The Making of an Outraged Mom

It's amazing how a simple thing like kindergarten can go straight to a parent's heart. The thought of sending my boys off until 3:10 makes me miss them already. It's hard enough separating the emotional thoughts from the rational ones while in line at Dunkies. It's almost impossible when it comes to my children. Since having them, I've done things I never thought I would—such as go two weeks without shaving my legs, explain the gory details of a cesarean section to a bug-eyed three-year-old, and pick someone else's nose. All parents want the best for their kids. We've made good decisions (rewarding a successful potty trip with an M&M) and bad ones (not rewarding for aim). But what really is best for our children in terms of their first real year of school? As much as I hate to think it, I may not be the right person to answer that question.

Shortly before the school committee's vote in February, I visited the Thoreau School. I'd come to interview the principal, Rob Colantuono, but it was certainly on my mind that this was where my son would go next year. While I was waiting to see Colantuono, in trotted a tousle-haired boy wearing a rumpled, untucked oxford. An office assistant helped him turn on the intercom. He did the morning announcements, with weather. It was hysterical and adorable. Afterward, I walked the halls and talked to teachers. I called my husband: "I'm so excited for him to go to kindergarten!"

I'm finally okay with the full-day plan. The teachers appear to have the children's best interests in mind, and anyway, I've decided I have to trust them. Still, it's a scary proposition. I think I know what Jenn Newbold was talking about when she said, "The first time I put him on the bus it's going to be hard. But I'm a big girl—I can handle it. They send them back to you at 3:10." I think I'm going to be the crazy mom sprinting after the bus.

I sat in the back on the day of the vote, listening as the school committee discussed the proposal. It quickly became clear how they were going to decide. In the end, there were five ayes and zero nays. Full-day kindergarten had at last come to Concord. The school committee, teachers, and administrators clapped. The superintendent commended everyone who'd worked so hard. It was all a bit too pep-rally for me. I left.

Outside, I ran into a CPKO petitioner. "You missed it," I said. As we stood in the snowy parking lot, another parent drove up, rolled down the window of her SUV, and chatted with other members of the opposition. They'd apparently Googled the assistant superintendent, hoping to dig up a little dirt.
The next day I asked my oldest, "How would you feel about being in kindergarten all day?" Since at age four he was such a reliable source of information.

"I don't like it," he said, ripping off a piece of Scotch tape and snaking it around a red Matchbox car.

"Why not?" I asked, suddenly alarmed.

"I don't know," he said immediately without looking up. "I want tacos for dinner."

I bent over to give him a smooch. "No!" he barked, hopping off his chair. I chased him into the living room, bear-hugged him on top of a heap of worn animal puppets, and smothered him with kisses. He finally smiled. I tickled his lower back, and he exploded in giggles and cut a big fart. I laughed so hard that I snorted and tears filled my eyes. And I thought about how he was going to love kindergarten, and learn, and make new friends, and figure out whole new ways to gross me out.