Skip to main content

Pre-Kindergarten

 My child's first school experience is about to begin, and I feel a bit like the character "Louie."


I know Louis CK is a monster, etc., but as the NYT observed this summer, the show "Louie" remains a major achievement. It's something I think about on an almost daily basis (especially because my husband and I are watching Pamela Adlon's great video-memoir, "Better Things," which shares DNA with the Greenwich Village Comedy Cellar).

In one of my favorite "Louie" moments, the protagonist attends a PA meeting. The parents are upset because the children seem mysteriously sleepy after lunch. Solutions are proposed. More outdoor-recess time! Stimulating new math lessons! Gluten-free dining options!

Louie tentatively asks: "Aren't the kids seemingly sleepy because.....school sucks?"

There's silence.

"I mean....We all remember that, right? School sucks?"

I thought of this as I read Joshua's long (quite long!) list of school forms and announcements. The amount of material made me think I was shipping my son to a ten-year war on another continent, and not signing on for six hours of light social time per week (at a site around the corner from our house).

The part that really disturbed me was this: "No Halloween, and no Valentine's Day." My heart sank. To me, Halloween and Valentine's Day are the events that make school bearable. They are the reasons that you go to school.

But I'm withholding comment. I'm going to be an adult, and a team player.

Do I wonder if Josh will be judged for seeming overly fond of his bottle? For not speaking enough? Do I think a mandatory informational night, on a weeknight, is really needed, if the child is attending for just six hours each week? (No one expects Josh to memorize "King Lear"--yet.)

One day at a time.....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...