The Effect of Kindergarten on the Five-Year-Old Brain

Before

After

Thank you, Mrs. G., for making the magic happen!

Thank you, Theodore!

Friday was Dr. Seuss's birthday (he would be 108!), a special day in schools. Our daughters wore their jammies for a schoolwide Pajama Day, and it was Family Friday and Read Across America, which meant parents were outside with students reading books and talking about books and celebrating literacy.

I left work early to read to the kindergartners, who swarmed me with the books they'd brought to school, including all manner of Dr. Seuss and some Dora the Explorer and Barbie (gulp) as well. I read Green Eggs and Ham, perhaps a little too animatedly, as I lost my audience for a bit amid the hilarity (note: it's a risky business, cracking up kindergartners).

Big Sis was an early reader, a motivated and voracious consumer of books. She figured the reading thing out on her own, and off she went on her independent literary adventures. Little Sis is a different creature. It became clear as we read to her early on that she wasn't interested in chiming in or trying reading for herself. Maybe performance anxiety played a part, maybe a keen awareness that her sister was way ahead of her in this arena.  Suggestions to sound out words were often met with silence or gentle urgings: "You just read it, please, Mommy?" Last summer she warily bust into some Bob books she'd received as a gift, but we vowed to sit back and let her find her way, and allow her to continue enjoying being the audience for bedtime books. As with potty training, we felt confident she wouldn't go too long without conquering this developmental milestone.

Now more than midway through kindergarten, she wasn't reading independently. Until Friday, that is. I'm not sure how the magic happened, but she came home from school, gathered all our Dr. Seuss books into a big stack, sat down beside me, and began to read one to herself. She read the whole darned thing, and with triumph. An hour later, my friend and neighbor and colleague--a former elementary school teacher--came over, and Little Sis promptly landed in her lap to regale her with Green Eggs and Ham. We were both a little teary over the magnitude of the moment.

There's something about you, Dr. Seuss, your joyful, rhyming words, your relentless commitment to early literacy, your creativity and humor...Your day gave my daughter her big day.

Because truly? Of all the adventures in life, embarking on the journey of words and books is the most exhilarating. I am so happy for her.

A Piece of My Mind...*gulp*

Today was a pretty fine day, all things considered. There was grumpiness at work, but I was able to escape to attend our kindergartner's farewell performance, which was a hoot. Sixty almost-first-graders were assembled on stage for a repertoire of songs, wiggling and poking one another until it was time to trill. When I saw our daughter's teacher lug in the record player, I thought, Rad. There's some tradition at work here.

Tradition probably also included the left half of kindergartners on stage being one whole verse ahead of their peers to the right, like they were singing in the round. Only not quite.

Later that evening, we celebrated the last day of school by taking over a neighborhood Italian restaurant: five families, fourteen children. The joint had bay windows that jutted out into the sidewalk, and our kids danced on those "stages," catching passersby off guard with what looked like a little innocent version of Amsterdam's Red Light District.

We took home two tired but jubilant, ice-cream-sticky children who were nearing meltdown. Just as we had shushed the three-year-old for what we hoped was the final time, the doorbell rang. Our SUPER LOUD doorbell. Which makes the dog bark madly. Which makes my ears ring. We've even taped over it to discourage zealous solicitors, but they are the only ones who actually push the damn button.

"Who IS that?" I hissed to my husband. "Seriously. I am going to go give Whoever It Is a piece of my mind!" I marched off to the door to find...my sweet friend waiting on the doorstep with a bag of her famously delicious chocolate chip cookies. Still warm.

This would be the same sweet friend who called me once while we were at our daughter's Elementary School Open House, and I answered the phone and said, "Hey, can I call you back? We're in the middle of a school function." "Sure," she replied.

I found out later she was in the parking lot of Trader Joe's, bleeding. She had dropped a glass jug of water onto her foot. She needed help right there in the parking lot, and she needed help picking up her children, since she would be a while. But I was busy. You know, at a school function. Too busy to find out why she even called.

I learned an important lesson from my friend that night, which is: Always find out why they're calling. And then, if you don't like the sight of blood, explain that you're busy.

Kidding!

But seriously.

Now my sweet friend has taught me another lesson, which I believe the Bible told me so once upon a time (Hebrews 13:2): Be careful how you treat strangers, or you might be entertaining angels unawares (bearing cookies).

So, thank you, my angel friend: a timely reminder for patience and benefit of the doubt.

As for the three-year-old, let's hope we're not tempted to offer her to the next non-cookie-offering, doorbell-ringing salesperson.

Like Her Mama, Not Likely to Pull All-Nighters in College

Last night, I hovered over the kindergartner as she tackled her homework. It was the only night this week I was available to help, and I tend to get a kick out of the conversations (and cajolings) we have around her assignments. Tonight was no disappointment.

Her packet for the week included some math stuff and some reading and writing workbook pages. We decided to tackle the workbook, in which she had to write as much as she could about what she learned in kindergarten this year (using the Word Bank, of course). And, the teacher added, "use your first-grade writing."

Our Kindergartener has a swollen thumb--a residual injury from some splinters already extricated that she picked up off the dock last weekend. I had forgotten about this moan-worthy fact when I noted that her handwriting was leaving some "first grade" to be desired. She was holding her pencil strangely as well.

"It says right here that your teacher wants you to use your 'first-grade writing', honey," I meekly pointed out, treading lightly into the arena of suggestions, knowing what wrath gentle prodding can inspire.

"Mom, my thumb is still sore. Do you want to me to get really, really hurt, or do you want me to get in a little bit of trouble?"

She glared at me, eyes wide open and head cocked to the side.

As I paused to let that question sink in, she got back to sloppy work, shaking her head confidently: "I don't think you're going to say you want me to get hurt."

Kindergarten: Not for Babies

The other night our five-year-old came home with a workbook from Starfall, which is a new curriculum I understand is being incorporated into her kindergarten class. First we had to staple together a little story about a rat named Zac (who encountered some ants, incidentally). Next she read the story aloud to me, and then she was to complete some exercises in her workbook.

One of the assignments was to examine a picture and circle the objects with short vowel sounds. Now, my husband and I have had to learn the distinction between short and long vowel sounds, since it's obviously not intuitive (Me: "Honey, long vowel sounds SOUND long, you know, like treeeeeeeeeeeeee." Him: "Huh? What about baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" We've since surmised that long vowels say their name, a helpful way for at least the parents to remember). I watched our daughter circle ants and the rat and a bag and grass in the illustration. Then she put a circle on part of the tree.

"'Tree' has a long vowel sound, honey," I offered helpfully.

"I know, Mom," she concurred, circling the flag and a mat.

"And 'leaf' has a long vowel sound, too, right?"

"Yep," she agreed. "But that's a braaaaaaaaaaanch, Mom. Branch. Short vowel for branch."

Duh. Thanks, kiddo.

The last activity was to write a narrative based on a picture related to the little stapled story starring hapless Zac. The workbook helpfully provided a Word Bank (I had never heard of one until I became a teacher) for this writing venture so that one didn't need to worry so much about spelling and could also practice writing and using all those words with short vowel sounds.

But of course, my daughter didn't want to write about flags and mats and ants and bags and grass. So she ignored the Word Bank and used her own invented spelling to write about the playground and swings--which, to be fair, were present in the picture, so who can blame her? Off she went writing whatever the heck she wanted, basically, and I didn't feel like stifling her long-vowel narrative. And when she wanted to write the word "were," she sounded it out: "w," "e," "r"...pause. "Oh yeah," she nodded. "There's a silent 'e' at the end of it." Her tongue popped out of the side of her mouth as she added that "e" on to the end of "wer."

Meanwhile, I was shaking my head like a dog does when it's about to shake water from its entire body. Like, "Silent WHAT?"

So my daughter knows what "Silent E"s are and the difference between Short Vowels and Long Ones. What the heck are they teaching in kindergarten these days, anyway? It turns out I don't even know what my kid knows. I don't know what she knows, and I don't know what she knows, if you know what I mean. It's crazy. I'm pretty sure this kindergarten is not my kindergarten. It's both heartbreaking and reassuring.

Here's what's reassuring: all this focus on No Child Left Behind means someone has to be paying attention to every child's ability to learn. Conceivably, gone are the days when nice children who try hard can slip through the cracks and make it through 12th grade without knowing or showing much. According to NCLB tenets, each child will be achieving at grade level standards by 2013, or ELSE. Educators all over our state are working hard to make this happen. Children are learning about things and using terminology invented since our grade-school years. What's more: they're learning about their learning. It's impressive.

But it's heartbreaking. As a school administrator, I have sat in many meetings about Accountability and Achievement and Mastery of Skills, and the theme is always We Must Get Every Kid There. It sounds really noble but also simple: We Can Do This! However, any ONE of us who has sat with ONE kindergartener at the kitchen table doing homework for ONE evening has to wonder how ONE kindergarten teacher gets 20 kids through ONE activity successfully in ONE day, while identifying who needs extra help and then providing it. And here we are the fortunate parents of a well-prepared kindergartener with no special needs. She is well prepared because we have books and read to her but also because she is just That Kind of Kid who wakes up in the morning and wants to go write stuff.

Frankly, she's the kind of kid who delights so much in the structure of school that she almost needs breaks from it. Which is not to say that the children who struggle with the structure of school--or for whom structure is a foreign concept in and of itself--don't need those breaks too. I worry that No Child Left Behind makes assumptions based on every child's ability to learn that are spot-on and important--but that don't account for the magic and beauty of a child's spirit, which can get lost somewhere in that shuffle of standards and vowel sounds. A spirited teacher can help make sense of standards, and put them in their place. Our daughter is fortunate to have such a teacher.

Every so often, we've got to back off Zac the Rat and the Word Bank and just laugh at how silly is his picnic at the playground. We've got to search for the meaning--and the joy--in short and long vowel sounds. We've got to continue to challenge children, showing them and ourselves just how much is possible, but we also must allow them to show us what is relevant. Every child can learn; every child can achieve at standard. We are banking on that. But I am not sure every child's talents and gifts will properly emerge and fluorish in this institution of schooling as it is currently designed.

We all know people who sucked at school and who thrive at life.

The question is, are we properly prepared to listen and respond to the Children Left Silenced?

He Sees You When You're Sleeping

What is it with this guy? Kids LOVE Barack Obama (or Buroco Boma). Am I not right? Okay, liberal peoples' kids love him, for sure. But I think, in fact, that he has broad appeal across the lunchbox demographic. I've taken a poll in my neighborhood.

Tonight I showed my daughters a silly "Elf Yourself" holiday video a friend posted on Facebook, with her face and her husband's copied and pasted on disco-dancing leprachauns. Only there was one more elf stayin' alive in the video: Barack Obama. My daughters laughed hysterically at the clip, and then our kindergartener disappeared for a few moments. When she returned, triumphant, it was with her homemade valentine to Mr. Boma (above).

Meanwhile, I am capitalizing on all this love. I believe I can harness admiration into something that works for us.

Because Barack Obama is the new Santa.

President Obama says Unclench Your Fist (RIGHT NOW, before it connects with your sister's face).

President Obama says Reform Bad Habits (and NOT LISTENING appears to be one).

President Obama says Set Aside Childish Things (like your sister's My Little Pony)

President Obama says Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Off (and GET IN THE CAR).

President Obama says You Cannot Outlast Us, and We Will Defeat You (GO TO BED).

I think they'll listen. Santa is seasonal (like those dancing elves). But Obama is already in town, and he's ALL YEAR LONG.

Dear Santa, Don't Listen to My Mom

Dear Santa,

I am churning out Santa letters every day. I write; I fold; I enclose each letter in an envelope; I lick them shut; I write your address ("Santa CLos, Nrth Pul"); and I ask my mom for stamps. My mom takes my letters.

Today she took one to school because the scanner part of our printer doesn't work. She asked one of the secretaries to help and now she has a .pdf version of my Santa Letter and she can't figure out how to upload it to her blog. Maybe you will see it tomorrow. Maybe she will take a picture of it instead. Maybe she will mail it to the Nrth Pul.

I am writing letters to you for my sister, too, who is outsourcing all her Santa contacts. She is afraid of you: always has been; still is. When my mom and dad ask her about telling you what she wants for Christmas, she blurts out, "You can tell him." She does not want to go anywhere near Santa. Sorry.

But I have no fear of you. I love Santa, as I have loved all Disney characters and even stuffed Sea World creatures of unknown genus and species that we encounter at that theme park. I have been known to stand in line patiently and quietly for hours to talk with you, particularly at Disneyland when I was two, even when my mom and dad wanted to get out of line and go get a beer, already. Disneyland doesn't have beers. Which is why we go to California Adventure now instead.

Santa, my letters will tell you everything, including what my mom and dad want for Christmas. My mom wants a "noo cooompueud" (Ed.: "new computer"? Not...) and my dad wants a "noo foon" (Ed.: "new phone." Also, NOT.). My parents have been saying lots of things about you might not come, and you are watching, and you know if I am naughty or nice. Well, I am good. I am a good girl, and they should be glad I am not doing drugs or smoking or sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night.

Because you are watching you know that I am not doing those things. Only once in a while I am bossy to my sister and sometimes I yell too loud and I even don't cooperate. Otherwise, I am perfect.

My mom needs a new computer because she does not know how to post my Santa Letter. Help her out, Santa. Besides her being bossy and yelling too loud sometimes herself, she's pretty perfect, too.

Love,

Daughter #1

We're Late, We're Losing Letters, and We're Encroaching

This post will serve mainly as an update on previous conditions...

1. I oversee attendance at our school. I am not the Attendance Lady, but I am the Attendance Enforcer. I assign detentions, Saturday Schools, and send late kids to the office for a pass when they try to scuttle off to class under the radar. So imagine my dismay when I received the phone call this morning that my daughter was not in school.

"Yes, she is," I argued with the Attendance Lady from my kindergartener's school. "My husband dropped her off." I spoke with the assurance of a wife who had touched base with her spouse after school started.

"Well," she offered, "we don't know that unless he brings her to the office when SHE'S LATE."

Late? Scandalous!

As an explanation, Husband let me know that he was not going to continue to Freak Out in the mornings when his daughters caused late departures with last-minute wardrobe changes, etc. He was just going to go with the Slow Flow.

Besides wondering aloud if my husband's cover-to-cover reading of the newspaper each morning might contribute to Slow Flow, I kept my mouth shut on this new philosophical approach.

2. But we took the opportunity at dinner to broach the issue of Morning Cooperation, so Mom and Dad won't get busted by the elementary school front office.

"Okay," agreed our daughter. "And I forgot to tell you that I also got part of my name accidentally erased by the teacher today."

"What???" We stared, agape, at our daughter. "For what?"

"Well, I accidentally...okay, not accidentally..." She paused to eat some taco. "I threw my classwork at the teacher."

Threw...classwork?

First, I pictured paper airplanes. And then I imagined Indignation. Outrage. And my little innocent-looking kindergartener exhibiting those emotions outside the safety of her own home, where she lets them fly freely on a regular basis.

"Were you...being naughty? Or mad?"

"I was mad. I was mad, because the work was TOO HARD! It was math, and it was TOO HARD! I couldn't do it!"

"So you threw it at the teacher?" And then I remembered. "Wait...did you throw it at The Substitute?

She nodded.

Fascinating. I pleaded with her to show me just how this went down: "Here [handing her a piece of mail off a pile on the dinner table], show me what you did..."

But she shut down, with vague "I can't remember" statements she learned from CEOs and Politicians on TV.

We reminded her that there's a certain mechanism called "Asking for help" that might be employed in similar frustrating circumstances.

Husband will ask the teacher about the event tomorrow. But it's quite possible that what happens with the Substitute stays with the Substitute, and it won't be till Geometry in 10th grade that she lets another math paper fly.

Stay tuned.

3. In more good news, we received a letter in the mail today from The City about our bougainvillea growing against the fence along the alley. Specifically, it reads: "A recent inspection shows that Vegetation Growth along the rear of the property at [OUR ADDRESS] is encroaching over the alley. This is creating an Encroachment Problem [ed.: a little redundant, wouldn't you say?] and is in violation of...Municipal Code Section...and/or...California Civil Code..."

The dilemma is that Husband only weeks ago trimmed said "Vegetation Growth," so I do not know if he has nipped our Encroachment in the bud (pun intended) or basically accomplished nothing in this endeavor. He plans to call and find out.

I plan to call and direct The City to the alley behind my brother and sister-in-law's house a few blocks away, where a Strong Smell of Marijuana Growing Under Heat Lamps encroaches on my sense of What Constitutes Legal Vegetation Growth.

Purse Strings

Our kindergartener came home from school this afternoon with a foreign object: a small black velour purse.

"What's that purse in your backpack?" I asked our daughter, who was busy making the non-alcoholic sangria I promised she could have since she lusted after the real kind I made for a shower on Sunday.

"Oh, that's a purse Mr. D found." Fork in hand, she mushed up the oranges in her cup.

"Who's Mr. D?"

"He's the man who cleans our school. He came in our class and asked if the purse belonged to any of us."

"And you said it was yours?"

She looked at me wide eyed and nodded.

"But, honey, that's not your purse."

"I thought it was." Her head down, she focused on furiously smashing fruit.

"Sweetie, did you really think it was your purse, or did you really want that purse?"

And then big tears welled up and overflowed onto her flushed cheeks.

So we had a little talk about lying, and returning that purse and, well, confessing to Mr. D or Ms. D, her teacher (no relation).

"But then Mr. D will know I LIED..." she wailed.

"I know, honey, but if you bring the purse back, Mr. D and Ms. D will understand that you want the owner of the purse to have it again, and that you're sorry. You learned something important, right? Everything will be okay, I promise."

But I could tell she was not convinced, and her wheels were turning.

Next I found her rummaging in her "office" for a piece of paper.

"What are you doing, sweetie?"

"I'm writing a letter to my teacher. I don't want to tell her I lied, so I will just give her a note." She began sounding out the letters.

A few minutes later, she presented her confession, written in black crayon on orange construction paper: "UM I THOT DAT PRS WUS MYN IM SRE MES D" [the rest of her teacher's name crawling up the side of the page].

She read aloud, "Umm...I thought that purse was mine. I'm sorry, Ms. D."

...maybe next time she semi-truthfully confesses her sins we will suggest that opening an admission with "ummm" slightly diminishes the strength of the message...

I Can Spell Any Word Tacked on the Board in Front of Me

I had an opportunity to meet Ms. D, our daughter's kindergarten teacher, on Friday. I was excited to leave work early, pick my kid up from school, and celebrate her first week of kindergarten with a trip to the ice cream store (note: I would have added my own celebratory glass of wine later on that evening, except that I had to head back to work for a first Home Football Game and Dance).

The teacher patted our daughter on the head, called her a "delight," and mentioned that she had already pulled her aside for some Phonemic Awareness Testing.

"First I asked her to write 'dog,' and she said she couldn't. Then I asked her to write 'cat,' and she waited a moment, and then wrote it perfectly."

I just nodded at this account, not sure where it was going. I was also feeling not entirely sure, as well as curious to learn more, about what our daughter can and cannot do. At our house, her abilities seem highly variable and quite dependent on mood.

"Because she had no apparent trouble writing 'cat,'" her teacher continued, "I asked her again to write 'dog,' which she promptly did. I praised her and told her, 'Look! You can do it!'"

Ms. D raised her eyebrow, with a glint in her eye.

"And then your daughter pointed out that both of those words were posted on the bulletin board behind me."