I met with my son's preschool teacher this week. She had some concerns about The Bug. She feels he's behind in his language skills, and mentioned some concern about motor skills, as well as his attention span and interest in things. I had to sign a consent form to have someone 'observe' him in class in a week.

My son has had twenty-two ear infections from August of 2004 until, well, just a few weeks ago. And I'm not sure the last round really went away, courtesy Bug refuses any medicine (I got a bunch of pink goo in my eye the last time). And because of those, it would make sense that his hearing his garbled. If you've been listening to someone talk and it sounds like you're underwater, it'd make sense.

Truthfully, it's the motor skills and attention span thing that scare me. And the fear that the person observing him will couple all of that together and make a jump to something.

(And here is probably a good place to say that yes, I know he's three-and-a-half. And yes, what three-year-old has a long attention span? I will say, though, that his teacher is VERY GOOD. And she wouldn't mention it without some real cause for concern. She works with three to five year-old children for a living, and has for some time.)

With all of that said, I sat in the library talking to her, and she kept saying, "Don't stress out over it; let's just figure out what the issue is! Maybe he just needs me to do something different for him in the classroom." And while she was smiling and talking and asking me the if I'd be attending the "Mom's Night Out" that week (and that's another post), all I could think of was my baby brother.

When my (now 28-year-old brother) was little, he was diagnosed with Sensory Integration Dysfunction and hyperactivity. My parents were tossed into this world of "What can we do to help him?" and they lost complete track of everything else. Our spare room became a library for the self-help books. Our downstairs basement because an "occupational therapy room" with a hammock attached to the ceiling and a big giant ball we were supposed to roll over him, I guess. All of the soda and candy got tossed from the house because "your brother has a reaction to it".



My mom was forcing Ritalin down his throat every day, and every day it was a battle from hell. Once when he was about twelve, she mixed up his Ritalin with her Estrogen supplement. He took her pill. My mom caught the mistake, had to explain to him what he'd just taken. My dad then told him he'd grow boobs. My brother yelled and cried and tried to make himself gag, while my dad and I were rolling on the floor, laughing.


We spent one summer in Denver so he could attend a 'special preschool' where one little boy wore a blue helmut and drooled. My brother just didn't like to be touched. That was it. If you didn't touch him, you were good. So, we'd come to Denver on Sunday night, stay through Friday, and come home on the weekends to see dad. I was forced into a pyschologist's office to talk about my 'feelings'. I had to show her how I felt with puppets, because my mom and dad started to realize they were giving my brother all the attention, and I was getting shoved aside. Kids at our Elementary School would taunt him for needing to go into the "Special Education Room". I once hit a girl on our school bus who said my brother was different and stupid, never mind the fact that she looked like she'd been born of a she-goat and a manatee on crack.

I realize I'm jumping ahead. But you see, all of this went through my mind last Tuesday. Probably before I left the school parking lot. I remembered all of this, and I got scared. I still am scared. And so I have talked to a few friends who have kept my head from head-tripping too far.

I realize all of this could be as simple as an assload of ear infections causing havoc. It could be that my child is three, but is as tall (or taller) than the five-year-old's in his class. And he just might still coming into his own body-wise.

And of course, I know if it's something else entirely, I'll handle that, too.

Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see. ~John W. Whitehead, The Stealing of America, 1983

Labels: detours, preschool, the bug and mommy

Aside from my absolute horror that I have a child almost ready to head off to preschool (I mean, when did he get this old? I swear I just had him!), I also am absolutely astounded at the process to GET your child into preschool.

When my son was a little over a year, my neighbor came to me with a packet of information from the preschool they took their girls to. She said, "You might want to start putting your name on the list now if they'll let you." Seriously - with a few years to spare?

The first house I grew up in was miles and miles from any town, let alone any school, and specifically a preschool. I can imagine my mom and dad scoffing at the idea of driving me twenty miles for an early education. When I busted my nose up on a cinder block at the age of three and had actually broken it, my parents opted not to take me to the hospital because the nearest one was almost thirty or more miles from our country home.

My education on the farm was fantastic, though. I wondered around the feedlot with my dad, feeding cattle, riding horses and playing with our big dog, Blitz. I followed behind my mom picking green beans in the garden. She had a giant coffee tin of buttons - all colors and sizes - and she'd help me sort them all. My mom painted the alphabet and the numbers up to ten on a wall in the basement, and I spent hours playing school and learning them myself. We read tons of books, listened to all kinds of music (every time I hear Dolly Parton's 'Jolene', I think of me dancing as a kid through the house).

With all of that said, it's hard for me to think that it took two years of work to get my son considered into a preschool. With the local community I live in booming with babies, there are waiting lists at virtually every place we looked at, even with our 'early' start.

I started investigating preschools. I started filling out applications (I mean, honestly!). When one place asked in their application what chores my son had around the house, I wrote: "He is the Master of Destruction - that is his job". I started making arrangements for school visits, trying to think of questions to ask, and feeling a little bit overwhelmed.

We applied at two schools. The first one being the place my neighbor suggested. The second one being one I'd found on my own, one that I thought my son would really do well with. I liked both places equally, and then hoped he'd just get into one.

So we waited.

Letter came from the first place about a month or so ago letting us know he'd be on the waiting list there. Translation: Sucks to be you.

I knew the second place would send out letters on March 12, and we'd likely receive the news on the 13th - which would be yesterday.

Mail truck came.

Big envelope (good sign) with a note handwritten on the front, "Welcome to 'NameofPreschool'!". I hate to admit it, but I squealed like a little girl and did a little dance. (ALL OVER PRESCHOOL!! Seriously!)

So ... one hurdle crossed. Now, we need to work on potty training and getting me through the "My baby is going to preschool" emotions that are bound to come along. He'll be ready for the next step, I don't doubt. I just hope I am, too.

Labels: preschool, the bug