I thought I had it under control.
A couple of years ago I had that breakdown over Jake’s fifteen-month evaluation at preschool — the kind where they determine whether said fifteen-month-old can say anything more than “Mama” and “Dada” and pick up a Cheerio with his fingers. And that breakdown, I felt, brought me to a place where I could let go of needing to make sure everyone in the world knows that my child is a genius. Let it go, I told myself, and everyone will figure out he’s in line to win a Nobel Prize one day without you pointing it out to them.
Since then, I’ve become firmly convinced that I’m not one of those mothers who pushes. He’s in preschool, for goodness sakes, where mostly what he’s learning is that it’s not okay to hit your friend in the head with a bucket (especially when you are on the receiving end) and that “poopyhead” is a potty word that will make your friends crack up and will make adults frown and tell you not to say it before they crack up too.
Plus, I tell anyone who will listen that Jake won’t be starting kindergarten until he’s nearly six because I’d rather he be older than the other kids than younger. Subtext: Even if he is a genius, I recognize it will not hurt him to spend that extra year in preschool. Or a good Montessori school where he’ll probably learn so much he’ll end up skipping first grade anyhow.
And so it was that I was truly pleasantly surprised when the head of Jake’s school told me that he would be moving up to the next class.
Until this weekend, when I found out he’s not moving up quite as quickly as he was supposed to. And, behold, the pushy mom popped out of my relaxed mom facade like the creature in Alien who, it turns out, was only biding her time, incubating until she could erupt with maximum, frightening force.
Continue reading ‘Imagine How Pushy I’ll Be By the Time Jake’s in College’
