the preschool diaries: transition week

We have officially survived the first week of Transition. Transition isn’t over yet, but rather continues into next week, one of the many reasons why I like this preschool.

Yesterday was Day 3. We arrived at 8:45 a.m., the first ones there, which isn’t entirely surprising because only three kids (including Jonah) attend on Fridays. Can you say PERSONALIZED attention. Yeah baby.

Jonah did. not. want. me. to. leave. period. By now he’d learned the drill. Preschool was all well and good but it would be better if MOMMY STAYED. Why did I keep having to “go for a walk?” Poor kid.

On Transition Day Zero — back in mid-December, I’d hung out the whole hour-and-a-half, nearby but not interacting, except for when the music teacher came in. That’s a parent-participation activity if desired. Some parents come to school just for that hour.

Transition Day 1, on Tuesday of this week, I hung out, again, sidelines, for a good chunk of time, and then I “went for a walk” for half an hour. It probably should have been shorter. The official policy book says it should have been 15 minutes. But the teacher said half-an-hour, and he was having fun, so I thought it would be fine. He barely responded when I said goodbye.

When I returned, I found him standing in the playground, holding hands with a teacher I hadn’t met, who turned out to be perfectly nice, but still, and crying that hiccup-y hysterical cry. Where the hell was I? He wanted to know.

I scooped him up and cuddled him as we sat on a bench. Two little girls pedaled over (on a tricycle built for two) and tried to console him or at least say hello. He hiccuped out the story to me of how “Mommy wasn’t in the house,” and that made him sad and, “the teacher gave you a snuggle.”

“Was that nice?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he admits, begrudgingly.

Once he’d calmed down, I talked to his teachers and learned that a) He’d cried first just before outdoor time because at that point he’d realized I wasn’t there; but b) The good news is that he was easy to console; and then c) The transition to outdoors was too much for him (all that space, all those kids from the other classroom) and the other teacher had seen him crying again; but d) that had happened only scant minutes before I’d returned. So he didn’t suffer long.

Again consoled, he returned to the playground, and picked up a plastic turtle, and then a group of older boys (can I just say that based on what I witnessed this one day in the yard, I am a little terrified of 4- and 5-year-old boys) tried to claim it was theirs and take it from him, but one of the teachers intervened on Jonah’s behalf. The SECOND that Jonah put that turtle down, one of the boys appeared from out of nowhere and snatched it away. Jonah was fine with that though because by then he’d gotten involved with the sandbox, where another younger boy and girl both joined.

Next thing I know, he’s crying again. Someone threw sand in his eyes. Or rather, all over him, eyes included. The teacher intervenes, assumes it’s the boy. No, no, he shakes his head, pointing (j’accuse!) at the girl in pigtails who confesses. An apology is cajoled out of her and she helps the teacher brush the sand off of Jonah, who is again fine and makes his way over to the pirate ship play structure for the remainder of our short visit.

On Transition Day 2, we arrive, we hang out, I again announce my intentions to go on a walk. Jonah is NOT PLEASED. Much protesting ensues. He cries. HARD. I leave anyway, hovering outside the door a moment, listening for the crying to stop. I can’t quite tell but eventually I go sit on the front porch anyway, clutching my cell phone. The school director arrives while I’m sitting there, walks up and gives me a big hug. “I know, this is hard. She says. It’s not natural to be separated from your child like this. Why do you think I started this school?” I do the math in my head, having met her adult daughter. I tell her if she has an assistant teacher position opening, I’d like to be considered. “This will be good for both of you,” she says. I’m sure she’s right but I also don’t love this process.

She goes inside to check and comes back out, gives me the all-clear. He’s fine. I return about 30 minutes later and he’s… I can’t remember. How did that visit end? I think he was happy to leave with me.

Transition Day 3: Fridays are not only the day that there are almost no kids in the toddler class, but it’s also the day they get to go up to the ART STUDIO. I have a good feeling about this. But Jonah is now savvy to the whole mommy leaving thing and he’s super clingy, fights HARD to get me to stay. I hang out a bit and the teacher and I, through a series of nods and other hand signals over Jonah’s head, work out a switch while I am sitting in the nook with him, reading books. She takes over the book we’re on and I head out. It seems like it’s going to work but just as I shut the back door, he looks up and sees me through the window and starts crying. I hate this. I wave goodbye and head down the street to a cafe for the next hour, watching my phone and waiting.

I go back at 10:40, just a few minutes before the art studio time is over. His teacher is in the classroom, cleaning up (studio is overseen by a different teacher). She tells me he’d settled down quickly after I left, and that he’s had an absolute ball in art class, playing with paint, glitter, and clay, though she couldn’t convince him to put a smock on — with apologies. (No big deal, I’m just glad to hear he’s happy.)

Five minutes later, he appears, pretty much covered in glitter, paint, clay residue, and so happy he barely acknowledges me, almost pushing me out of the way to look at the aquarium with his new friends, Arcadia and Schuyler.

I have to pry him out of preschool. “Unt (translation: I want) to DRIVE the CAR,” he says, meaning the red plastic ride-in car on the playground.

Next week, I tell him. Next week you get to come back to preschool and drive the car.

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Here’s what preschool looks like: