The papers are in my hand and the ink on the signature is barely dry.
I’m sending Berlyn to private school for kindergarden.
My reasons are multi-numeral.
When I think about the amounts of teaching philosophies out there my brian feels like it was extracted from my skull and put into the washing machine on the heavy soil setting. And when I emerge it’s all sopping wet from soapy tumbling.
First we considered public school. And why not? With so many fantastic schools in our neighborhood it seemed like an easy decision. But the more I looked into it the more I was disappointed with the schools around here, the budget cuts, the overcrowding, and the bully problem!
No thank you.
Then there was my brief encounter with home schooling. But because I’m largely unmotivated and completely ill-equipped to teach my daughter anything scholarly, I decided that was probably not the best choice.
And in a moment of homemade granola and eco friendly feminine products, I thought I’d send her to a Waldorf school that nurtured creativity and shunned media exposure, sugar, and reasons for not composting. It was a lovely place, but it was too far away.
Then I moved my search into the private Christian schooling category, and found their views on academics and spiritual integration refreshing. And after touring the campus, talking to teachers, parents, and the principal, I felt comfortable and assured that I’ve made a good choice. So I’ve made up my mind.
I’m still dithering and wavering.
I never went to private school. I had to scratch and claw my way up the educational ladder to achieve a slightly below average G.P.A. I got most of my sex education from reading the bathroom walls in the second grade. I learned every bad word there was by the time I was seven, and look how good I turned out!
And I think that’s a great attribute to have.
But the thing that really makes me dither and waver is the uniform.
In between the blue and white plaid, there’s no room for creativity.
Berlyn excels at getting herself dressed each morning. She always comes down stairs wearing an outfit completely constructed by her. I only nudge her gently when there needs to be changes. Like when it’s 84 degrees outside and she’s wearing a ski jacket and sweatpants.
I’m going to be sad telling her she can’t go to school dressed in a tu-tu, an “I love my grandma” shirt, polka-dot leggings, topped off with a fedora.
I love celebrating her unique style and her self expression.
And the thought of dampening that with a blue starchy romper over a white collared polo shirt makes me shudder.
There’s no perfect school, is there?
So, I guess I’ll just have to celebrate her unique style and self expression after school.