There is a question that will plague me for, at least, the rest of this school year:
Is Private School Worth It?
After less than one week of Dylan attending this absolutely wonderful Quaker school, I am utterly exhausted.
First, there’s the drive. Thirty-five minutes (highway driving on a toll road) to the school in the morning, then 45 minutes home. Then I take Shane to school. A few hours later, I drive 45 minutes both ways to pick him up (and save the toll). Someone else picks up Shane.
The bus just didn’t work out, and my parents have graciously offered to help. But I miss Shane.
Second, there’s the problem with Dylan’s classes. He needs to be in Algebra I but he will lose music/art/P.E. if he takes Algebra I. There simply aren’t enough teachers to teach two Algebra I classes in a school this small.
We’ve also learned this week that his science curriculum is an exact duplicate of the curriculum he had last year in public school. He is going to be bored to tears in science – or we’re going to have to rearrange that part of his schedule as well.
Then, there’s Dylan’s reaction to the school itself.
Before I tell you about his reaction, in case this is the first blog entry you’ve read, let me explain why he’s in private school. Dylan was miserable at his old school. He was bored to tears in class, bullied by several students, anxious beyond the breaking point, and taking medication just to make the day bearable.
So one might think that a school where all of those issues are alleviated would be absolutely spectacular!
After Day One, Dylan said, “It’s good.”
When pressed for more detail he said, “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
After a few days, I asked him if he thinks he needs to go back on medication. He snorted, “That wouldn’t help! I am already the most focused person in the room!”
Apparently, the classes are a bit “looser” than those to which he is accustomed. The kids talk “even while the teacher is talking,” for example.
“I’m going to keep at least some of my public school behavior,” he said, “so that I’ll be ready when I go back.”
So – that is the middle-schooler’s take on the (really, really, really great) private school.
I know he’s getting used to the kids, and the classes. It’s all new. But so far, between the commute and Dylan’s reaction, NO, emphatically NO – private school is not worth it.
Great things will ensue, I’m sure. And I’m not sorry I sent him. But I don’t know that I will be sending him again.
The night before Dylan’s first day of private school, I stayed awake too late – like I always do when I am stressed, and like I did last week before Shane’s first day of school. I woke in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep, worried that the alarm wouldn’t wake me, worried that Dylan wouldn’t get up in time, worried that Shane would be lonely while I made the trek to the new school.
So much for my “faith versus fear” lesson.
When the alarm did wake me, and Dylan wandered in to use my hairbrush a few minutes later, I knew we were all ready to go. (Except that Dylan admitted that he hasn’t seen his own hairbrush for three weeks.)
School supplies had been ordered and packed weeks earlier. Dylan had an enormous, stuffed-full, very heavy backpack. In addition, we had a bag full of classroom supplies to donate.
“Grab that white bag,” I told him, “and put it in the car, too.”
Four-course breakfast in hand(s), we clamored into the car for our 45-minute drive. I started the car and turned my head to back up.
There, in the backseat, were two bed pillows in a huge white trash bag.
“Why are the pillows for the dog shelter in here?” I asked Dylan.
“You told me to get the white bag,” he said.
“Not that white bag,” I said, putting the car into park. I went back inside and got the bag with the paper towels and hand soap from the school supply list.
“This white bag,” I said.
“Oh,” Dylan said. “That’s a lot more logical.”
I briefly considered what people would think if Dylan showed up for his first day of private school with two ratty bed pillows. I had to smile.
Correct bag in tow, we talked about his day – where he should go when he got out of the car, for example, and how to smile when he meets a new friend.
Please smile, I thought. He smiled for the first 12 years of his life, beautifully and quite naturally. Then he stopped.
“And if it makes you feel less awkward,” I said, “you can take the stuff out of the white bag and just carry it in.” We were both anxious about him lumbering through the door with his 12-ton backpack and carrying an additional bag of supplies.
But when we pulled up to the curb – on time! – we saw a dozen other kids going into school. And every, single one of them had a 12-ton backpack and a white bag.
I’m not sure what was in the other white bags. Maybe they were carrying gym clothes, or even lunch. We could have speculated, but we didn’t. It probably didn’t matter all that much.
At that moment, the only thing that mattered is that Dylan fit right in.
Shane spent much of his morning crying, which he announced at breakfast.
“First, I was wondering what I would do if Dylan died,” he said, starting to cry again.
Oh dear, I thought. He is so much like me. I worried about death all the time, when I was way too young to need to worry.
“Then I started thinking about what if there’s nothing after Heaven,” he wailed.
That one stumped me.
I let him talk for awhile. Other things had happened, including the toothpaste falling off of his toothbrush and his hair sticking up. I considered that hormones might be starting to kick in.
When Shane was finished talking, I said, “There are only two attitudes to have.” I held up two fingers. “You can have faith or fear. You can choose either one as a way to live your life – and you can change from one to the other at any given moment. But you can’t have them both at the same time.”
Then I set up two Fisher Price little people on the table.
“These two people are going to have a race. Rusty here, with the red hair, she has faith,” I said.
“Hello!” I squeaked, being Rusty.
“And Maya with the blond hair, she is having some fear. But they are both going to race.”
“I think I need some new shoes,” I squeaked again, being Maya.
“I’m ready,” said Rusty.
Then the two girls hopped down the table, together. Rusty was out front, then Maya, then Rusty again.
“I probably should have eaten a better breakfast,” said Maya.
Then WHAM! Rusty ran into the milk pitcher and Maya won the race.
“I win! I win!” yelled Maya, jumping around. “I am awesome!”
Rusty dusted herself off. “I did my best,” she said. “Maybe I didn’t win, but I am happy that I ran as fast as I could.”
I went back into my own Mom voice. “Fear means you think you’re in control, and faith means you know that everything’s going to be okay, no matter what.”
Shane half-smiled.
“So you are in charge of what attitude you choose every day. Do you understand?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m going to make a Little People Ninja Warrior track today!” he said.
And he did. It took him a long time, and then the dog knocked it down and he started to cry all over again.
Sometimes I think my lectures should be boxed into a vault somewhere, for later. Much, much later.
Back-to-school events are not all the same.
For Shane, fifth grade back-to-school day meant running up the cement stairs to read the class roster. He got the teacher everyone wanted (yay!) and has several very close friends in his class (yay!)
We went to meet his teacher, who is quite wonderful. He has been teaching at the school for so long that we found his picture, complete with hippie hairdo and beard, in the school picture from 1975. We are thrilled with Shane’s good fortune.
But the rest of back-to-school day consisted of seeking people Shane knows among the masses. The school population is 683 this year, and many of the students brought two parents. We went up and down the stairs like cattle, waving and yelling, “Hi Jordan!” and “Hey! Rory!” as we went.
We combed every inch of the school, tripping over each other and apologetically smiling. We stood in line for 10 minutes to buy an agenda book for $5, being pushed and jostled the entire time by kids filing past. Finally, Shane found a handful of friends to hang with on the front steps while a small group of parents talked, until we all went home.
Dylan’s back-to-school event this year took the form of a picnic. Instead of “dropping in,” almost every family arrived right at 3:30. It was an odd time for a weekday picnic, but no one in the group of about 50 people seemed to have any trouble getting there.
The headmaster introduced the school staff, including a new teacher who has five kids and brought vegetables and fruits from his organic garden. We all sat around in a circle, smiling and golf-clapping when necessary. Some of the parents hooted, and the applause felt quite genuine.
Then the headmaster went out to flip burgers, hot dogs and veggie burgers, while we mingled and met teachers and other parents. Everyone was smiling. They all seemed to know one another. The cattle-drive feeling was nonexistent. Instead, we all just sat around and talked.
While I dug a bit deeper into what goes on during a typical day, Dylan ran off with his new friend – a boy he met this summer, thanks to the admissions counselor. The two boys get along beautifully. They played for two hours before we corralled them to head home.
Meanwhile, I talked to the administrators, the admissions counselor, and the music teacher. I met Dylan’s social studies teacher, who also teaches language arts and expects students to call her by her first name. And I met Dylan’s math teacher, who might be the best of them all.
A great math teacher is a good thing, because we are still struggling with how to keep Dylan in his arts/P.E. classes while re-taking Algebra I. It doesn’t seem possible, but everyone just keeps smiling and reassuring me. I wonder if I will continue believing them for the entire year, or if I will explode with frustration before the end of September.
The administration has decided to test Dylan and see how much he knows about algebra – a good first step – and then we will all decide what to do about his schedule, which is incredibly loose.
I’m not going to worry about it for now. We are in full-force, back-to-school excitement mode. And I’m sticking with that until some new feeling comes along.
So things aren’t going so well, five days before Dylan’s new adventure at private school.
First, there is Shane’s bus. Shane started school on Monday, and is very happy.
But after school, every single one of his friends is a patrol. They all work for 20 minutes after school lets out – and then they all go home.
And THEN Shane’s bus comes. It is 20-25 minutes late every day. It is so late that Shane’s teacher, who is (ironically) in charge of the patrols, takes Shane (who would otherwise be left in the classroom alone) downstairs and outside so that the teacher can release the patrols from duty.
This means that my brilliant plan to pick up Dylan, then drive 35-40 minutes to get Shane and still be home by 4:15, is greatly hindered by a 30-minute wait at a bus stop. Thanks to the lateness of the bus, we haven’t been home before 4:45 yet – and Dylan’s school hasn’t even started!
I would talk it over with the bus driver, but he doesn’t speak a lot of English and I can’t understand him at all. We did talk to each other, but I am still not sure what he said.
On the other side of the coin, with only five days left before Dylan’s school starts, his schedule is in great flux. Because he will be taking Algebra I again – and because Algebra I is an “upper school” class – the school has taken him out of art, music and physical education in order to fit Algebra I into his schedule.
Their email suggested that Dylan had to give up the arts, and take physics or a study hall instead.
Private school, apparently, cannot provide teachers for every subject during every period. We knew this, going in. But no one ever mentioned that Dylan would be losing all the creative, fun classes in order to take algebra.
I sent an utterly panicked email last night, which likened Dylan’s scenario to “a day in prison, rather than an engaging educational environment.” And at midnight, I got the nicest email from the private school. They were incredibly reassuring that Dylan would not have to miss music and P.E., and that they would do some “creative scheduling” to be sure that Dylan’s needs are met.
I am so exhausted, trying to be sure Dylan’s needs are met. I wonder at what age Dylan will start making sure his own needs are met?
Finally, today is my 50th birthday. There is nothing like a 50th birthday to ensure the onset of emotional exhaustion.
The whole WORLD is being nice to me, and I’ve gotten lots of delightful birthday messages from loved ones (and, thanks to Facebook, even strangers). So I’m not as concerned about my birthday as I am about Shane’s bus and Dylan’s class schedules.
50th birthday or not, it’s all just another day in the life of a mom.
With the first day of school looming, I put the boys to bed. We cuddled together for a quick bedtime story. Then, it was time for our “show.”
Nearly every night, the kids get a story from the book I wrote, followed by a stuffed-animal extravaganza of sorts. Both Bill and I do “shows” for the kids. It’s just a fun thing that started when the stuffed animals started “talking” to the kids when they were younger.
The shows I do have evolved into tips and advice (from bears and dogs) about things that are relevant in the lives of the kids. For example, tonight’s show was going to be full of tips about surviving the first day of fifth grade.
The animals always give some very good advice, along with some absolutely terrible advice, which is hysterical to the kids. I hadn’t lived until I saw them imitating the stuffed animals’ bad advice. Some nights, I’ve laughed so hard, tears were streaming down my face.
But tonight, the kids didn’t want to see my show. They wanted – again – a show from Daddy.
I’d like to say that my feelings aren’t hurt, because my husband is a wonderful man. And bedtime is practically the only time they have together.
But Bill’s shows are drastically different from mine, and not nearly as composed. He picks up the animals and waves them around without any real purpose. How is he going to teach the kids anything with that kind of insanity? The kids call his shows “random” – and I must agree.
Often, the bears and dogs just ramble on about nothing. Or they recite song lyrics from 1967. Or they do remakes of old TV game shows. Often one animal has an Australian accent, another one is British, and another just got off the bus from Alabama.
Okay, now that I think about it, Bill’s shows are probably funnier than mine.
And they definitely last longer. Sometimes the kids just pile the animals on top of Daddy, then wait until he’s used every one of them. It can take 45 minutes to get through all of that plush.
So instead of tips and advice – no matter how funny I had planned to be – tonight the boys wanted a randomly funny show that lasts a long time.
I guess I can accept that.
Bill and I do different kinds of shows. We play differently with the kids. We have different personalities, so it makes sense that we would create different types of shows.
And while we may not agree on everything (since nobody agrees on everything), Bill and I definitely complement each other in our parenting skills.
The kids won a stuffed banana last week at the amusement park. As I’m writing this blog, I can hear that the new toy is “talking” with a thick, Southern accent in Shane’s bedroom. It just said, “Did I tell you that I’m a banana? I have a lot of appeal!”
Bill just comes up with this stuff on the fly.
So I guess it’s okay that he literally stole the show tonight.
With summer vacation drawing to a close, I spontaneously whisked away the children for one grand, final adventure.
Since we had season passes for an amusement park and we were running out of time to use them, we headed for Busch Gardens in our hastily packed car. The trip takes 3-4 hours, depending on traffic, and I wanted to get ahead of the traffic to have extra time for fun.
But with so much to do, we left too late to do a drive-thru breakfast. We left even later so that I could splatter peanut butter on toast, and toss some water bottles into the car. We had to stop at the post office, and my heart was already beating with anxiety.
We were 15 minutes from home when Dylan announced: “I forgot my shoes.”
“You forgot your shoes?!” I shrieked. “How could you have forgotten your shoes? Were you not planning to WALK at the amusement park?!”
“Should we go back?” he asked, sensing the shriek.
“NO,” I said, beginning to rage. “We are NOT going back for your SHOES! You can walk in the flip-flops that I packed FOR you!”
Then I really lost it. I threatened to turn the car around and go home. “Why am I even bothering trying to do something fun?” I spat. “No one is even acting excited!”
I raged on and on and on and on – all the while heading slowly toward our destination with a pit in my gut.
Dylan said, “I’m really fine with wearing flip-flops.”
And Shane added, “We really do want to go.”
Finally, I shut up.
I fumed silently for several minutes. I was so angry with the whole world, I didn’t want to do anything fun ever again. So I continued to fume silently.
And suddenly, ZAP!
I realized what was happening.
Summer was over. I wanted to destroy our final trip before it happened – because if it didn’t happen, then maybe summer wouldn’t be over. Or maybe if I ruined our last trip, it wouldn’t be so sad when the kids go back to school next week.
I didn’t say it was logical.
But I knew – quite suddenly – that all my raging and fuming was not anger. It came from a place of sadness – and love.
Many parents are happy when summer’s over. There’s a relief at not having to entertain their kids anymore. But I love having them home. I miss them dreadfully when they are at school. They are my favorite part of the entire world, and I sincerely and deeply grieve when the school year begins.
So in the car, I took a few deep breaths and explained to the kids what had happened.
“I am really just sad,” I said. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you. I really just want to be with you and have a really great time together, okay?”
“Okay,” they said in unison. It was quiet for several minutes.
Then Shane said, “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“Right before you told us that you were just sad,” Shane told me, “I said a little prayer for you to change your attitude.”
In my quest to be a good mom, I waited until the last minute – then surprised the kids with a trip to Busch Gardens, Williamsburg.
It’s a last-ditch effort to capture all that is summer, and put it in my memory bag for the great summer of ’14. The kids are running around like crazy folk, trying to get ready before McDonald’s closes its breakfast doors.
Last night, the weather forecast a 50% chance of rain in Williamsburg. But today, it’s dropped to 0%!
I am taking this as a sign that we’d best get going, forget the blog, and have a great time. So we are on our way. Happy Summer!
Shane had a hugely successful debut yesterday as a magician. It was Chapala’s “Magic Sunday” – a local restaurant’s way to promote the magic community. Once a year, kids run the whole show.
Shane was recruited to do some “close-up” magic – which, in magician’s terms, means any trick that you can do standing next to a small group of people. Card tricks are a favorite in this category.
Shane walked around the room in his black cape and top hat, his pockets stuffed full of cards and coins and such. He went from table to table – friends, family, strangers, and some professional magicians – and performed beautifully.
When Shane was in preschool, we were alerted that he might have a social issue when he spent his entire playtime lying on the floor with his head inside a dollhouse.
Like an ostrich in the sand.
Since that time, I’ve been more conscious in my attempt to discover Shane’s passions. Unlike Dylan, who likes everything and is eager to explore, Shane has always been very cautious in selecting an interest.
So when he was 8 and asked for a magic kit, we handed over Dylan’s old, unused one, allowing Shane to try out the idea. When I was a kid, I had a magic kit and got bored after a couple of weeks. But Shane studied the tricks for months and learned how to do them.
Then he started reading magic trick books. Every few hours, he would say, “Want to see a magic trick?” Then he would try his (often unpracticed) trick on me.
I got to see a lot of tricks.
By age 9, he performed a short show at a home for seniors. Dylan sang songs, and Shane did a “halftime” show.
And now, at age 10, he just finished magic camp, and I’ve seen at least half a dozen magic shows in the past three months. And now he’s performed close-up magic for an hour – and even did a brief stage show – at the biggest magician’s gathering spot in the area.
Over the past few years, I’ve met a lot of amateur and professional magicians. None of them are “mainstream” folks. They have a social rhythm that seems to be a step around the rest of society.
They are generally quiet, for example, which I didn’t expect from a group of showmen. They’re all a bit shy. A handful even have severe social challenges when holding regular conversations. They are all fairly serious.
Then they get on stage and become very funny – or at least, fascinating. I’ve learned that magicians communicate best through tricks.
These men – almost all of them are male – have been doing magic since they were Shane’s age, and still love it. They are all, still, totally obsessed.
And Shane fits right in.
It’s not often that I hold a check for more than $15,000 in my hands. I’m not hugely interested in money, but it is a bit terrifying just to hold a check that large.
It’s even harder to give it away.
But this week, along with a contract and an IEP, I handed the full year’s tuition to the admissions person at Dylan’s new private school. It was the miniscule savings we’d had for college, plus a small loan. And it was all crammed into one tiny piece of paper that I gave away.
And that’s when I started to panic.
It started with the discussion about Dylan’s Spanish class, which I don’t want him to take. I don’t know how he will handle verb conjugation and endless memorization since he can’t even remember to wash his face.
So I had asked (long before signing the contract) if we could get him into sign language class (movement! yay!) instead. Now, we were revisiting the issue, with my money gone and no promises yet made about Spanish.
“I’m not sure what they are planning to do with sign language,” said the admissions counselor politely. “I’m not sure if we have someone assigned to teach that.”
“But your website says that you have sign language!” My voice was starting to sound shrill.
“I know. And they should take it off if they’re not going to offer it. Either way, I think that is going to be an upper level class,” she said.
“Can’t he take sign language with the high school kids, like he’s doing with algebra?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“I will have to ask them about that,” she said. “The people who can answer that are on vacation this week, but I’ll let you known as soon as I know.”
“Okay,” I said. Then we talked for another hour about all kinds of irrelevant stuff. (I really like the admissions person.)
And then I went home and wrote an insanely panicky email:
It is daunting to hear, as I hand over $15,000, that not only could Dylan be left IN Spanish, but the alternative (sign language) mentioned on your website does not actually exist. Also, the language program web page says that Spanish is ‘offered’ at every level – but it does NOT say that it is ‘required.’ There has to be some way to fix this.
I swear that I am working on my anxiety issues. But sending an email, for me, is sometimes the equivalent of dumping all of my anxiety into one big lump and saying to someone else: What are YOU going to do about it?
And I know this. Yet, there, I did it again.
At 9:01 the next morning, the admissions person called me, as panicked as I had been the day before. She wanted to assure me that she would do everything in her powers to get Dylan into sign language, if a class exists.
“I just really don’t know yet,” she said, as hopefully as she could.
Then I spent the next hour apologizing for my own anxieties, and being reassured that everything was okay.
Sigh.
I should have been able to do that for myself.
