When Did I Get Like This?, page 10
At what age did your child sleep through the night?
“Ten months,” I admitted, then recovered with “because he had reflux.” I figured the sleepless nights that came with the gastroesophageal issues were finally paying off here, giving me some extra points. Then, when I considered that “reflux” could be interpreted as “child rendered high-maintenance by his hypochondriac-by-proxy mother,” I quickly added, “he’s better now.”
At what age was your child weaned?
“Eleven months.” By now, I was second-guessing all my answers. Was that too short? Too long? Had I truncated his future brain development by not making it to a year? Had I created an overly dependent child by being the last mom in our playgroup to wean?
Was it a vaginal birth?
Oh. Yes. They. Did. Ask. That.
I wanted to write “None of your beeswax,” but if Connor was going to get in, I had to answer all of these questions, no matter how humiliating. At least I could answer yes. I hadn’t read any studies suggesting that C-section babies were less likely to share in the dress-up corner, but this question made me certain such studies were out there. (Unless the studies actually indicated that the trauma of a baby’s trip through the birth canal was detrimental to right-brain reasoning.) For most of the questions, it was hard to know what to say, because I wasn’t sure what it was they wanted to hear. What was the right time to put your child to bed? 7:15 P.M.? 7:30 P.M.? 6:48 P.M.?
The doyenne of Meaningful Montessori gave a cursory finger-trace over our application, her face revealing nothing.
“So. You are applying your son…Connor.”
“Yes,” I said, flashing an energetic grin, hoping that my name choice for my firstborn was acceptable.
“How old will he be?”
“Two!” I answered. In person, at least, the questions were easy.
“Two point oh?”
I didn’t get it. Was she making some kind of software joke? No, she wasn’t smiling. It was an actual question.
“No…two and a half,” I answered.
“Two point six?” she pressed. Was she testing my decimal skills? How much was six tenths of a twelve-month year? My mind was reeling.
“Is that two and a half?” I said, chuckling, trying to at least appear jovial in addition to stupid.
Ms. Montessori sighed wearily. “How many years and how many months will your child be next September?” she asked.
“Two years…and nine months,” I stammered.
“Two point nine,” Ms. Montessori concluded. She frowned slightly and made a faint mark on Connor’s application.
“Is that all right?” David asked.
“I’ll be frank. It’s not ideal. We prefer young threes.”
“He will be almost three,” I pointed out in what I hoped was a helpful tone.
“Two point elevens are young threes,” she replied. “We consider two point nine to be more of an ‘old two.’” In other words, Connor was entering this process with one strike already against him: my subpar choice of conception date.
For preschools in Manhattan, the best birthdays are September to November. Dates from December to February are “not ideal,” March to May are “less than optimal,” and if you have a summer baby, it’s time to consider home schooling. Manhattan moms in the know plan their conceptions to occur sometime just after Chinese New Year, so that their children will have an ultra-desirable autumn birthday. Like I said, I’m from Scranton, so I didn’t know about that. This meant that Connor was an “old two,” so close and yet so far from the “young three” crowd, and we walked out of the Meaningful Montessori of Manhattan knowing Connor would probably not be invited to join their school community.
I was not worried. That just proved my prudence in applying to a variety of options. I would never have been so foolish as to put all my eggs on the Montessori play mat. Why, the Hudson International Children’s School had a room specifically designated for “old twos”! Three days later, with a renewed sense of optimism, David and I arrived at Hudson International for a group tour.
This school was a renovated former church. It had soaring ceilings that were lovely to look at but also considerably amplified the din of seven classrooms’ worth of preschoolers discussing the letter of the week at top volume. We were shown to the art gallery with about six other sets of parents while we waited. Various finger-painted and macaroni-glued creations were hung there, neatly framed and lit from above. While David immersed himself in his BlackBerry, trying to keep his job despite missing yet another Tuesday-morning sales meeting, I perused the artwork and sussed out the competition. I had finally figured out the proper uniform for a nursery school appearance: lightweight wool trousers, jewel-toned cashmere sweater, and shoes with a heel. I had also bought a grown-up purse to sling over my shoulder instead of the black vinyl diaper bag I normally used, the one they give away for free on maternity wards. Not too much jewelry, but some. Not too much makeup, but some. I had succeeded on all these fronts. But my God, when did all these other mothers have time to flat-iron their hair?
At 9:05 A.M., a petite woman swept dramatically into the room. “Good morning, parents, and welcome to the nut-and-seed-free Hudson International Children’s School!” she said in a pan-European accent. “I am Daphne Divakaruni, Hudson International’s admissions coordinator.” Ms. Divakaruni said this last part humbly, as if she quite obviously needed no such introduction. She wore a kente cloth scarf around her neck, draped in an Isadora Duncan–goes-on-safari way. It signaled that she was a freethinking sort of educator. “I am confident that you will find in our school a uniquely enriched, teacher-led curriculum for your two-to-four-year-old,” she intoned. “Our educational approach encompasses the best of the HighScope and Reggio Emilia philosophies, with which I am sure you are already familiar.”
Half a dozen mothers and a few fathers nodded enthusiastically. “What the hell is she talking about?” David muttered, pocketing his BlackBerry with some resentment. I gave him the evil eye: cooperate or die.
Ms. Divakaruni led our tour group down the hallway, calling over her shoulder as she went. “The first classroom you will see is our medium threes, whom we like to call the ‘Steam Locomotives.’” She stopped us at the doorway. “Take a peek inside. You may smile at the Steam Locomotives, but please do not speak to them; they are currently finishing their unit on Vincent van Gogh, and we do not want to disturb them.” We peeked at fourteen three-year-olds, hard at work on Post-Impressionist landscapes. “What nice work, Steam Locomotives!” Ms. Divakaruni crowed as we departed.
After looking at Hudson’s computer lab, ceramics room, woodworking shop, and pottery kiln, we came to the kitchen. “If you peek in here,” Ms. Divakaruni cooed, “you will see our old twos, who we call the ‘Endangered Species of the Rain Forest,’ creating assorted sweetmeats for the upcoming festival of Diwali. I think I speak for everyone when I say, good job, Endangered Species of the Rain Forest!” The other parents murmured their assent.
By now Ms. Divakaruni had brought us in a full circle back to the art gallery, where she delivered her stirring conclusion. “As you can plainly see, no activity is done lightly at the Hudson International Children’s School. When our children have music class, they may skip and jump, but always with a rhythm, a cadence. When they play in the sandbox, we offer conversational scripts for the children to practice conflict resolution. When they listen to a story, it is always in Mandarin Chinese. At the Hudson International Children’s School, we take our fun very. Seriously.”
“I’m not sure that Connor needs a pottery kiln,” David said that evening, toothbrush in hand. “Let alone Mandarin Chinese story time.”
“That is not the point!” I replied. “We need to be worried about him getting in, not about whether some school’s hydroponic gardens mesh with our personal educational goals.”
“Stop worrying,” David said, twisting floss around his finger. “As soon as they meet Connor, they’re gonna love him. He’ll get in everywhere.”
Maybe David was right. Connor was adorable and brilliant, and his parents were only a wee bit biased. Even if my mothering skills—and his conception date—were substandard, once these admissions directors actually met Connor, his bright, talkative self would beguile the hell out of them. And Connor’s turn in the spotlight had come.
The final portion of the application process was what each school casually called a “playdate” or “visit.” These were, ostensibly, opportunities for the wee applicants to see the school, play with a few toys, and allow the admissions committee to place faces with names. But by now, the scales had fallen from my eyes. I knew that as soon as we entered each school, everything Connor did would be ranked on his scorecard. And mine.
For Connor’s “playdate” at West End Christian Country Day, I pomaded his cowlick into submission and dressed him in his absolutely irresistible roll-neck monogrammed sweater. (For this round, it was acceptable for only one parent to be present, and David was thrilled to be back at work.) We walked to WECCD but stopped a block away so I could get Connor out of the stroller; I had heard that the schools cast an approving eye on not-quite-two-year-olds who walked in by themselves. I then resorted to promises of lollipops and “wonderful prizes” in order to confiscate Connor’s pacifier without tears. When my toddler entered West End Christian Country Day, he would be on his own two feet, unplugged, and perhaps even smiling.
We were greeted in the school’s lobby with the other children and parents, and escorted as a group to the test site: a nursery classroom, unoccupied except for three or four female administrators standing around with clipboards. They nodded to us without speaking and gestured to little tables, neatly arranged with plastic animals and glue sticks and homemade Play-Doh. Here was…
Toddler Test Number One: Separation.
Our children were supposed to quickly and neatly separate from us parents and play happily in the classroom while we stood along the wall, remaining uninvolved. Successful separation would be a major sign of Connor’s readiness for school nine months hence, but was in direct contradiction to the “Stay right with Mommy!” advice he usually got a hundred times a day or so. I pried Connor’s hands off my leg and crouched down to his level. “Ooh, honey, look!” I said, eyes popping out of my head in mock delight. “Little animals! Your favorite! Go play!” Connor looked at them, then back at me, a little unsure. “Yes, you go play!” I said, with animation bordering on the mad. “Connor goes and plays, and Mommy’s going to be right there!” I pointed to the wall, a tantalizing five feet away.
Connor didn’t move. Most of the parents had successfully separated already. Seats at the little animals table were rapidly dwindling. One of the ladies with the clipboards was watching. I backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact, repeating this calming mantra: “You’re over there, and I’m right here, and you’re right there, and Mommy’s right—here!” My butt touched wall. Connor turned away and picked up some plastic animals. I nearly wet my pants with relief. Then I nodded and smiled pleasantly at the other parents, and gave an I-been-there-sister! rueful glance to the mother whose kid had broken into full sobbing at the mere suggestion of their sundering. I saw the admissions director make a clandestine mark on her clipboard. Ding. That kid was not getting in.
I am ashamed to say that I gloated at this. I did feel sorry for this mother, who was saying, “Ha ha! He’s not usually like this! Uh ha ha ha!” in a tone that belied her extreme agitation. On the other hand, every kid who wasn’t crying could, at that moment, have been taking Connor’s spot. I mean, there was one kid in black knee socks who was sniffing the markers, but I overheard his mother saying they were French Canadian, so he was probably a shoo-in. In this world, it was every toddler for himself.
The administrators worked the room, observing our children at play, making notes here and there on their clipboards. “I like your sweater!” the head teacher said to Connor. Say “thank you,” I prayed. Instead he regarded her solemnly, plastic animals clenched in each fist. The admissions director saw this little standoff and approached. I held my breath.
“Hello…‘Connor.’ What a nice giraffe you have there.”
He stared at both of them.
“Can you tell me what he says?”
Connor looked at her, mouth open, saying nothing. The admissions director moved on to a grouping at the Play-Doh table. Connor had failed…
Toddler Test Number Two: The Answering of the Grown-Up’s Question That Is Very Confusing and Yet Must Be Answered.
I wanted to chase after this admissions director and clarify for her that (1) it had been a trick question, since a giraffe doesn’t say anything, and (2) Connor, in a familiar environment, was an extremely expressive communicator for his age group. But under no circumstances was I supposed to leave my spot along the wall. I was there strictly to observe. I chewed my lip instead.
“Snack time, children!” the head teacher called. Connor took his tiny seat without further invitation and waited brilliantly with the other children. Then he and I were both blindsided by…
Toddler Test Number Three: The Dixie Cup of Water.
A wobbly, wet paper cup of water was set in front of Connor as aperitif. My God, I had never seen this coming. Connor hated water! He only drank juice. Watered down, of course. But what if he spoke up and said so? Even worse, he had never drunk out of a real cup—I only gave him sippy cups at home! How could I have been so stupid? Of course his hand-eye coordination and healthy hydration skills were going to be assessed! Connor took a tentative sip, holding the already disintegrating paper cup in both hands. I could hardly even watch. Don’t spill don’t spill don’t spill, I begged silently.
Then the tests came faster and faster, each evaluating skills I had not actually taught my toddler yet, me digging half moons into my palms with my fingernails:
The Graham Crackers Test.
Don’t stuff! I shrieked inwardly. No crumbs! No, not your sleeve! The napkin!
The Sitting Nicely Until Everyone Else Is Done Test.
Connor started to climb off his chair, and I attempted to mind-meld him from across the room: Sit! SIT! By now, I had full underarm stains from the incapacitation.
And that was when the director of admissions said: “Now we have time for a few minutes of free play before we sing our good-bye song.” Free play! As in, completely unstructured activity! There was no way to screw that up. We were almost home.
Connor looked around him, one finger up his nose, discerning what most deserved his attention in these final moments. Was it the easel? The sand table? He surveyed all his choices and decided that in a classroom with eight thousand options, what he really needed was the dump truck the boy in the black knee socks was playing with.
Connor tugged at the truck. The boy tugged back. Back and forth they pulled. Back. Forth. “C’est le mien!” Knee Socks Boy cried, and Connor got that look on his face, that “Hulk mad” look, and did I mention he was an occasional biter? If I left the wall, I would destroy the cardinal rule of the preschool playdate. If I stayed there, Connor would take a chunk out of his adversary’s arm. I saw Connor’s nursery school career flash before my eyes, and so I ran over, calling, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Honey, are we sharing? ’Cause you know how to share!” Connor and Knee Socks Boy continued their tug-of-war. “Now, you are going to share with this nice little boy!” I said, raising my voice despite my attempt to remain cheerful. “Share with him! Share! For the love of God, SHARE!”
The room had gone silent. Seventeen pairs of eyes regarded me, on the floor, shouting and wrestling with my son for a dump truck (Knee Socks Boy had dropped the truck in abject fear several moments earlier). The admissions director made a mark on her clipboard. Ding.
Fine. I had gone a little overboard. Maybe I should have let Connor bite. I learned my lesson, and at all the other play-dates stayed against the wall with arms folded. With each school we visited, Connor’s confidence with Dixie cups and sewing cards grew. He understood what we were there for and acted with a maturity far beyond his years (with the tacit understanding he would get his pacifier back as soon as we were outside). He said please and thank you, he didn’t cry, and at the Creativity Circle School, he bused his own juice box after snack time. What more could they want from a two-year-old?
We would only have to wait until spring to find out. After a few months’ worth of second-guessing our application essays and listing the preschools in our order of preference, the first Tuesday in March arrived at last. Nine letters from nine preschools arrived in that afternoon’s mail. I plopped Connor in front of Nick Jr. and opened the letters with trembling hands.
We were very fortunate to meet such interesting parents and captivating children during this application season. Our visit with Connor was a delight, and we are sad not to be able to offer him a space at this time.
We have placed Connor on our waiting list. We will contact you in the event that an opening occurs.
We are delighted to offer Connor a place—on our Waiting List.
We are offering Connor a place on our PRIORITY waiting list.
We are sorry to say we do not have a spot for Connor.
They didn’t sound very sorry to me. Whether they couched it in nice terms or not, the first eight letters all said the same thing: we are rejecting your child.
I swallowed, trying to stem the tide of terror rising in my chest. I had known that getting completely shut out was a distinct possibility. I had heard stories, told in hushed tones, of a child’s not getting in anywhere at all, the whole family having to move away in shame to someplace where nursery schools were less selective. Until now, though, I had never really believed it could happen to Connor. To us. What were we going to do?
There was only one letter left. I was almost too afraid to open it, but I had to know the worst. On a single typed page with rainbow letterhead, it said,
I am pleased to inform you that Connor has been accepted as an “Endangered Species of the Rain Forest” at Hudson International Children’s School. Welcome, Connor!
