Caterpillars, butterflies, cicadas

I actually found myself this morning driving to work after I dropped William off wanting to listen to his new singalong cd, but stopping myself because I’m grown up and it’s a kid cd. At this point, of course I chose to start it up again in the middle of “The Wheels on the Bus,” rather than do the mature thing and turn on NPR or possibly listen to another chapter in The Da Vinci Code. There can be such pleasure in knowing all the words to the songs, or in the lovely repetitiveness of a really soothing rendition of “The Alphabet Song.” I’m one of those yuppy moms who learned long ago to buy the outrageous $15.00 Pottery Barn Kids cd instead of the $2.99 Wal-Mart version—because I know you have to listen to it approximately 5 billion times a week, so you may as well get a version you can tolerate.

shoo fly, don’t bother me

When I got over my snit yesterday about the school secretary at O. Elementary, I spent the rest of the afternoon working and worrying about William, so we could have some equal opportunity parenting time. Chris and I just got our annual letter from the child development center director telling us what classroom he’ll be in next year, and I’m sort of panicking. When Laura was at the daycare, she was three and a half almost exactly, and she started in the Ladybug Room, which is where I thought Will was going. But he’s going to the Caterpillar Room instead. Now you can probably tell from the names that the Caterpillar Room is for the younger kids; not all the classrooms make sense (what on earth is a glow worm, anyhow?), but the sequence in those two makes perfect sense, and besides, it seemed that it must be his karmic fate to end up there because last week his class made little craft projects with butterflies glued to popsicle sticks that are curled up inside empty toilet paper rolls, which represent the cocoon. You push up on the popsicle stick, and voila, the butterfly emerges (or would if it weren’t still all curled up).

for I belong to somebody

I’m actually not too worried about where he goes next year, as long as his final year at the Center is in the Cicada Room. When Laura first started in the Cicada Room years and years ago, I remember thinking that it was way too structured—the teacher goes by her last name (Mrs. S.), instead of all the other teachers, who are Mrs. Lynn and Miss Amanda and whatnot (apparently there are no Mss. in this school). The kids fixed their own plates at lunch, and had a really strict schedule during the day, etc. It just wasn’t as touchy feely, and it took a while for us all to adjust to the new structure. Then when Laura went to kindergarten, I spent the year unhappy because her teacher wasn’t teaching her anything new—she’d already been to kindergarten in the Cicada Room. It took me until Laura’s second grade to realize how important that reinforcement was for giving her a good grounding for school. I wish I’d gotten over quicker the idea that my daughter wasn’t “being challenged,” that she was being held back with the other kids who hadn’t been in wonderful programs before they started school. I probably should go back and tell both teachers what I know now. For the moment, though, I’ll content myself with enjoying William’s last baby days, which might last a little longer as a caterpillar.

I feel like a morning star