Four weeks ago, Thomas and I set off for our first day at preschool. I was calm and confident. He seemed so too. He had his new backpack, name emblazoned in permanent ink, extra underwear in case of accidents, and the requisite tube of sunblock. We drove to his school, found his class and placed his backpack in his personalized cubby-hole. The calm and confidence ended just about there.
Thomas is attending a local Montessori school. There are several in our neighborhood - Montessori seems quite popular around Cape Town and Thomas’ school seems as impressive as those we’d looked at in Canada. I had high hopes. I continue to have… hopes.
We all sat in a circle, that first day. Twelve children, a teacher, an assistant, and me with Thomas buried in my lap. He stayed like that through the date and weather, and surfaced just in time to run outside for playtime.
The second day went pretty much the same way except that during playtime, I told Thomas that I was going to pop to the store to buy milk, then come back to get him. During the brief time I was gone, he had a complete meltdown and wet his pants.
Every school morning for the following two weeks, I would leave Thomas screaming at the threshold to his class. I’d pick him up a few minutes later each day. He seemed fine when I “fetched him”, as they say here, except for a bursting bladder. He refused to use the school toilets and we had, um, major potty-training setbacks at home. All over our home, in fact.
Rebellion? Regression? Or simply a result of being deeply unsettled? I don’t know – but it was profoundly upsetting for me too. I had clearly underestimated preschool as a significant milestone in his life. I thought it would be similar to the home-care he attended in Canada. You know, play, other children, snacks….
I now realize that thinking was simplistic and optimistic. A classroom with twelve children, in a school with six classrooms, bears little resemblance to a cozy house with five friends. And as much as I agree with the Montessori method, I think Montessori schools may be a tougher initiation than the average preschool. Thomas is in the 3-6 year old class, so he is among the youngest. Ultimately, this could be great for learning and social development. Initially, however, I imagine it’s daunting – and confusing as the expectations of the older kids are different.
Montessori is also “hardcore” in the toy department. No plastic cars, no battery-operated entertainment, and much to Thomas’ dismay, no trains. The toys are specialized, educational, and for the most part wooden. Again, I like this approach, but the initial lure of new shiny toys that other preschools might provide just isn’t there.
I really considered pulling Thomas out of his school after a few weeks. I wondered if I was doing much, much more harm than good. School at three-years-old isn’t compulsory, after all. It’s supposed to be stimulating and fun. I almost packed it in when Thomas dressed up Alex in a hat and backpack and gently pushed him across our kitchen “to school” with the warning that Alex “mustn’t cry”.
We persisted however, to Thomas’ credit, and he made progress. He started using the toilet again. He stopped screaming at the sight of his school. He started to make friends. There were changes at home too. I saw a new independence as he prepared his own snacks and “fetched” his own clothes. He showed an interest in arranging things “in the right order”, and to my surprise, casually recited the days of the week in both English and Afrikaans.
But perhaps the greatest leap forward was expressed in a single new word. Thomas stood up straight on the couch one afternoon as Alex brought him one of our many wooden puzzles. Thomas pushed his chin in the air and proudly declared the puzzle “Bor-ring!” Boring – and with the intonation of a world wise teenager.
Okay, not a ringing endorsement of the Montessori method, but I was strangely relieved to hear it. It shows, for better or worse, a camaraderie with his classmates and an opinion about activities on offer. It was also a tiny dose of reality for me.
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