We went to the back-to-school picnic at D. and L.’s Montessori preschool yesterday. This was our third picnic there and will be our fourth school year. F. went there for 2 years, D. is going into his third year and L. starts tomorrow.
It is just about the cutest school you’ve ever seen. A one room school house with kid height windows and even a little kid-sized door so the children know it is a place just for them.
It has been a wonderful first introduction to school for our kids and our family. F. and D. have both excelled there and I’m confident L. will also love it. I’m very excited to see L. become his own individual, separate from his older, domineering brothers.
At the picnic each year, the teachers place folders of some projects that they need help preparing for. Paper to cut into squares or rectangles that are later used to teach about Chinese lettering or Roman numerals. At the end of the picnic, I remembered to swing by the table to pick up a folder.
OK, that’s not totally accurate.
I was on my way to reprimand the boys for playing hide and seek behind the nap mats and knocking them down off their hooks, when I passed the table and saw the last four folders sitting there.
They are labeled at the top with the month that they are due. As I looked at the manila folder lying there, I had a flash of panic. My heart started skipping super fast and I began to sweat. I suddenly had that sinking guilty feeling. I suddenly remembered the folder from last year filled with red construction paper that needed to be cut into even rectangles. In my mind, I could see it clear as day almost as if I had just seen it yesterday–and not last week when I was cleaning out my closet and found it sitting on the top shelf. Last year, I had picked it up at the picnic in August because it wasn’t due until March and it seemed like plenty of time to cut those rectangles. As it turned out, it was actually just plenty of time to forget all about it.
Well, I took another folder this year. It is due back in September, which should eliminate the possibility of burying it under debris in my closet. And one of the teachers took the “hardest one” out of my hand–Indian name tags that included cutting circles and threading through yellow yarn–and handed me a folder filled with white paper that needs to be cut in 2″ x 2″ squares with words of advice: “This is a good one. Go to Kinko’s; they’ll cut these for you. Zip. Zip.”
Apparently the teachers have gotten to know me as well as they know my kids.
