Dear Elli,
Next week, you're going to kindergarten. I don't really feel emotionally fragile at this point, although I'm sure I will. I'll save that letter for next week. Today I'm just feeling exhausted.
Do you have any idea how much stuff is involved with kindergarten enrollment? I'm sure you're shocked to learn that I'm going to tell you.
In April, we had orientation. I have no earthly idea why they picked April. I fancy myself to be a relatively intelligent human being, but the only thing I remember from April orientation is sitting in an overheated gym, trying to make you sit still, half watching a PowerPoint presentation about how you will become a super great citizen, all while filling out paperwork on my lap and trying not to poke holes in said paperwork with my pen.
After April, they left us alone for a few months to attempt not to lose the folder of stuff we would absolutely need in August for kindergarten screening.
Kindergarten screening takes place in the middle of the week, in the middle of the morning. How convenient... And you, my little lady, are quite a piece of work.
After your screening, you were escorted out by a teacher. In her hand were your screening results, and on her face was a very sorrowful look. She informed me, in a very compassionate tone, that you are "a little behind where we like to see our kindergarteners".
Any normal parent of any normal child would be horrified by this terrible news. Except I'm not a normal parent. And you are not a normal child. So I stifled my irritation, thanked her, and walked out of kindergarten screening, dragging you behind me in a slightly rough manner.
You see, I knew what you did. Because you've done it before. You pretended not to know your letters. Because you find reciting your letters to be an ineffective use of your time. I'm not shitting you. That's what you did. And you actually smirked at me when I called you out.
So we've been reciting our letters, multiple times, every single evening since kindergarten screening. And it's freaking amazing that you are miraculously NOT actually "a little behind where we like to see our kindergarteners". You little shit.
I would like to take a moment before I go on to apologize in advance to your kindergarten teacher. She has no idea that instead of the little dimwit she's expecting, she's got you to deal with for the next nine months. I'm sorry, ma'am.
After kindergarten screening, we went to buy your school supplies. What a freaking barrel of fun! The supply list was an entire page long, and specified such things as "an Avery 1/2" white three-ring binder with a clear plastic cover in which to place a paper", "Lysol disinfecting wipes", and "a pouch to be inserted into the three-ring binder with a transparent front". Are you kidding me? Target only sells Clorox disinfecting wipes. Not Lysol. And the smallest Avery binder they had was 1". It wasn't even white. Shit! Off to Staples we went. Because kindergarten is clearly a very complex endeavor.
Tomorrow we are going to the doctor for your last round of required vaccinations before they'll let you set foot in the halls of your elementary school. And I'm not complaining. Because I'm a huge fan of you not catching polio. Or measles, mumps, and rubella. And this will also be an opportunity for a little revenge after your little performance at kindergarten screening. We'll see who's smirking when I have the doctor go ahead and add a flu shot to the list while we're at it.
Next week, the day before your first real day of kindergarten, we will attend "preview day". Preview day takes place on Tuesday, from 1-2:30PM. How convenient. I'm beginning to think these people want to blow up my work schedule as much as humanly possible. And on the day before your first day of school, I will finally confirm the bus routes and coordinate the final details of your transportation with our sitter. Did you hear that? This will occur THE DAY BEFORE your first day of school.
And to top it off, you got your first black eye today. The boy you used to bite all the time when you were a toddler finally caught you slipping and pushed you off the swingset. Karma is very real, my dear child. So I can hardly wait to get suspiciously eye-balled by the entire staff at the doctor's office tomorrow when they see your shiner. Maybe they'll call Children's Services and your new case worker can enroll you in kindergarten.
I love you. Even though you think reciting your letters is an ineffective use of your time.
Mom
Comments