I am mired in indecision about the V-meister's academic future. Her tenure is up next year at the shining beacon of a Montessori pre-school/kindergarten where she's been happily ensconced since the age of three, and though I would gladly continue to deposit her there every morning until college application time, we must move on.
So I have been diligently attending open houses and scheduling classroom visits at area schools in hopes that one of them will speak to my heart. In fact I am really hoping that one of them will speak directly to me and just tell me what to do already, so I can stop picking my cuticles while sitting on the couch and staring vapidly out the picture window. The choice pretty much boils down to a private Montessori school with no religious affiliation, or a Catholic parochial school.
This may be a case of over-analysis, but in my head I have already made a future Nobel laureate or slovenly derelict out of the V-meister based on where she attends grade school next year. And the problem is, though I always assumed my children would attend Catholic schools, now that I've witnessed the Montessori magic firsthand, I can never go back to not knowing the kind of opportunity it affords.
The P-Dawg, who has been guzzling Montessori Kool-Aid, feels certain that if only he'd gone to Montessori school, there would be a cure for cancer today or at the very least, he'd be surgeon general. He was very bright as a child, but felt completely unchallenged in the traditional school environment. Consequently, the P-Dawg spent over fourteen years goofing off in the back row before deciding to get his act together. And the V-meister is a lot like her father, so for P-Dawg the choice is obvious.
I, on the other hand, enjoy a healthy Montessori Kool-Aid buzz, but still sometimes crave a good old fashioned glass of parochial Hi-C. I'm pretty sure that if I'd gone through Montessori school, I could add fractions today instead of Googling "what is two-thirds times two" whenever I have to double a recipe. But I did get many good things from Catholic grade school, even though a lot of my memories involve desperate cowering in the back right quadrant of a dodge ball court.
As much as I believe in the Montessori method, a part of me thinks my children would benefit from a mainstream school experience. I already feel a little defensive when I tell people my kids go to Montessori school because they are obviously assuming it's interpretive dance all day long while the teacher smokes a hookah pipe out back. And even though the P-Dawg could have become surgeon general, he just as easily might have grown up to be an incense burning, basket-weaving, dulcimer playing Naderphile who can't hold down a desk job. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
So I can't totally give up the idea of sending V-meister to the bright and cheerful Catholic school around the corner, where she can wear a cute little uniform jumper, ride an orange bus, watch Old Yeller, get Jesus, memorize multiplication tables without understanding what they mean, and be bullied by pint sized tyrants wearing clip-on ties. I won't lie, I want her to fit in with the kids in the neighborhood and have friends at the pool.
But I also want her to enjoy school, learn fractions, grow independently in the direction of the person she is meant to be, see things in terms of the big picture, and have the opportunity to work ahead in the areas where she's ready.
I know the decision seems like a no-brainer, but it isn't.
Anyone out there a product of Montessori education? What do you think, in the long run?
Showing posts with label Montessori education. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Montessori education. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Informant
I always look forward to parent observation day at the kids' school because it's my once yearly opportunity to glean the answer to the mystical question, "What did you do in school today?"
(The J-dog learned to discern half notes from whole notes on the hand bells, and I also happened to notice that he zipped and hung his own coat up with ease. This from a kid who at home will feign total paralysis in order to avoid sticking even one appendage through an armhole without my assistance. As for the V-meister, she donned a pair of goggles and did a bit of drilling at the workbench before settling into multiplication bead work. It's a Montessori school!)
After the observation session, another parent and I were invited back to the Director's office for a Q/A and discussion session. We were talking about how well the children got along in general when the other parent (to whose son my V-meister recently announced her betrothal) brought up a name calling incident we had both witnessed.
"I have to mention" V-meister's future father-in-law said, "That we did notice one student call Logan Scully 'evil' for no good reason."
This immediately piqued the Director's interest.
"Evil?"
"Yes! Isn't that horrible?" the FIL said. "And Logan Scully was just walking along, minding his own business when it happened!"
The Director asked V-meister's FIL if he happened to know the name of the boy who hurled the insult.
He didn't.
I, on the other hand, did, but was loathe to divulge his identity for fear of being branded a narc. I had already given one girl the stink-eye earlier that morning when I witnessed her trying to wrestle J-dog's musical mallet from his hands.
"If I tell you, will you promise not to expose me as your informant?" I asked the Director, who assured me that the information would remain just between her, me, and the V-meister's future father-in-law.
"Okay." I said. "It was Hank Turner, and he called Logan Scully an evil butt!"
"Actually," the FIL interjected, "I thought I heard, 'evil gut'."
"What?" I exclaimed, incredulous. "It was definitely 'butt.' He called him an 'evil butt'."
"No, I'm pretty sure it was, 'gut'."
"Dude, that doesn't make any sense." I said. "Why would you call someone an evil 'gut'? It was definitely 'butt'. Evil butt."
"Gut!"
"Butt!"
"Gut."
The principal redirected us before we came to blows and shortly thereafter, we were dismissed.
But I don't know. As much as I like the V-meister's fiancé, I'm not sure I can let her marry into a family who doesn't know butts from guts.
(The J-dog learned to discern half notes from whole notes on the hand bells, and I also happened to notice that he zipped and hung his own coat up with ease. This from a kid who at home will feign total paralysis in order to avoid sticking even one appendage through an armhole without my assistance. As for the V-meister, she donned a pair of goggles and did a bit of drilling at the workbench before settling into multiplication bead work. It's a Montessori school!)
After the observation session, another parent and I were invited back to the Director's office for a Q/A and discussion session. We were talking about how well the children got along in general when the other parent (to whose son my V-meister recently announced her betrothal) brought up a name calling incident we had both witnessed.
"I have to mention" V-meister's future father-in-law said, "That we did notice one student call Logan Scully 'evil' for no good reason."
This immediately piqued the Director's interest.
"Evil?"
"Yes! Isn't that horrible?" the FIL said. "And Logan Scully was just walking along, minding his own business when it happened!"
The Director asked V-meister's FIL if he happened to know the name of the boy who hurled the insult.
He didn't.
I, on the other hand, did, but was loathe to divulge his identity for fear of being branded a narc. I had already given one girl the stink-eye earlier that morning when I witnessed her trying to wrestle J-dog's musical mallet from his hands.
"If I tell you, will you promise not to expose me as your informant?" I asked the Director, who assured me that the information would remain just between her, me, and the V-meister's future father-in-law.
"Okay." I said. "It was Hank Turner, and he called Logan Scully an evil butt!"
"Actually," the FIL interjected, "I thought I heard, 'evil gut'."
"What?" I exclaimed, incredulous. "It was definitely 'butt.' He called him an 'evil butt'."
"No, I'm pretty sure it was, 'gut'."
"Dude, that doesn't make any sense." I said. "Why would you call someone an evil 'gut'? It was definitely 'butt'. Evil butt."
"Gut!"
"Butt!"
"Gut."
The principal redirected us before we came to blows and shortly thereafter, we were dismissed.
But I don't know. As much as I like the V-meister's fiancé, I'm not sure I can let her marry into a family who doesn't know butts from guts.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Hands Free
Next week, after the J-dog completes his neverending Montessori orientation period, both my children will be in school together all morning. In other words: the moment I've been anticipating for the past six years of my life has arrived. This post isn't about me not knowing what to do with my time now that I finally have some to myself, or about how much I want a third child now that two are flitting about the periphery of my nest.
I am happy.
But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.
I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.
I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.
I am happy.
But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.
I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.
I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
J-Dog Goes to School
The moment of J-dog's dreams finally arrived yesterday: pre-school orientation.
I even got to stay and watch for awhile - a HoverParent's dream come true! We had to sit on the sidelines so as not to interfere, but that didn't prevent me and my friend V from feverishly snapping paparazzi style photos. V was actually bold enough to cross the line of demarcation and take some close-ups of her daughter while the teachers' backs were turned, but I restrained myself and stayed put in my pint sized pre-school issue chair.
There was only one minor incident when, after another student occupied the seat he'd been sitting in, the J-dog tried to bulldoze her out and then resorted to sitting in her lap. Thankfully, I was able to shoot daggers at him with my eyes from my perch in the Parent Zone, and certain disaster and/or a potential sexual harrassment lawsuit was averted.
Today was his first day flying solo and went swimmingly. By all accounts, the J-dog was cheerful, cooperative, and in control of his bodily functions, although he is quickly making a name for himself as the class clown and had to be reigned in a few times for disrespectin' the geometric form work.
I think he'll be OK.
I even got to stay and watch for awhile - a HoverParent's dream come true! We had to sit on the sidelines so as not to interfere, but that didn't prevent me and my friend V from feverishly snapping paparazzi style photos. V was actually bold enough to cross the line of demarcation and take some close-ups of her daughter while the teachers' backs were turned, but I restrained myself and stayed put in my pint sized pre-school issue chair.
There was only one minor incident when, after another student occupied the seat he'd been sitting in, the J-dog tried to bulldoze her out and then resorted to sitting in her lap. Thankfully, I was able to shoot daggers at him with my eyes from my perch in the Parent Zone, and certain disaster and/or a potential sexual harrassment lawsuit was averted.
Today was his first day flying solo and went swimmingly. By all accounts, the J-dog was cheerful, cooperative, and in control of his bodily functions, although he is quickly making a name for himself as the class clown and had to be reigned in a few times for disrespectin' the geometric form work.
I think he'll be OK.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Nice Try
The little J-dog, who is not yet three years old, is aching to attend Montessori pre-school with the V-meister.
Every morning in the carpool line, he enthusiastically shakes the assistant's hand (she meets every student at the car and sees him safely to the front door) and wishes her a good morning.
As we pull away, he faithfully insists, "I go skoo TWO-yeaw-ode Mama!"
And every morning without fail, I say, "You can go when you're three. And potty trained."
"I go TWO. Diaper."
"Three. Potty trained."
I see him through my rear view mirror, staring wistfully out the window, plotting ways to circumvent toilet training and age advancement in order to gain access.
This morning was no different. We pulled up to the carpool line and switched the stereo from an 80s dance compilation to NPR news, turning down the volume. The V-meister unbuckled herself and perched, birdlike, on the edge of her car seat, waiting her turn to exit. The J-dog gazed broodingly out the window at V-meister's classmates as they made their way into the building. Lucky bastards.
After the V-meister had been greeted and was skipping merrily toward the front doors, the J-dog, as per the custom, cordially extended his mittened hand.
"Good morning, J-dog," the assistant said warmly.
"Good mowning" he said. And then, in a balls out effort to demonstrate his own pre-school readiness, the little J-dog took a deep breath, stated his name, and proceeded to spell it out, clearly and deliberately. When he was done, he restated it for emphasis like some kind of pint-sized spelling be contestant, then waited expectantly, beaming with pride.
It's not the Montessori way to heap praises on children for work well done - learning is its own reward, recognized by the child himself. So there was no hint of malice or mockery in the teacher's tone when she deadpanned, "You've spelled your name. Congratulations."
But I think the little guy was kind of disappointed. I suspect his master plan had been to wow his way into pre-school at age two-and-a-half. If I'd had a gold star handy, I would have planted it, against Montessori regulation, squarely in the middle of his sweet and eager little forehead.
"Is it the hat? Because I could totally lose the hat."
Every morning in the carpool line, he enthusiastically shakes the assistant's hand (she meets every student at the car and sees him safely to the front door) and wishes her a good morning.
As we pull away, he faithfully insists, "I go skoo TWO-yeaw-ode Mama!"
And every morning without fail, I say, "You can go when you're three. And potty trained."
"I go TWO. Diaper."
"Three. Potty trained."
I see him through my rear view mirror, staring wistfully out the window, plotting ways to circumvent toilet training and age advancement in order to gain access.
This morning was no different. We pulled up to the carpool line and switched the stereo from an 80s dance compilation to NPR news, turning down the volume. The V-meister unbuckled herself and perched, birdlike, on the edge of her car seat, waiting her turn to exit. The J-dog gazed broodingly out the window at V-meister's classmates as they made their way into the building. Lucky bastards.
After the V-meister had been greeted and was skipping merrily toward the front doors, the J-dog, as per the custom, cordially extended his mittened hand.
"Good morning, J-dog," the assistant said warmly.
"Good mowning" he said. And then, in a balls out effort to demonstrate his own pre-school readiness, the little J-dog took a deep breath, stated his name, and proceeded to spell it out, clearly and deliberately. When he was done, he restated it for emphasis like some kind of pint-sized spelling be contestant, then waited expectantly, beaming with pride.
It's not the Montessori way to heap praises on children for work well done - learning is its own reward, recognized by the child himself. So there was no hint of malice or mockery in the teacher's tone when she deadpanned, "You've spelled your name. Congratulations."
But I think the little guy was kind of disappointed. I suspect his master plan had been to wow his way into pre-school at age two-and-a-half. If I'd had a gold star handy, I would have planted it, against Montessori regulation, squarely in the middle of his sweet and eager little forehead.
"Is it the hat? Because I could totally lose the hat."
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
But Seriously, What's It Gonna Take to Get Andrew Jackson Off of Them?
The P-Dawg and I had an opportunity to observe V-meister's Montessori pre-school class yesterday morning.
We were sitting as inconspicuously as possible in chairs towards the back of the room and taking in the work going on around us, when I overheard the following conversation between two little boys as they prepared to count out change from the pretend cash drawer:
Boy #1, picking up a five dollar bill: "Hey! Is our new president on this?"
The two of them inspected the five spot:
Boy #2: "That's not him. He's on the One."
A one dollar bill is extracted from the cash drawer and intensely scrutinized:
Boy #1: "That's not him, either. He's must be on the Twenty."
Two small heads bend studiously over a miniature twenty dollar bill for a solid minute before the following conclusion is reached:
Boy #2: "That is definitely not him."
Boy #1: "Yeah, I guess they didn't get a chance to put him on yet."
(Maybe tomorrow, kids.)
We were sitting as inconspicuously as possible in chairs towards the back of the room and taking in the work going on around us, when I overheard the following conversation between two little boys as they prepared to count out change from the pretend cash drawer:
Boy #1, picking up a five dollar bill: "Hey! Is our new president on this?"
The two of them inspected the five spot:
Boy #2: "That's not him. He's on the One."
A one dollar bill is extracted from the cash drawer and intensely scrutinized:
Boy #1: "That's not him, either. He's must be on the Twenty."
Two small heads bend studiously over a miniature twenty dollar bill for a solid minute before the following conclusion is reached:
Boy #2: "That is definitely not him."
Boy #1: "Yeah, I guess they didn't get a chance to put him on yet."
(Maybe tomorrow, kids.)
Sunday, March 02, 2008
It's Like Talking to a Wall
The P-Dawg had elective throat surgery on Friday.
(Who has elective THROAT surgery????)
It is supposed to greatly reduce snoring (awesome) and prevent sleep apnea. According to his surgeon, the P-Dawg is a classic example of someone who, without this cutting edge procedure, would likely end up bald and with a pot belly the size of Texas.
Did you know that people with sleep apnea tend to be overweight because lack of sleep actually produces a hormone of some sort that makes you hungry all the time? I just made up the bald part.
I think the surgeon also said something about Bingo and white socks with black sandals, but by this time I had already slipped him our insurance card and a roll of hundreds. SIGN HIM UP.
The P-Dawg, ever the optimist, was convinced he'd be back in the game in no time at all:
"It's no biggie, Rimster. They just shave off a bit of the soft palate, trim up the old uvula, maybe downsize the tongue by a notch or two. Easy peasy."
It didn't sound quite so innocuous to me.
"Shave off part of the soft palate? What is it, a block of Parmesan?"
But my attention quickly wandered.
"Ooooooooo! You said uvula!!!!!!!!!!!!" Har Har.
Anyway.
Now it's Sunday night and my poor P-Dawg is curled up on the couch, barely able to swallow the dew from the side of his Popsicle.
What's more, he can't talk and this is killing me.
I hope the surgery turns out to be worthwhile, because it sure doesn't look like a whole heck of a lot of fun from where I'm sitting. Please send P-Dawg soothing throat vibes. And don't ever let anyone with a knife near your soft palate. Just sayin'.
In other news, I found out today that the V-meister knows how to count to one hundred, and has for some time.
I heard her talking in her room a good half hour after bedtime and popped in to see what was up.
"Mama, I'm just lying here in my bed, counting to a hundred."
And I was all, "Oh, rilly?"
Because I totally didn't believe her.
But she can, and she did.
It makes me wonder what other skills my children might possess that I know nothing of.
What if the J-Dog is doing quantum physics in his head while playing Legos or launching peas off his high chair tray?
You just never know.
(Who has elective THROAT surgery????)
It is supposed to greatly reduce snoring (awesome) and prevent sleep apnea. According to his surgeon, the P-Dawg is a classic example of someone who, without this cutting edge procedure, would likely end up bald and with a pot belly the size of Texas.
Did you know that people with sleep apnea tend to be overweight because lack of sleep actually produces a hormone of some sort that makes you hungry all the time? I just made up the bald part.
I think the surgeon also said something about Bingo and white socks with black sandals, but by this time I had already slipped him our insurance card and a roll of hundreds. SIGN HIM UP.
The P-Dawg, ever the optimist, was convinced he'd be back in the game in no time at all:
"It's no biggie, Rimster. They just shave off a bit of the soft palate, trim up the old uvula, maybe downsize the tongue by a notch or two. Easy peasy."
It didn't sound quite so innocuous to me.
"Shave off part of the soft palate? What is it, a block of Parmesan?"
But my attention quickly wandered.
"Ooooooooo! You said uvula!!!!!!!!!!!!" Har Har.
Anyway.
Now it's Sunday night and my poor P-Dawg is curled up on the couch, barely able to swallow the dew from the side of his Popsicle.
What's more, he can't talk and this is killing me.
I hope the surgery turns out to be worthwhile, because it sure doesn't look like a whole heck of a lot of fun from where I'm sitting. Please send P-Dawg soothing throat vibes. And don't ever let anyone with a knife near your soft palate. Just sayin'.
In other news, I found out today that the V-meister knows how to count to one hundred, and has for some time.
I heard her talking in her room a good half hour after bedtime and popped in to see what was up.
"Mama, I'm just lying here in my bed, counting to a hundred."
And I was all, "Oh, rilly?"
Because I totally didn't believe her.
But she can, and she did.
It makes me wonder what other skills my children might possess that I know nothing of.
What if the J-Dog is doing quantum physics in his head while playing Legos or launching peas off his high chair tray?
You just never know.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
The Dog Ate My Calendar
Some of you have expressed amazement that the V-meister's school didn't call me when she didn't show up last week.
I was a little surprised at this myself, but when I approached her teacher at pick-up yesterday to apologize and explain that our family had been stranded on a remote island in the South Pacific with no cell phone service*, she admitted that they had all been very worried, but had assumed that the V-meister was still sick.
She had been out before the holiday break with a very bad double ear infection in which both ear drums were ruptured and her hearing was severely compromised. The school was under the impression that her hearing had not yet returned to normal (it has), hence her prolonged absence.
(And while we're on the subject, if your child suddenly starts acting extremely irritable after having been sick with a cold and complains of strange noises/discomfort in her ears before Mount Vesuvius erupts and begins flowing out of said ears in copious amounts, might I recommend taking said child to the Pediatrician ASAP instead of, say, telling her the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf? For instance.)
I have a sneaking suspicion that people at the school actually know I was smokin' banana peels* and watching the Home Shopping Channel last week when my kid was supposed to be back at school. At pick up yesterday, the utha muthas greeted me with a snarky, "Oh, hi, Rimarama! We missed you guys last week! BWAAhahahaha!!!!! "
I gave them my patented Stare of Damnation and exited stage left with a perfect ten round-off/back-handspring combo.
I'm just hoping they weren't having a candelight prayer vigil for the V-meister while she was boomeranging around the living room on a leftover Christmas candy sugar high.
Because that would make me feel kind of bad.
*lies
I was a little surprised at this myself, but when I approached her teacher at pick-up yesterday to apologize and explain that our family had been stranded on a remote island in the South Pacific with no cell phone service*, she admitted that they had all been very worried, but had assumed that the V-meister was still sick.
She had been out before the holiday break with a very bad double ear infection in which both ear drums were ruptured and her hearing was severely compromised. The school was under the impression that her hearing had not yet returned to normal (it has), hence her prolonged absence.
(And while we're on the subject, if your child suddenly starts acting extremely irritable after having been sick with a cold and complains of strange noises/discomfort in her ears before Mount Vesuvius erupts and begins flowing out of said ears in copious amounts, might I recommend taking said child to the Pediatrician ASAP instead of, say, telling her the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf? For instance.)
I have a sneaking suspicion that people at the school actually know I was smokin' banana peels* and watching the Home Shopping Channel last week when my kid was supposed to be back at school. At pick up yesterday, the utha muthas greeted me with a snarky, "Oh, hi, Rimarama! We missed you guys last week! BWAAhahahaha!!!!! "
I gave them my patented Stare of Damnation and exited stage left with a perfect ten round-off/back-handspring combo.
I'm just hoping they weren't having a candelight prayer vigil for the V-meister while she was boomeranging around the living room on a leftover Christmas candy sugar high.
Because that would make me feel kind of bad.
*lies
Monday, January 07, 2008
Where Are the Truancy Police When You Need Them?
By last Friday, the V-meister's holiday break from Montessori school was starting to wear me down. She had been out sick for the entire week before Christmas, so we were nearing the end of three-and-a-half weeks of an extended stay-at-home squirmfest.
"What are you doing?" I asked as she ran, for the fourth time in a row, full tilt into our front door, hit it, then collapsed with drama onto the hardwood floor as I watched warily and the J-dog clapped with glee.
"Just practicing bouncing off the wall, Mama."
This activity was performed at regular intervals throughout that last vacation week, interrupted only by the occasional knock-down, drag-out fight with the J-dog or a combo thumb sucking/hair twirling/squirm session on the brown TV watching throne.
Today, however, was a day of restrained joy, tempered only by the agony that had to be endured as the V-meister prepared for her first day back at school by staging a level six meltdown at the suggestion that her hair be coiffed into a pony tail.
I'm pretty sure she was all the way out of the car at drop-off before I careened out of the school parking lot, leaving a thick cloud of exhaust fumes in my wake.
The J-dog and I then proceeded to the supermarket, where, heady with the excitement of a one kid grocery run, I almost felled a couple of tottering seniors as I zipped up and down the aisles with speed and precision, the J-dog's hoodie flapping behind him in our manufactured wind.
When we returned home, the J-dog immediately set to dismantling the fireplace grate while I busied myself with important tasks such as crossing off dead calendar days, calling in sick for this afternoon's dental appointment, rifling through paperwork, and surfing real estate sites.
And that's when I discovered it - the 2007-2008 Montessori school calendar, with it's bold face statement that school will resume for all students on Wednesday, January 2 of this year.
Uh . . . . . . . . last week, then.
'Roundabout the time the V-meister was backing up for her fiftieth consecutive wall run, I presume.
(And that thar's called shootin' yerself in yer own dayum foot, folks.)
"What are you doing?" I asked as she ran, for the fourth time in a row, full tilt into our front door, hit it, then collapsed with drama onto the hardwood floor as I watched warily and the J-dog clapped with glee.
"Just practicing bouncing off the wall, Mama."
This activity was performed at regular intervals throughout that last vacation week, interrupted only by the occasional knock-down, drag-out fight with the J-dog or a combo thumb sucking/hair twirling/squirm session on the brown TV watching throne.
Today, however, was a day of restrained joy, tempered only by the agony that had to be endured as the V-meister prepared for her first day back at school by staging a level six meltdown at the suggestion that her hair be coiffed into a pony tail.
I'm pretty sure she was all the way out of the car at drop-off before I careened out of the school parking lot, leaving a thick cloud of exhaust fumes in my wake.
The J-dog and I then proceeded to the supermarket, where, heady with the excitement of a one kid grocery run, I almost felled a couple of tottering seniors as I zipped up and down the aisles with speed and precision, the J-dog's hoodie flapping behind him in our manufactured wind.
When we returned home, the J-dog immediately set to dismantling the fireplace grate while I busied myself with important tasks such as crossing off dead calendar days, calling in sick for this afternoon's dental appointment, rifling through paperwork, and surfing real estate sites.
And that's when I discovered it - the 2007-2008 Montessori school calendar, with it's bold face statement that school will resume for all students on Wednesday, January 2 of this year.
Uh . . . . . . . . last week, then.
'Roundabout the time the V-meister was backing up for her fiftieth consecutive wall run, I presume.
(And that thar's called shootin' yerself in yer own dayum foot, folks.)
Friday, October 12, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
Maria Montessori, May I Have a Word With You?
The toothpaste bandit struck again last night.
This time, the toiletry of choice was liquid soap.
I thought I heard the little V-meister in the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning, but, having conducted a midnight raid earlier in the evening, I was just too bone tired to get up and investigate.
This morning I awoke to liquid soap smeared all over the bathroom floor and fixtures. There were other giveaways: one very slimy soap dispenser and a soap saturated wash cloth that had been employed in a foolhardy attempt to clean up the crime scene.
Turns out that a toothpaste fetish is not the issue. Nor is it liquid soap.
No, it appears there is a specific phenomenon among Montessori school initiates characterized by a driving need to indulge in household rituals involving fragrant gelatinous substances under cover of darkness.
The P-dog found out about it during his Montessori information course for parents last night. (I would be attending, too, if it weren’t for the fact that my absence at Lithuanian choir practice would cause the soprano section to fall apart entirely.) It seems that some of the little V-meister’s Montessori pre-school cohorts are displaying similar behaviors in their respective homes.
(What else did the P-Dog learn? Only that our children might as well have been raised by a pack of wolves, so ass-backwards is our parenting style.)
But we are lucky by comparison.
The V-meister’s class boasts not only a couple of toothpaste and liquid soap bandits, but also a ketchup bandit (There but for the grace of God . . .)
You see, there is one entire part of the Montessori curriculum entirely devoted to practical skills. The classroom is a pre-schooler’s dream come true, complete with authentic, child-sized household implements and an environment in which children are encouraged to practice the tasks of choice to their little hearts’ content.
They get to polish their own shoes, prepare and eat their snacks on Wedgewood china, spray and wash the classroom windows, build stuff in the workshop using actual nails, comb and style their hair at a little vanity table, and sweep and polish floors. That is, when they’re not busy learning theoretical mathematics, of course.
Naturally, the desire to replicate these new found skills in the home environment is overwhelming.
But some of the childrens’ mamas are neurotic control freaks who would rather gouge their own eyes out with an ice pick rather than allow their children to have free reign over the kitchen and bathroom cabinets.
These children must engage in secret midnight missions to satisfy their squeezing, pouring, and smearing needs. It seems the occasional toothpaste tasting I was kvetching about the other day is just a by-product. You’re busy rationing it out into Dixie cups, you get the midnight munchies, what’s to stop you from having a berrylicious taste?
I’d like to have a word with Maria Montessori.
I’m a fan of her educational philosophy, but I wonder if she had children of her own?
The Rimarama household is going into full lock-down mode this weekend. But once the little V-meister has mastered these charming household tasks and can be trusted to perform them in a responsible manner, I’m putting her to work.
This time, the toiletry of choice was liquid soap.
I thought I heard the little V-meister in the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning, but, having conducted a midnight raid earlier in the evening, I was just too bone tired to get up and investigate.
This morning I awoke to liquid soap smeared all over the bathroom floor and fixtures. There were other giveaways: one very slimy soap dispenser and a soap saturated wash cloth that had been employed in a foolhardy attempt to clean up the crime scene.
Turns out that a toothpaste fetish is not the issue. Nor is it liquid soap.
No, it appears there is a specific phenomenon among Montessori school initiates characterized by a driving need to indulge in household rituals involving fragrant gelatinous substances under cover of darkness.
The P-dog found out about it during his Montessori information course for parents last night. (I would be attending, too, if it weren’t for the fact that my absence at Lithuanian choir practice would cause the soprano section to fall apart entirely.) It seems that some of the little V-meister’s Montessori pre-school cohorts are displaying similar behaviors in their respective homes.
(What else did the P-Dog learn? Only that our children might as well have been raised by a pack of wolves, so ass-backwards is our parenting style.)
But we are lucky by comparison.
The V-meister’s class boasts not only a couple of toothpaste and liquid soap bandits, but also a ketchup bandit (There but for the grace of God . . .)
You see, there is one entire part of the Montessori curriculum entirely devoted to practical skills. The classroom is a pre-schooler’s dream come true, complete with authentic, child-sized household implements and an environment in which children are encouraged to practice the tasks of choice to their little hearts’ content.
They get to polish their own shoes, prepare and eat their snacks on Wedgewood china, spray and wash the classroom windows, build stuff in the workshop using actual nails, comb and style their hair at a little vanity table, and sweep and polish floors. That is, when they’re not busy learning theoretical mathematics, of course.
Naturally, the desire to replicate these new found skills in the home environment is overwhelming.
But some of the childrens’ mamas are neurotic control freaks who would rather gouge their own eyes out with an ice pick rather than allow their children to have free reign over the kitchen and bathroom cabinets.
These children must engage in secret midnight missions to satisfy their squeezing, pouring, and smearing needs. It seems the occasional toothpaste tasting I was kvetching about the other day is just a by-product. You’re busy rationing it out into Dixie cups, you get the midnight munchies, what’s to stop you from having a berrylicious taste?
I’d like to have a word with Maria Montessori.
I’m a fan of her educational philosophy, but I wonder if she had children of her own?
The Rimarama household is going into full lock-down mode this weekend. But once the little V-meister has mastered these charming household tasks and can be trusted to perform them in a responsible manner, I’m putting her to work.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Another Communique from the World of Nature
Yesterday was P's birthday and also orientation night at the V-meister's new school.
It was an evening of peaceful exploration, a way to help the children ease into the school year. And because it's a Montessori school, it was all very informal. And gentle.
To wit: a couple of four year-old boys patiently instructed Vija in the work of washing and drying dishes at the mini Montessori sink. (The practical skills part of the Montessori curriculum was what sold my husband on it: They learn how to shine shoes? Wash windows? Make cappuccinos? Sign her up!)
She was eyeing that little sink all night, but it was a popular attraction and always very congested. Finally, I urged her to ask the boys who were using it if they could show her how to do the work.
And she marched right up in her size 4T uniform (where does the time go?), which she had insisted on wearing although it was not required, and asked in a delicate accent,
"Show Vija please how to wash dishes?"
And, bless their generous little hearts, they happily obliged!
(If that had been me at age four? Your turn is not yet! A pox on your house and may all your goats die.)
But these Montessori kids, they're different.
As it turns out, the V-meister's enrollment in this gem of a school is the result of a stroke of dumb luck on the part of her hapless parents. We learned last night that it's the "best kept Montessori secret" in these parts. Everyone kept asking who referred us. How could we admit we picked it out of the phone book during an elaborate drinking game?
The P-dog told them it was Maria Montessori, but quickly retracted when informed that she's fifty years dead.
And guess what?
As we were walking out, basking in the rosy Montessori afterglow and before I went ballistic upon discovering that the J-Dog's diaper had soaked through, I saw an entire herd of little deer feasting on the leaves in the grove next to the building!
These deer, you guys, they were truly Bambi-esque, not like that stag that almost killed me last week.
And this time, they communicated to me that we had made the right choice for Vija's education and that Owen Wilson is going to be OK .
They also wished the P-Dog a happy birthday.
And it was all good.
It was an evening of peaceful exploration, a way to help the children ease into the school year. And because it's a Montessori school, it was all very informal. And gentle.
To wit: a couple of four year-old boys patiently instructed Vija in the work of washing and drying dishes at the mini Montessori sink. (The practical skills part of the Montessori curriculum was what sold my husband on it: They learn how to shine shoes? Wash windows? Make cappuccinos? Sign her up!)
She was eyeing that little sink all night, but it was a popular attraction and always very congested. Finally, I urged her to ask the boys who were using it if they could show her how to do the work.
And she marched right up in her size 4T uniform (where does the time go?), which she had insisted on wearing although it was not required, and asked in a delicate accent,
"Show Vija please how to wash dishes?"
And, bless their generous little hearts, they happily obliged!
(If that had been me at age four? Your turn is not yet! A pox on your house and may all your goats die.)
But these Montessori kids, they're different.
As it turns out, the V-meister's enrollment in this gem of a school is the result of a stroke of dumb luck on the part of her hapless parents. We learned last night that it's the "best kept Montessori secret" in these parts. Everyone kept asking who referred us. How could we admit we picked it out of the phone book during an elaborate drinking game?
The P-dog told them it was Maria Montessori, but quickly retracted when informed that she's fifty years dead.
And guess what?
As we were walking out, basking in the rosy Montessori afterglow and before I went ballistic upon discovering that the J-Dog's diaper had soaked through, I saw an entire herd of little deer feasting on the leaves in the grove next to the building!
These deer, you guys, they were truly Bambi-esque, not like that stag that almost killed me last week.
And this time, they communicated to me that we had made the right choice for Vija's education and that Owen Wilson is going to be OK .
They also wished the P-Dog a happy birthday.
And it was all good.
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