wall in our family room was spotted with years of accumulated filth consisting largely of little kid finger prints, ugly black scuff marks and various splatters. Enhancing the hodge-podge of filth were the smears caused by my failed attempts at using the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser to remove stains. I found that, much like most male versions of clean, Mr. Clean’s magic seems to stop at cleaning the surface. His clean merely left a shiny smear behind – enough to indicate an attempt at cleaning, but not enough to actually defeat the mocking stain beneath.

So, I vowed to make it a priority to get some washable paint on my walls – pronto. This task involved me repeatedly going to my local paint store and staring at a sea of tiny paint chips for about 30 minutes before leaving with my top 3 color choices, at which time I would conclude the ritual with a frustrating exchange with my husband.

Dutifully sharing my paint chips with Dick, he would offer insightful commentary such as, “I don’t like how gray this one is, but if that’s what you’re going for…”

“But it’s sage green, dear. Green tempered with a bit of gray. I thought we both agreed that a sage would be a nice neutral for us.”

Dick, leaning in a bit and squinting at the tiny chip in my hand would inevitably respond, “Well, that gray looks awfully greenish to me.”

Surely, you must feel my pain here…

After months of indecision and painful decorating discourse with Dick, I felt like I needed to make a move. As the only one in our family with a semi-accurate perception of color and a “vision” for the look of the room – as the HGTV designers say, our “color story” – I decided that it was up to me to pick a color and put it on the wall. I decided to go a little bold and pick a tan color with a hint of lime green called “Harmonic Tan”. Ah…harmony in a family living space. What could be better, right?

I started by applying paint to the far wall in the family room. A few hours and two coats later, I really began to love how our color story was developing. The color on this wall told a story that was interesting, dramatic, and said “tropical” without heading into bad Florida-themed motel room or Pier 1 territory. When Dick saw the color up on the wall, he liked our color story, too and we both agreed that it was time to say goodbye to boring vanilla beige and say hello to some harmony!

So the following Saturday, Dick cleared the kids out of the house for the afternoon while I donned my painting togs and did my prep work & painting. Practically skipping around the room with the roller in hand, the Harmonic Tan went up easily over the ugly beige. Being that Dick views most every project of mine with a critical eye, I kept focused on a flawless application of the color, and I was less concerned about the final outcome of our color story. Besides, paint always looks so different once it’s dried.

But three hours later, as I stood back admiring my handiwork in the fading daylight, I noticed that the room felt dark and dreary. I turned on all the bright overhead can lights we usually avoided using. Hm. Now it was brighter and dreary. My heart sank.

For the most unobservant person I’ve ever known, when Dick walked in he was immediately impressed with the shocking direction our color story had taken.

“This is interesting (which is always code for “not good”). I can’t put my finger on it, but I think it’s too green.”

“Uh, yeah. I thought it looked pretty tan with the sun shining on it, but now that the light has changed, I think it’s more green than tan”, I reluctantly admitted.

The truth was Harmonic Tan didn’t seem very harmonic with the other walls. That hint of lime green that attracted me to the color in the first place seemed magnified into a Kermit the Frog shade of green when applied all around the room. The way the light bounced off each wall, the subtleness of the green now seemed intensified into a sickeningly brown/yellow green that reminded me of living in a bowl of algae, or my grandmother’s cira 1975, avacado green & gold kitchen.

Somewhere along the way, things had gone terribly wrong and now it was all my fault. Wasn’t I supposed to be the creative genius – the one with the natural ability to coordinate color? This always happens to me when I get overly confident about anything. Why don’t I ever learn??

In a desperate attempt to redeem myself and write a happier ending to our color story, I told Dick that it takes paint a while to “cure” and that the color might change as the days wore on. He looked skeptical, but at least it bought me some time to start searching for all the discarded paint chips I’d shoved into my desk drawer. After narrowing down my selections to 3 colors with more of a gray undertone, I pitched my plan to Dick. It was going to be one more Saturday out with the kids, one more gallon of paint for me and hopefully, a better color on the walls at the end of the day.

Once more I donned my painting togs and taped off my borders. Up on the ladder rolling on a pleasant new shade called “Gobi Desert”, I finally made peace with beige. Admittedly, embracing the beige of the Gobi Desert was a far less colorful way to conclude our color story, but the end result is much cozier and more livable than the preceding colors. Besides, now when the kids smear their gooey little paws on the wall, a quick wipe of the sponge is all that’s needed to keep it clean. Another bonus: I figure the additional layers of paint can only serve as more wall reinforcement in the event of a hurricane or other natural disaster. So there! I found a silver lining to my algae green cloud, after all.

And I learned that, for us, it wasn’t easy being green. With a bit of sadness, I’ve begun to accept the fact that my color story lacks “punch” or “drama” as they say on the all those design shows, but fortunately I more than make up for that in the rest of my life. Maybe beige really is the way to go when the rest of your life packs so much color.