Holding Back: Why Our Five-Year-Old Isn't Going to Kindergarten

Monday was a big "first day of school" picture day on Facebook. We did not participate. We did celebrate a "first day of second grade," with photo documents and colorful signage as proof; we just didn't post them anywhere. Not because we're that worried about our daughter's privacy or believe that she is now fodder for a new wave of cyber terrorism. We may have just forgotten, or maybe it will be part of a "can't believe how she grew in just 9 months" montage come early June. Or because her brother isn't going to kindergarten this year and we don't want to draw his attention to it.

There were decidedly fewer "Held out of kindergarten this year" signs showing up on my feed today, though if we were so inclined, we could have pulled one off. We held our middle child-- all 5 years, 1 month of him-- out of kindergarten this year. It was not a frivolous decision-- this is one we struggled with for a while, back and forth, over and over. Right or wrong?

His July birthday puts him at the younger edge of the kindergarten class of 2014-15. In our opinion, this would put him at a disadvantage compared to his other classmates. Not for his entire academic career, but for the all-important first 3-4 years, up to third grade, when students generally get frustrated easier and begin to hate school.

The disadvantages aren't severe. Intellectually, he probably could handle the workload. And if they've added recognizing state shapes or translating hideous Curious George bleats into English to the kindergarten curriculum, he may have graduated this year with honors. He passed the 10-minute test administered to him at registration in March, even though his drawing of "Daddy playing baseball" looks exactly like his printed capital R. But there are other, less discernible factors weighing into the decision...areas that are often overlooked when green
lighting kids for kindergarten that won't show up in a 10-minute registration session.

• Social and Emotional Factors -- He gets frustrated easily when things aren't going his way, or when things aren't perfect, to which the dent in the wall after a third-place finish in a family game of Trouble will attest. Poor sportsmanship aside, he also gets frustrated when he can't do things and, as we'll see in a second, there are quite a few things he can't do. In Day Care, he also tended to play with the younger kids anyway. Why throw him in with a bunch of older kids then and let him feel like the low man on the totem pole?

• Physical Factors -- As we found out in a well visit to the doctor a month ago, this kid has inherited all of his father's physical shortcomings. He's on pace to learn how to tie his shoes in 4th grade. More importantly, at his first Occupational Therapy visit, a test of hand strength revealed he actually has no muscles in his arms. (Not really, but he scored a 0, whatever that means.) He has been working with his Occupation Therapist to build hand strength by threading beads with one hand, lacing string through cardboard, and pulling small tiles and lining them up with weights tied to his hand. Watching him struggle makes me physically uncomfortable, but watching him eventually succeed gives me hope. Hope that he continues to build this strength so that when he's asked to write 5 sentences by the end of kindergarten, he'll at least be able to hold the pencil.

          Also, after his first day of Day Care, one which involved a two-hour nap, he came home and nearly passed out in his spaghetti. He's not ready for full-day kindergarten.

None of this is done with sports on our mind. Our genealogy has made it quite clear we do not have the next Babe Ruth, Peyton Manning, or Larry Bird on our hands. We don't even have the next Rafael Belliard, my all-time least favorite baseball player. Fear not, fellow Delaware parents...our son will not enjoy any distinct athletic advantages over your kid and will not be awarded athletic scholarships at yours' expense because he's months older than your child. (Though if he did, it would in a very small way make up for my district's 6th-grade Track Meet, where we all lost to some kid who looked like '70s Ted Nugent. Digressing.) Talent determines worth in sports, not a few extra months of age. 

There are many, many reasons to simply forget all this and enroll him in kindergarten. One reason for every dollar we'll pay in Day Care costs this year, in fact. Plus we'll be delaying his earning potential on the other end when he graduates school, as people have noted. But he'll be working into his seventies anyway, plenty of time to get beaten down by the man. This will afford him another year to just be a kid.  One more stress-free year, with the hope of more stress-free years in the future.

How much would you pay today to have another year of your childhood back? This is in some ways a gift to him, one that he will never quite understand and certainly will not be able to justify or quantify when we can't buy him a car on his 16th birthday. Or even his 21st. But a gift nonetheless.

I come from a family of teachers. My parents, step-parents, brother, sister-in-law, step-sister-in-law, aunts, they are all over the family. I married a teacher. Probably close to 200 years of teaching experience at our fingertips and not once has any of them heard someone say, "I really regret not pushing Johnny through." You hear plenty of the reverse, however. But each child is different. Many with July birthdays are ready. My son would definitely survive.

But would he thrive?

It's the Diaper Countdown

How many diapers do I have left?

The other night driving home my mind wandered out to the edges, and I asked myself that question. Given our careful planning of each pregnancy to ensure a constant monthly diaper expense seven years and counting, but with a full-fledged toddler intimating a need for advanced potty-training, ("I poot on the FLOOR!")  misty eyes started looking ahead to the cleanest, most humane of childhood milestones...potty training the last child.

I think I have thirteen diapers left to change in my lifetime.

The calculation is simple but not frivolous. We are aiming to train our youngest to go on the can by mid-August, by forcing him to wear underpants that cause all sorts of uncomfortable leakage issues if he goes anywhere but the potty. That's seven weeks from now. At an average of 1.5 diapers per week, plus allowing for 2-3 emergency diapers, and given my expectation of becoming that uncle/friend/"uncle"/grandfather who will hold a baby quite literally all day until the moment they fill their pants, then, scurrying, hold the baby out with arms extended as if holding a radioactive, exploding bag of crap, (which it is) I will present the baby to his parents:  "I think this is yours."

(The difference between uncle and "uncle" should be fairly intuitive. An uncle is family, your parent's brother or brother-in-law. An "uncle", then, is someone of no relation but who is so close to your parents that he deserves an honorary title, especially when he's letting you eat ice cream for breakfast and use his couch cushions as wrestling props...essentially the older brother you never had... way, WAY older, which is why he was never your older brother.)

HOLD ON. Someone in the crowd wonders, where does this guy get off changing 1.5 diapers per week? Either his kid has a life-threatening constipation issue or someone's got a case of the lazies. Deadbeat dad alert! This guy can't be bothered to change his kid's diaper but one-n-a-half times a week...

It comes down to choices. Not that I choose to let my child sit in his own filth, though he still seems cool with that. But, as she does with her kindergarten kids daily, my wife "empowers" me by allowing me to make my own decisions. "I'll change that diaper if you clean the kitchen floor..." "I'll change the kid's diaper if you pick up the basement..." "Would you rather change his diaper or stay on hold with the cable company?"

I still fall for it every time. Every single time. The "other" alternative, seemingly benign, has a hidden undercurrent of "fail" to it that makes a simple rotting diaper the least of the family's concerns. That kitchen floor? We had rice tonight. Gotta pick every one up, including the 3,000 that get stuck in the broom. The basement? Nobody told me they re-enacted the Boston Juice Box Party all over the couch. The cable company? Shoulda seen that one coming.

And once you make your choice, you're stuck with it. If you try to opt out, offer to stick your whole head inside the offending diaper for the right to change your mind, it is over. "You made your choice." The "and now you'll live with the consequences" is just sort of understood. There is little more deflating than realizing your misery is the result of your own choices. Kindergarten class of 2014-15, beware.

But besides all of that, there may appear to be a monetary benefit to this. The penny-pinching, corporate type in me wants badly to estimate how much money we have spent on diapers over the years, then compare that number to the price of a pretentious, douchey, over-priced car. There won't be any real savings anyway, because the money not spent on diapers will surely be spent on something else kid-related, like Frozen Dance Camp.

Frozen Dance Camp sounds like cheap fish sticks but is actually a week-long summer event based off of an obscure Disney movie that you're probably only vaguely familiar with. Frozen Dance Camp came to us by accident in a series of events so involved that the average length of the "Long Story Short" version is still three minutes and 26 seconds. By the end of this week, the participants, which include my daughter, will have created a Tour de Force of Frozen je ne sais quoi that, given their immersion with the subject matter, could match any of my daughter's former dance studio's annual output. Just not sure that it will be in French.

But that's for another time. Our diaper days are numbered and that makes my wife sad, because it's soon another milestone behind us. Maybe one last messy diaper for the baby book. But it makes me sad, too, because at least I knew when my kids were crapping in their pants instead of the toilet, we could be reasonably assured someone was then wiping their butts.

Take Your Daddy to School Day

Monday I volunteered in my daughter's kindergarten classroom. My work provides us two volunteer days annually to "give back" to the community, and while the company doesn't specify exactly how they should be used, it seems one of those days should be used to do something constructive -- literally, like building a house for paralyzed orphans with the corporate logo emblazoned on the siding-- but, according to my interpretation, the other day can be used for something else altogether.

I chose the something else altogether.

Plenty of corporate ninnies such as myself have done the volunteer-in-the-classroom thing before, and after two hours, are backpedaling out the door, flattering themselves and humblebragging all the way..."I'm used to giving daily speeches in front of high-powered Fortune 500 investment consortiums in fluent Mandarin, but these kids wiped me out! Especially the one who needed his shoes tied! I have such an appreciation for what you teachers do and..." and before he can finish his thought, he's back to closing another deal or haggling over a corner office with the view of the mountainside.

I did not do this to gain an appreciation of the teaching profession and what teachers go through on a daily basis-- I'm already keenly aware of that, being the son of four parents who taught everything from kindergarten to college, and then marrying another teacher myself. I know what they go through. The $250 pre-Adjusted Gross Income tax deduction for out-of-pocket classroom expenses is a joke. (Teachers spend way more than that.) The eight weeks they get off in the middle of the summer should be sixteen and should come with an all-inclusive week-long getaway to Any Place That Doesn't Have Kids.

No, I did this for my daughter. It gets harder to spend time with just one kid as your family grows, and until she develops a genuine interest in sitting down with her old man and watching an entire hockey game on tape delay, it won't get easier. (I'm still waiting.) We could have just gone and got ice cream while her two clueless younger brothers played tug-of-war with the Slinky, but I thought maybe this would mean a little more. I also banked on her not being old enough to make the gag reflex when she heard of my plan.

"I can't wait until Monday!" she squealed when I told her on Friday. This will be the last time she looks forward to a Monday on a Friday for the rest of her life, so already it's a little special.
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Having not been in a real, live kindergarten classroom since I was young enough to consistently pee my pants without serious repercussion, I wasn't totally sure what to expect. My wife, who teaches in the same building, gave me three simple pieces of advice to get me through:

1. Be yourself.
2. Don't follow the teacher around like a puppy dog.
3. If you break the copy machine, we will kill you.

Copy machine? Nobody told me there would be a copy machine. I was seriously worried about making copies, not because I thought I was above it, but because my own history with the machine at work was not stellar. I feared a stack of papers shaped like church fans or a call into the repairman. Probably both. I don't know how to "collate" anything. This may be a bad idea.

Luckily, there was very little copying to be done that day, and they have a really nice, user-friendly machine that doesn't ask you 13 detailed questions before it lets you make a copy. I actually would have killed myself if I had done it any harm.

I met all of my daughter's classmates throughout the day. We chit-chatted while they completed their work assignments. They called me Mr. Jonathan and Mr. Criswell and Mrs. Daddy (gender confusion is hilarious even at the kindergarten level.) In our spare time we played Restaurant, where I could order anything I wanted, and it was pretend-handed to me by an eager and plentiful wait staff. We danced. Actually we didn't dance, we stood and acted as a de facto twirling post for the girls in the class, so they could hold our hand up high and twirl beneath it. When kindergarten girls have an excuse to twirl, they don't pass up the opportunity to twirl. We could have twirled some more.

We goofed around at lunch, watching her best friend try to eat cherries and spit out the pits without it looking like this. (She failed.) We stood quietly in line as we exited the cafeteria because nobody leaves the cafeteria until every single person is quiet. [We very suddenly had horrible flashbacks to 4th grade, when our homeroom teacher drained every last bit of recess from our hyperactive bodies by applying that same Draconian "nobody gets recess until are silent" law to 200 third- and fourth-graders. We couldn't stand that woman.]

In the afternoon, we listened helplessly as one boy burped 27 times in our faces because he could, and he thought we'd enjoy his little gift to us. We were powerless to send him to the principal's office, so we waited him out and humored him. He had more staying power and air than we anticipated. We read books, we did math, we went to music class. School might have changed some in the last 30 years, but other than the paddle no longer hanging on the wall, it hasn't changed too much.

My daughter thoroughly enjoyed having her dad there. She would often come sit on my lap, something she rarely does at home any more. She was showing me off, which was fun, because I often do the same to her in public. This day was her turn. 

But she wasn't the only one to show affection. One boy and one girl also put their arms around me. The girl informed me that I smell like her dad. I asked if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She made an X out of her index fingers. I have no idea what that meant.

When the school day was over, we prepared to leave, and my wife caught us and said, "Oh good, you can pick up the other two from Day Care." What? The day is over, no? No, it's just begun. And there is the level of appreciation...dealing with two dozen six-year-olds is one thing. But when there's was a part of you that wants to get in the car and drive in a straight line for about 2 hours, you've got to summon up some more energy. Energy for the 1-year-old and the 3-year-old who haven't seen you all day and who expect you to provide unlimited chocolate milk and officiate their arguments about who gets to stand closer to your legs. This is why you get the call at 7:30 at night asking how much longer it will be until you get home.

But this day was about the girl, and the obvious follow-up question persisted, "Are you going to come to my class again soon, Daddy?" which received the answer, "How about when you're in 1st grade?"

Maybe this will become a tradition that lasts until she's old enough to gag at the thought.