Eowyn, the "Special Snack Helper"

Pre-school enrollment is as ubiquitous for the middle class as cocktail hour was in the 1950s. And since I (unabashedly) suffer from soccer mom syndrome, I too have leapt onto the academic bandwagon. At best, I may breed myself a Rhodes Scholar or –at worst- avoid the look of bewildered condemnation from SUV driving moms who discover that your three year old doesn’t have scheduled potty breaks, three mornings a week at St. John’s Lutheran/Episcopal/Unitarian or Presbyterian child development center.

So, we did it – Pre-school, that is.

The fanfare precedent to the actual orientation morning was akin to an Eagle’s tailgating party (absent the beer). Chocolate-Banana pancakes and real (free-range) bacon for breakfast buoyed spirits. Promises of musical magic, Macaroni-made jewelry, imaginative dress-up, weather-wheels and everlasting friendships: Eowyn was giddy with anticipation.

However, as we hesitantly entered the primary color-embossed room, the enthusiasm began to palpably deflate. . . for both of us. Mentally, I reviewed my maternal obligations: Hearty breakfast. Check. Requisite photo with back-pack. Check. Emotional validation. Check. Scriptural prayer with child. Check. . . . until . . . Background investigation of teacher. Review of her resume. Polygraph of teacher’s assistant. NOT checked. Panic threatened. Could I leave my child with someone whose Facebook page I had not yet perused? Perhaps a subtle round of free association with the teacher– “I say Obamacare, you say _________.” No. This would reveal my right-wing overprotective freakishness, making me wildly unpopular with all present soccer moms and succinctly secure my play-date ostracism.

Meanwhile, Eowyn surveyed the scene: No Princess paraphernalia apparent. No macaroni jewelry on display. Was this even worth the hassle of getting me potty trained?

When it was time for the parents to extract themselves from the Playskool wonderland, it was without incident. That is, until my daughter decided to be the singular defector and became hysterical at the prospect of my brief absence. Suddenly, she was screaming and clinging to me in that Koala fashion but with the tenacity of a Bald Eagle’s talons gripping my flesh. In between shrieks, the teacher soothingly and ineffectually offered Eowyn the prominent position of “special snack helper.” You would have had me at “special snack helper;” however, Eowyn was not to be dissuaded. As I left her-screaming my name, she was removed to “isolation” for the protection of the fragile temperaments of her tiny toddler peers.

I thought it ironic that I was supposed to be the one who cried this morning.

. . . And then I did. As we reviewed the not unsubstantial regulation handbook for pre-schoolers, I noted the “Back to School Night” event for my baby. That was it. I choked up. As an educator in a previous life, I always loathed BTSN (just an insider’s acronym) but now, I would be attending my own child’s. Where have the past 3 ½ years gone (other than to my hips)? This is why I am even more convinced that cocktail hour should be reinstated, if only during the first days of the rest of my child’s academic life.

And even if Eowyn is never a Rhodes Scholar, at least she can boast of her illustrious career as “Special Snack Helper”- a distinction only made possible by pre-school.

Debriefing with Poppy

Caid enjoys a morning with Nonnie