What we want is to see the child in pursuit of knowledge, and not knowledge in pursuit of the child. ~George Bernard Shaw

The first time I heard that preschool had any real significance was on Cheers—Fraiser and Lillith raced around trying to get Fredrick in the most prestigious preschool. I thought it was a good show wearing out—how could preschool be funny? Woody Allen would never show a flashback or see his psychoanalyst to bemoan his parents’ choice of preschools for him. In order to be funny, it has to be important thus causing anxiety when it isn’t done right. Falling in love is funny, death is funny, mean girls in the cafeteria are funny because they have social significance. When people need to act right (of course they rarely do), they freak out hence funny. We laugh out of that anxiety. Preschool should not be anxiety producing.

Not that my preschool didn’t have anxiety producing elements. My cousin Eric and I attended school in the dark basement of the Croatian Center. There was one nun and many scissors. Our Poppa a policeman picked us up in his patrol car where we rode in the back like criminals. Between the dark basement, the nun and the scissors, it probably looked like a crime scene to him. So yes, lots to satirize in this situation—the characters, the props but preschool was nothing more than another place to play.

Unfortunately, in the intervening years preschool has increased its social significance and thus its ability to produce anxiety. Preschool has become the first and last golden stop on the long road to school.

Our city public school system is busted especially here in Buffalo. If you live in the city, you have three choices for school—break your bank, break with your ideals, or break your kid. The schools I’ve found are public, private, charter and homeschooling. If you can afford a private education, there are top notch schools but we can’t, even the nursery school we sent Sam to--The Waldorf School. As for the Catholic schools, we have 2 nieces that go there and last year, Sophie came home and said, “The kids at school wouldn’t vote for Obama because he kills babies.” Their anti abortion stance starts early and this is how kids interpret it. I’ve already survived a year with a nun and many scissors; I best not stretch my “pro”clivities. Charter schools seem as if it’s a means of culling out the unwanted, busting the teachers’ union while getting public funding. I want teachers to get paid more—there’s a good chance they might know something if there is a benefit to knowing it. As for homeschooling, I don’t want Sam chained to my psyche anymore than he already is. I admit I’m a public school girl—democratic in most areas of my life.

I wish there were announcements that everyone in the city had to hear just like back in Junior High. I’d steal the microphone and blare out my opinion, “If you want to fix our city, fix our public schools. If they were as good as the suburban ones, people would begin to move in, rather than sprawl out.”

Do you sense my anxiety?

I did find a preschool for Sam. His friend Ava’s mom suggested I go to Westminster’s Open House. It is a big preschool in a little schoolhouse behind Westminster Presbyterian Church. Sam is enrolled in their Universal Pre-K program through the Buffalo Public Schools. This school has Sam written all over it. It has three playgrounds and three gyms. My boy is physical. Activities are set up around the room (Montessori style) so the child is guided by their own interest and curiosity. And there are kids galore—interracial kids, muckety-muck kids, low income kids, special needs kids and working class kids like Sam. Plus they offer a program for kids born in the months of October, November and December for parents who don’t want to send their kids to kindergarten as the youngest in their class, i.e. Sam’s parents. Whew, one extra year to fret over what’s next.

My friend Mary (Max’s Mama) and I have begun bandying about a question: as parents when are we predetermining what our child is like and when are we honoring who our child is? Sam doesn’t like green food and he’s not the most introspective kid. But I can’t stop offering vegetables and to think he’ll never look out a window to daydream...hard to believe.

Even though I can’t predetermine who Sam will be, I do see him continually running in one direction. At Westminster, I see him easily slipping into a good time—squishing play-doh, trying to boss the other kids and teachers, and raking leaves.

His personality seems complete but I need to stay honest: I do have an agenda for Sam’s life and since it guides my decisions anyway, I should state it outright.

I want him to spend lots of time in the fresh air because it promotes good health. I want him to sleep lots and eat good food and then play and play and play outside some more until it’s time to come into eat good food and sleep some more. I want him to grow tall and hale in the bosom of his family (immediate and extended) and learn about stories and math and botany and world history on the grounds of a good school, to grow strong enough to hear the sound of cheering when he scores a goal and to learn with the same fierce curiosity that he once played and to go off on six or seven good adventures in which he travels to other countries for more than one week jaunts, to accomplish physical feats such as climbing a mountain or deep sea diving, to have good friends, to find true love, to have a job that is fulfilling and provides him enough money to have a family and to do this before I’m too old to pick up my grandchildren, to commit to that family. I want him to be kind and thoughtful, to know love and redemption, to have a meaningful and happy life and not die before the age of 90. And I want him to tell me that he wants something entirely different and for him to tell what that is.

I have no idea what school will help accomplish my mission.

There is a forum meeting at Westminster this Thursday in which area schools send representatives to meet with parents. And so I continue on with my quest.

But then again, we could just move to the suburbs.


There are way too many pictures and two more entries so scroll on down.

A Moment with Sam

While we were camping I made an offhanded comment to Dave about peeing in the woods at night. I said, “I should look first before I drop my pants, a raccoon might have bitten my butt.”

Generally, Sam doesn’t often pay attention to what I have to say because a) if it’s about him, I’m usually telling him what to do or b) it isn’t about him, it’s about something he could care less about—facebook, family politics, gossip, black and white movies. I consider myself fortunate that I have yet to hear my conversation verbatim coming from his mouth. And Sam isn’t easily scared, not by movies or vampires or Frankenstein (we call things like that toys for your imagination. Toys aren’t scary). But my comment about raccoons biting butts was very scary to him.

At the campground, there was a tree lined trail called Raccoon Run. As we started down it, he jumped in my arms, telling me the Raccoons would bite HIS butt.

When it was time for bed, he told me he was too scared to sleep. I crawled into bed with him. Now I was a scaredy-cat kid. I was afraid of ghost, astro space travel (which is when your soul flies around while you sleep—it was tough being a kid in the 70s), home invasion, fires, etc. I told myself that I would never try to rationalize away my child’s fear, because the more any adult talked about the unlikelihood of home invasion and astro space travel, the more I thought it about it, the more scared I became. With Sam, I tried to think of the least scary thing in the world. And what came to my mind was Lawrence Welk.

I told him about my Granny and how she watched the show on a small color TV that was on Grandma Betty’s kitchen table, how on the show all the women wore chiffon skirts, how each were a different pastel color—sky blue, cotton candy pink, sunshine yellow, how their hair was high, and how frosty their eye-shadow was, how the men’s hair never moved and was always shiny, how Lawrence’s hair was wavy and when he spoke to the camera, he turned to side to show off his accordion. And after everyone danced, sang and drank champagne, they would end each show with the song, “Goodnight, sleep tight and pleasant dreams to you. Here’s a wish and a prayer that all your dreams come true.”

After I thought Sam was fast asleep because Lawrence Welk always had the effect on me, I tried to quietly slip out of the room but before I could leave, he asked, “What other show did you watch?” So I told him about the Waltons.

Click Take A Pic

What’s new at Castle Ferguson (Sam was a knight this year for Halloween, I was a serving wench and Dave was a dragon (who looked a lot like a dinosaur) hence the Castle claim)

Sam takes pictures. As you will see, he does know how to compose. I put the camera on auto, let him compose his shot (and he does take the time to compose) and then he snaps.

Dave is starting his second year of his three year nursing program. He’s made the Dean’s list and even though it’s a might stressful working full time and going to school, he’s found what likes and is good at. As for what Sam thinks…a day that has “No work, no school” is his favorite.

We finally installed our staircase—thank you Q and M contracting. Sam’s friends can come over without the fear of accident and lawsuits.

Uncle Scott lives here again. He’s having a horrible time finding a job, but as I keep telling him, “isn’t everyone.” Although it turns out, not the peops in S. Dakota. It’s the only state with low unemployment rate and their economy is growing but we don’t have oil wells here in S. Buffalo.

Peter Pan our first pet, a beta fish, arrived and shortly there after was flushed. Sam said a-not-so tearful goodbye as Peter Pan circled the drain.

We bought a new car, doing our part to stimulate the economy. We ditched the Jeep for a Mazda 5—the mini-est mini van. Although while doing the research for what car to buy, Dave never used the word “mini” or “van”. He knows me too well. Sam calls it the Batmobile. Zoom. Zoom.