DAD’S EYE VIEW Marching Into Kindergarten

A Dad’s Eye View Marching Into Kindergarten

BY RICK EPSTEIN

THREE SEPTEMBERS AGO, WHEN we sent our firstborn into kindergarten, we were the Wright Brothers launching something delicate and experimental.

Weeks before school opened, I’d gone to see the principal. Facing him across his desk, feeling slightly in trouble, I explained, “My daughter Marie will be one of your new kindergartners. And I, uh, thought it’d be nice for her to go into school knowing one or two of the kids already.” The principal’s face was a mask of sympathetic attention as I continued haltingly, “So I wondered if it’d be possible to get a copy of the class roster ahead of time. Then I could set up playdates for her with some of the kids before school starts.” Stammering out my good idea was like unwrapping a badly preserved mummy -- upon exposure, it crumbled to dust.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Mr. Epstein,” he said. “There are considerations of security and privacy that must be observed. But don’t worry; I’m sure your child will thrive in her new learning environment.”

I thanked him anyway and left, feeling stupid. I tried to imagine my own father making such a request and felt a little stupider.

When Marie’s big day came, my wife Betsy and I walked her to school, and I photographed her there in her new clothes holding her new lunchbox. Inside the lunchbox was a surprise love note from me, kind of a valentine that she’d be able to figure out without knowing how to read.

The kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Doster, stood in the doorway of the school greeting each child in turn. Marie kissed each of us and, vibrating with excitement, she was received by her teacher.

When the last child had entered, all the seasoned parents had gone home. Rookies like ourselves stood around chatting on the front walk until the principal came out, smiled reassuringly, and said, “See you at 3.” It was more polite than using a firehose to disperse a listless crowd that hadn’t made any plans past that moment. Walking away, Betsy looked back at the school and said, “What are they doing to my baby?” She was only half joking. Now it’ll be Sally’s turn to meet Mrs. Doster at the front door. But this time we won’t be Orville and Wilbur. We’ll be hunters casually sending a ‘coon dog into a thicket. We KNOW Sally’s ready, and we HOPE Mrs. Doster is.

Sometimes I get the terrible feeling that the true function of our family of two parents and three kids is to produce one happy, well-adjusted child. In this inefficient arrangement, Marie, our intense, responsible eldest, is like the worm they drop into a bottle of tequila to absorb the poisons, and our third child is a buffer to save Sally from being The Baby of the Family.

My theories about the youngest have yet to gel, but here are some facts about the older two: -- The same domineering neighbor brat who used to harangue Marie into an emotional jelly, tried to practice her black arts on Sally, only to have Sally glance up with mild interest and ask: “You talkin’ to me?” --When Marie gets angry, she either weeps or goes off by herself and sulks, her repressed feelings stewing. When Sally gets angry, she roars like a beast or yells: “I am MAAAAAAAD!!!” --The only time Marie is forthcoming about her anger is when I wake her up for school. Before I learned to use restraint, our mornings had been made hideous by her howls, cries and poisonous moods. Now I use such gentleness and subtlety that sometimes she doesn’t even know she’s being awakened until we are 10 minutes into the process. Awakening Sally is quick and easy: I pull her out of bed and roll her around on the carpet like a log. A moment of indignation yields to amusement and she gets up laughing.

Both girls have drawn their genes from the same pool and lived under the same roof, but like most siblings, they’ve had different parents. Marie’s parents were apprehensive and intense beginners. Furthermore, they convinced her that the universe revolves around her and then they produced two competitors.

Sally, however, had arrived second in a first-come, firstserved situation. From Day One, she’s had to work around a powerful rival whose claims already stretched to the horizon. But Sally had been given room to develop the necessary strength and cunning because HER parents were (by then) neither apprehensive nor intense, and they always had at least one other child to distract them.

Our anxious attention, focused like a laser beam on Marie, produced a child who needs continuing anxious attention, including that careful send-off into public school. “Good luck, dear. We love you.”

We love Sally, too. But she won’t need much of a launching. A simple “Sic ‘em!” will do.

Fears? Sally has none, and I have only one: I hope Mrs. Doster never has the poor judgment to tell Sally: “You’re certainly not like your big sister.”

Because she’ll probably say: “Duh!” ✦

RICK EPSTEIN can be reached at rickepstein@yahoo.com.