I didn’t get emotional about Asher’s last day of pre-school. I thought I might shed a tear acknowledging these past 3 years at his first school. Perhaps I was too concerned about whether or not he would make it through the Moving Up Ceremony at school. He has never been comfortable in large groups and prefers to stay close to Mom and Mommy whenever we’re at a party or event where there are a lot of people-even if the people there are classmates and parents he’s known for years. And, in all the 3 years of holiday programs at school, he has never made it through a performance or event without prematurely ending up on one of our laps. Our expectations were low-even lower after the debacle of the kindergarten screening.
Each kindergarten invites its incoming class to come to the school and meet with a teacher for about 10 minutes so that they have some basic information about each kid before the school year begins. I had a feeling things would not go well. After talking about it for days, everything seemed to be going so smoothly, until we actually opened the doors to the school.
There were two very pleasant looking women positioned behind the sign-in table waiting for the children to register. Asher ducked behind me pretending to hide. We waited for our turn while Asher popped out from behind me and shouted, “BOO!” Nervous energy. I ignored him. “BOO!” I let him carry on though I was irritated. But when he lifted up the back of my shirt to reveal my bra strap in search of a better hiding spot, I snapped. I’m not a shy girl, but I don’t especially like to expose myself in elementary schools, and I definitely do not enjoy exposure at the hands of my 5 year old child. Furthermore, the bra, beige and practical, was not one of my finest. “Stop it, Asher,” I hissed.
“BAAAH! I’m playing hide & seek!”
“That’s fine. Just please keep your hands to yourself.”
“And what’s YOUR name?” asked the pleasant lady. He was suddenly rendered immobile; frozen and unable to speak. He stared at her with a forced smile-the one that usually precedes a melt-down.
“His name is Asher,” I answered because I knew he was about to lose it. The nice lady handed me a clipboard with a questionnaire attached regarding the basic skills of my child. Can he write his first name? Can he count to 20? Etc. I sat down to complete it, and Asher threw his arm over it so that I was unable to write. “GO HOME!” he shouted. Here we go. At 5 ½ years old, he reverts to baby talk when he is upset. As a mother, I find his outbursts unpleasant. As a writer, his inability to form a complete sentence makes my blood boil.
“Asher, we’re not going home. We’re here to meet the teachers and we’re going to stay for a few minutes and then go home.”
“GO HOME!” He was yelling now. The other mothers buried their heads in their clipboards pretending that they can’t see what’s going on right in front of them.
“Don’t you want to meet the teachers before school starts?”
“GO HOME!! GO HOME!!”
I was not born with a full tank of patience, and I saw the needle tickle Empty right before my eyes as I strangled my impulse to yell and forced myself to remain calm.
“Asher, this is not a choice.” And then I went there. “If you co-operate with the teacher, you can have ice cream when we get home.”
“I WANT ICE CREAM!” I immediately regretted the offer.
“You have to go with the teacher for a few minutes and then you can have ice cream.”
“I WANT ICE CREAM NOOOWW!!”
The pleasant teacher walked over to Asher. “Are you ready? I have some really fun games to play in my classroom. Can you come with me?”
He ran to the doors sucking his thumbs (he’s a double thumb-sucker) and planted his 13 ½ sized feet into the school welcome mat. I scooped him up and followed the pleasant teacher into the library. Normally, the kids go without parents, but she realized that he required my presence. I was angry, and I was sweating, and I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to say or do to help him get past his own fear. But I knew that there was little hope. He’d worked himself up in a tizzy, and there was no reasoning with him. The teacher was understanding and kind. “Can you tell me your name again? Is it...Bob?”
Asher stood with his back to the teacher. He smiled but refused to turn around. “I think your name started with an ‘A’. Is it Alan?”
He let a silent snicker escape one corner of his mouth still gripping his thumbs with his teeth. He realized he was softening and instantly compensated. “I WANT ICE CREAM!”
“Apparently,” I said, “his name is I WANT ICE CREAM!”
“NAAAAHHH!!!” He whined and then took off to hide between the bookshelves.
“He’s really very friendly. He’s just not good with new situations.”
“He’s like my husband,” said the teacher. “He never likes parties or meeting new people.”
“Is your husband a Scorpio?”
“Actually, YES!” I couldn’t help feel a little relieved. She clearly knew that his behaviour was written in the stars. I got up to look for Asher who had not come out from behind the shelves. “Please don’t make me home school,” I begged. She gave me an empathetic smile and assured me home schooling would not be my fate. As if I would ever! (I say that with the highest respect for home schoolers who can stand spending that much time with their children and who are far better educators than I could ever be.)
“Let’s go home now, Asher.” “I WANT ICE CREAM!” “Well, you can’t have any.” Asher started crying uncontrollably. Nose running, jumping up and down in protest, he was a mess. “We’re going, Asher,” I announced matter of factly. I took him outside and returned the clipboard to the nice ladies. He ran up and down the hall screaming. I WANT ICE CREAM NOOOOWWW!!!” “Yeah?” I muttered to the nice ladies. “I want a valium.” They laughed. I wanted to cry.
It was all a bit too much.
I know it’s not just about Asher. It’s about my baggage. There are hard truths that most parents have to face when they have children. I’ve mentioned this previously, but I feel it’s worth repeating. Asher pushes buttons that no other child can push not because he’s a bad kid but because so often when I look at Asher, I see myself. I used to be that painfully shy kid who was the life the party in my own house with my own friends but who dreaded new situations and meeting new people.
I try not to regret any part of my life, but I can’t help wonder what happened to all the dreams I had as a child about pursuing various noble or out of the ordinary professions. Maybe if I hadn’t been so afraid. If I hadn't been so intimidated. If I had been able to take more risks. If I hadn’t been so concerned with following rules as opposed to making up my own. If I had had more confidence in myself. I could have accomplished anything. What if Asher denies himself his passion because he is afraid? Because he is uncertain? It’s painful watching him, yet I have to remind myself that we are not the same person. That he is only 5. That he is who he is, and he is amazing and special. But at that moment, I was unable to talk myself down.
I took his hand and led Asher to the car as if he were a stubborn dog I had to drag down the road. He’s still scryming for ice cream. (scryming: screaming + crying). I was unwilling to look at him and unsure what to say. He was riding the wave of anger and fear, and I could only wait it out. I cranked up the volume on the radio to drown out Asher’s screams which were now on automatic pilot.
Celebrate Good Times, Come On! I never liked that song. Too many memories of Bar Mitzvahs past. I turn off the radio and spun my head around glaring at Asher. Jaw clenched, voice raised just enough to indicate severe anger without actually losing control.
“Stop screaming right now or I’m taking away the Wii!” He was immediately silenced as if I had just slapped his face with my empty threat. Ice cream bribes and Wii confiscation-not my finest moments. That being said, we drove the rest of the way home in complete silence. I am positive that neither one of us was proud of our behaviour.
I delivered him to Gabriella and explained that Asher was not to have ice cream. I didn’t realize how shaken I was until I saw myself reflected in Gabriella’s pained expression.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing! And I mean nothing. There was no screening. He didn’t make it. I think there’s something wrong with him. I really do.”
“Are you ok?”
“No. I’ve got to pick up some wine to take to the dinner party tomorrow night.” I needed to get out of the house and allow The Incredible Hulk to exorcise himself out of David Banner.
After my errand, I parked the car and called my sister, Rachel. While we are very different creatures, we cannot deny the bond that forever seals us having been raised in the same house by the same crazy-ass parents. And, there are some things I can say to my sister that I can’t say to Gabriella or anyone else. “Either I’m a failure as a mother, or there’s something developmentally wrong with him!"
“Isn’t there something in between?”
“Like what?!?”
“Like he was scared out of his mind.”
“Yes. He was really scared.” It was actually my Incredible Hulk that began to evaporate during our conversation. “It’s my own stuff. I know.”
“And what happens if he doesn’t go through with the screening?”
I hadn’t actually asked that question. I should have. “I’m sure nothing happens. He still goes to kindergarten.” And that’s when I finally let it all go. My kid freaked out at his kindergarten screening, and we all lived. Lesson learned.