Grab Your Pitchfork, Mamma
While studying for my Elementary Education degree, I was a student teacher in a third grade classroom. My mentor, an involved but disillusioned veteran teacher, did a wonderful job of creating fun projects and a cozy classroom for her students . . . while concurrently making them tense with her inconsistent moods: you just never knew what would set her off, and if that thing was really your fault or just her whim-of-the-moment.
One of the girls in that class was named Jessica. I must admit that I really didn’t like that little girl: she was, in fact, the only child whose parents I had to call because of bad behavior. Alas, that phone call to Jessica’s parents was in vain, as they were uncaring and unimpressed with my interpretation of the severity of the situation.
My estimation of Jessica’s parents plummeted further when Halloween came, and my mentor informed me that those same parents didn’t believe in celebrating that particular holiday. I thought they were idiots, but I put it out of my mind as I watched my mentor prepare for the class Halloween party.
The kids had already brought in a variety of food, which was currently resting on a communal table, and now each child was impatiently sitting at their desk, squirming with anticipation as my mentor walked around the classroom and handed out themed plates and cups to fill with treats. The plates had a cat in a witch’s hat printed on them, and the cups were either purple or black, and I was caught up in the excitement myself, remembering how significant these events are to a child.
Once given their dishes, each kid straightened their plate and napkin and then waited again. My mentor continued slowly moving around the classroom, handing out the themed plates to all . . . until she got to Jessica, in front of whom she silently slapped a plain white plate and a waxy paper cup before sauntering off again.
I watched as the child who I really didn’t even like sat stiffly and smiled bravely in front of her table-mates, pretending not to care. And I was so angry. I was angry that Jessica’s parents had such a stupid rule. I was angry that my mentor ENFORCED such a stupid rule. I was angry that no one, including me, bothered to make sure Jessica knew that, even though this offending plate was a punishment, it wasn’t – for once – because of anything SHE had done.
I have grown disgusted with how very protective we are of our own beliefs, at the cost of our children’s opportunity to just be kids. One of the great joys of school is the silly stuff mixed in with the learning; how could anyone begrudge a child classroom parties or fun art projects or cupcakes on each birthday? I vowed to never be one of those Helicopter Parents who can’t occasionally relax their own staunch ideals.
Which is why it is so ironic how quickly my resolve has crumbled now that Mr. C is in school. Thanks to your audacious comments about only bringing in gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, food dye-free, fruit-free, sugar-free muffins, I was all irritated about what limited offerings my child would have at snack- and birthday-time. Then the Kindergarten teacher informed us that all she cared about was that the snacks were easy to store and hand out (examples: string cheese and Fig Newtons). So then I got incensed that they were feeding my child preservative-filled food. (Not that I have a problem with preservative-filled food in my OWN home, mind you).
THEN I had to figure out the proper snack to contribute to the snack stash: one that the kids would eat but the bitchy parents like me wouldn’t frown upon. I settled on little packs of peanuts. Which made me think of peanut allergies. And I was sort of upset that the school wasn’t overly-concerned with this; despite the fact that, obviously, there was little need for concern, as none of the parents had censured it for their children.
But – still – shouldn’t the school ban peanuts, like Mr. C’s preschool did?
But, then again, why the hell was every child in the building forbidden from having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his lunchbox just because one little girl was allergic?
And now I’m worried about the milk they serve the Kindergartners at snack time! With all I’ve learned recently about the unnaturalness of cow milk, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the school force-feeding my little boy non-organic, non-human milk. Which is particularly ironic, since I -- a steady milk-drinker until just a few years ago – currently have a whole gallon of non-organic, fat-free cow’s milk in my fridge for Mr. C’s cereal.
But still.
And then there’s the issue of behavioral rewards. As we were dropping our kids off at school last week, Bee and I got into a conversation with a few other parents.
“Do you know what this ‘Shining Star’ thing is?” one mother asked.
We all shook our heads. “I know they get a ‘Smiley-Stamp’ in their ‘Blue Folder’ every day if they’ve been good,” a mother supplied.
“I know about that one,” the first mother said, “and my kid was upset the other day because he didn’t get his ‘Smiley-Stamp’ even though he’d ‘Stayed On Green’ all day. What does ‘Staying On Green’ even mean?”
We all shook our heads again, sympathetically; though -- secretly – I was proud that Mr. C has consistently gotten his ‘Smiley-Stamp’ (whatever it means) in his ‘Blue Folder’.
“But I still don’t know what a ‘Shining Star’ is,’ the first mom continued.
“Huh. It must be for extra-special behavior,” the other mother guessed.
And now I was a little worried, because Mr. C hadn’t gotten a ‘Shining Star' yet, and it was already the fourth day of school!
“I don’t know how I feel about all these rules,” Bee piped up. “It’s a lot of stress to put on a little kid.”
We all muttered in agreement. From somewhere in the crowd, someone grumbled, “Yeah; I don’t like my kid feeling left out because she didn’t get a ‘Shining Star’ that day.”
“And what about this reading test they want to give the kids next week?” someone else called out. “I don’t want my child pigeon-holed just because I didn’t know to focus on teaching him sound-recognition instead of letter-cognition!”
By now we were in a tizzy, frothing at our collective mouths, rustling our respective pitchforks and torches. As the frenzy built, I got caught up in the moment.
“I know!” I shouted, “Let’s start a PETITION!”
And the thing is, I don’t WANT to want to be like that. I don’t want to be the parent who pushes for the removal of all playground equipment that could MAYBE be potentially hazardous. I don’t want to sue the teacher for assigning what I consider to be a questionable book.
I want to give Mr. C the tools he needs to be confident in himself and to therefore be able to make his own decisions about how he feels and what’s best for him.
And so it begins, this tenuous journey of arbitrary grades to achieve, random rules to adhere to, and foreign behaviors to which to aspire.
And it may be my child taking the tests, but I’ll still feel that his success or failure at each one reflects on ME.
One of the girls in that class was named Jessica. I must admit that I really didn’t like that little girl: she was, in fact, the only child whose parents I had to call because of bad behavior. Alas, that phone call to Jessica’s parents was in vain, as they were uncaring and unimpressed with my interpretation of the severity of the situation.
My estimation of Jessica’s parents plummeted further when Halloween came, and my mentor informed me that those same parents didn’t believe in celebrating that particular holiday. I thought they were idiots, but I put it out of my mind as I watched my mentor prepare for the class Halloween party.
The kids had already brought in a variety of food, which was currently resting on a communal table, and now each child was impatiently sitting at their desk, squirming with anticipation as my mentor walked around the classroom and handed out themed plates and cups to fill with treats. The plates had a cat in a witch’s hat printed on them, and the cups were either purple or black, and I was caught up in the excitement myself, remembering how significant these events are to a child.
Once given their dishes, each kid straightened their plate and napkin and then waited again. My mentor continued slowly moving around the classroom, handing out the themed plates to all . . . until she got to Jessica, in front of whom she silently slapped a plain white plate and a waxy paper cup before sauntering off again.
I watched as the child who I really didn’t even like sat stiffly and smiled bravely in front of her table-mates, pretending not to care. And I was so angry. I was angry that Jessica’s parents had such a stupid rule. I was angry that my mentor ENFORCED such a stupid rule. I was angry that no one, including me, bothered to make sure Jessica knew that, even though this offending plate was a punishment, it wasn’t – for once – because of anything SHE had done.
I have grown disgusted with how very protective we are of our own beliefs, at the cost of our children’s opportunity to just be kids. One of the great joys of school is the silly stuff mixed in with the learning; how could anyone begrudge a child classroom parties or fun art projects or cupcakes on each birthday? I vowed to never be one of those Helicopter Parents who can’t occasionally relax their own staunch ideals.
Which is why it is so ironic how quickly my resolve has crumbled now that Mr. C is in school. Thanks to your audacious comments about only bringing in gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, food dye-free, fruit-free, sugar-free muffins, I was all irritated about what limited offerings my child would have at snack- and birthday-time. Then the Kindergarten teacher informed us that all she cared about was that the snacks were easy to store and hand out (examples: string cheese and Fig Newtons). So then I got incensed that they were feeding my child preservative-filled food. (Not that I have a problem with preservative-filled food in my OWN home, mind you).
THEN I had to figure out the proper snack to contribute to the snack stash: one that the kids would eat but the bitchy parents like me wouldn’t frown upon. I settled on little packs of peanuts. Which made me think of peanut allergies. And I was sort of upset that the school wasn’t overly-concerned with this; despite the fact that, obviously, there was little need for concern, as none of the parents had censured it for their children.
But – still – shouldn’t the school ban peanuts, like Mr. C’s preschool did?
But, then again, why the hell was every child in the building forbidden from having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his lunchbox just because one little girl was allergic?
And now I’m worried about the milk they serve the Kindergartners at snack time! With all I’ve learned recently about the unnaturalness of cow milk, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the school force-feeding my little boy non-organic, non-human milk. Which is particularly ironic, since I -- a steady milk-drinker until just a few years ago – currently have a whole gallon of non-organic, fat-free cow’s milk in my fridge for Mr. C’s cereal.
But still.
And then there’s the issue of behavioral rewards. As we were dropping our kids off at school last week, Bee and I got into a conversation with a few other parents.
“Do you know what this ‘Shining Star’ thing is?” one mother asked.
We all shook our heads. “I know they get a ‘Smiley-Stamp’ in their ‘Blue Folder’ every day if they’ve been good,” a mother supplied.
“I know about that one,” the first mother said, “and my kid was upset the other day because he didn’t get his ‘Smiley-Stamp’ even though he’d ‘Stayed On Green’ all day. What does ‘Staying On Green’ even mean?”
We all shook our heads again, sympathetically; though -- secretly – I was proud that Mr. C has consistently gotten his ‘Smiley-Stamp’ (whatever it means) in his ‘Blue Folder’.
“But I still don’t know what a ‘Shining Star’ is,’ the first mom continued.
“Huh. It must be for extra-special behavior,” the other mother guessed.
And now I was a little worried, because Mr. C hadn’t gotten a ‘Shining Star' yet, and it was already the fourth day of school!
“I don’t know how I feel about all these rules,” Bee piped up. “It’s a lot of stress to put on a little kid.”
We all muttered in agreement. From somewhere in the crowd, someone grumbled, “Yeah; I don’t like my kid feeling left out because she didn’t get a ‘Shining Star’ that day.”
“And what about this reading test they want to give the kids next week?” someone else called out. “I don’t want my child pigeon-holed just because I didn’t know to focus on teaching him sound-recognition instead of letter-cognition!”
By now we were in a tizzy, frothing at our collective mouths, rustling our respective pitchforks and torches. As the frenzy built, I got caught up in the moment.
“I know!” I shouted, “Let’s start a PETITION!”
And the thing is, I don’t WANT to want to be like that. I don’t want to be the parent who pushes for the removal of all playground equipment that could MAYBE be potentially hazardous. I don’t want to sue the teacher for assigning what I consider to be a questionable book.
I want to give Mr. C the tools he needs to be confident in himself and to therefore be able to make his own decisions about how he feels and what’s best for him.
And so it begins, this tenuous journey of arbitrary grades to achieve, random rules to adhere to, and foreign behaviors to which to aspire.
And it may be my child taking the tests, but I’ll still feel that his success or failure at each one reflects on ME.
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