Jen's Column / Back to School

I’ve hit another milestone. Next week, I’m sending my youngest child — my baby, my Bergen — to kindergarten.
Oh, how this conflicts me.

This is, of course, the year I’ve been waiting for.

I mean, really — how many times have I uttered the phrase, “When the boys are older…” in the last eight years? I will go back to school… when the boys are older. I will do more volunteer work… when the boys are older. I will clean my house… when the boys are older.

And, now, apparently, they’re older. With both of my backpack-wearing, snackbag-carrying sons heading off to school next week, it seems my time has come.

So why am I not feeling more joy?

There is, of course, that nagging feeling that I’m losing my baby — the boy who still cups his hands around my face and says things like, “My precious Mommy. My cute, precious Mommy.”

But, I admit, that’s not my real concern. Not yet. My growing sense of dread comes, instead, from the fear that I haven’t properly prepared Bergen for kindergarten.

Yes, I know, it’s kindergarten. They color, they sing, they listen to stories. What is there to prepare? But logic means nothing to me. I tend to go with my gut. And lately my increasingly hysterical gut has been screaming, “You haven’t done enough!”

I blame my sister. Her kids sit at their dining room table with their schoolwork for an hour each day all summer long. She’s always calling me to say things like, “I know Kaela’s only six, but she just loves working in those third grade workbooks!” and “My kids just get so cranky if they don’t do their math!”

Normally, I turn my nose up at her. Tell myself that kids should be playing — that they’ll be working soon enough. But last week, panic hit and I ran out and loaded up on workbooks and flashcards and turned our bedtime routine into a classroom. Instead of ‘night-‘night songs, Bergen and I are now singing ABCs and reviewing letter sounds. Instead of story time, we’re reciting the numbers from 1 to 30. “Fourteen! Don’t forget 14!” I cheer, as he skips from 13 to 15. “Do you want to get out of bed to look at the number line?”

My neurosis knows no bounds. I’m up at night wondering whether Bergen will remember to say please and thank you. Will he be kind? A good listener? A good friend? Will he sit quietly on the mat, raise his hand and share his crayons? Or will he run in circles yelling things like, “Buttocks!” and “Wedgie!”? I can picture either scenario.

I know it’s pointless to worry. The longer I do this parenting thing, the more I realize that I actually have little influence on the people my children will become. Simply, they are who they are. I can set the example I hope they’ll follow, but, ultimately, their drive, their compassion, their curiosity, their senses of humor — not to mention their propensity to use the word “butt” in almost any sentence — are already inside them. I’m just helping them survive the journey. Feeding them. Keeping them safe. Loving them. And, soon, sending them off to school.

So tell me why it is that in addition to the “I love yous” I’ll be professing when Bergen gets on that bus for the first time next week, I’ll also be yelling, “Be kind! Share! And remember 14!”