plundering buckets

Of course, there's a story - but most of it is in the letter I carefully didn't write, so I think you're probably up to speed. Fill in my face, trying for calm, reminding myself that if I listen, he will talk, and if I shriek, he'll stop.

(Listen, woman, listen. Oh. And try not to laugh out loud, 'k? Because damn, when my kid decides to get himself tossed out of class, he does some very fine work.)

So, I listened. And I asked him about the teacher's response, looking to see if she gave him warnings (she did), used teamwork to help him change course (yep), and how quickly her head started revolving on her shoulders (inexplicably: didn't). Oh, and how much of each happened before the kid ended up a. in a quiet corner before being b. tossed out and c. talking to the head of the lower school.

Who, to her credit, responded by beginning a revamp of the class that the kid despises. Which I find kind of staggering, and more evidence that the kid is luckier than he knows: I was all in favor of a revamp of the kid. Possibly involving a welder, definitely with some wicked wrench work. Because here's the thing: insofar as I can see, every kid has a quota of Crap You Can Pull, which is dipped out of their Effort You Can Require of the School bucket. And I'm worried about his.

This isn't a question of being a class PIA, it's a question of needs. And this isn't just a question of going to a private (read: teeny religious) school rather than a public one, it's a practical matter. If you have a kid in your class who needs, needs, needs and then some, at some point when you look at that kid, you are going to feel pre-steamrollered. Teachers can give, and the good ones give a hell of a lot. But kids need to give back, too, refilling the bucket - or things can get strained. And strained means that there's less resources left, should you need more, simply because you are dealing with human beings. A long list of needs means that there's less left for that individual to give, because again, you are dealing with human beings.

As I might possibly have cause to know, human beings get tired. Possibly, if you are a mama, that's when you hear that vicious little snap! and begin roaring with all the love that you can muster in the midst of end-of-ropeness. There's a reason why the Short Bus parents talk so much about being tired. But I think about managing 24 kids, their needs and habits and personalities....and shudder. Because to each of their parents, every one of the 24 isn't kid, but rather Kid. And we expect the teachers to think so, too. At the Eldest's little school, we are certain that the teacher must think so. Thus: tired.

We've worked hard to expand the Eldest's EYCRS limits, mostly by being nice people and the best teammates we know how. And we try to refill that bucket by telling his teachers how much we appreciate them, and yes, I'll admit it, by making our by-now famous cookies. (At the Big Meeting before school started, the head of the lower school asked me for the recipe...having been given a tin of these the previous winter. Who knew?) I communicate whatever I can, as best I can, and do a careful if slightly desperate dance between working on the Eldest's interests and maintaining relationships. I actually like the people I'm working with, but it adds an odd flavor to really need them to like me back. In a public school, maybe I could afford to be more of a bitch, or maybe to do less baking. Have fewer meetings.

Maybe not. Because at the end of the day, there's still that bucket, limited in size by the humans toting it around.

So, here's the deal: the Eldest uses EYCRS resources by needing a little extra watchfulness, for his hemophilia. He uses a lot more for his food allergies, which slide themselves into class trips, the Head of the School's beloved squash project, Thanksgiving celebrations, and oh, just about anything Israeli/Jewish and involving food. (Ah, tahini. We meet again.) And he requires more because he tends to feel awkward in social settings, and his response to this is clowning around. Which is lovely in a classroom, dontcha think?

(more on the social thing in another post, but the short version is, unexpectedly: shy)

And oh yes, he uses more EYCRS because he's smart. Not the next Einstein, no, but can do sixth grade math smart (if I explain - okay, look up online - words like "mass," and "factors" to him). It sucks right now that the math problems that he's getting are chock-full of vocabulary that he doesn't understand, or skills that he doesn't have - like drawing a family tree - and so he gets stumped. And frustrated, knowing that part of the problem is something he could do, if he could only reach it. Does his brain fire like that in other areas? I'm not sure. But the kid drew Moh's scale of hardness for me the other day, explained it, and I thought that was pretty flaming awesome.

But hey, I'm his mom.

He's got buds in this wierd, fiery learning thing - a classroom of them, all delighted to learn and alarmingly good at it, in their various ways - and they egg each other on. The school, we're told, is both stunned and tickled. And they're throwing resources at the kids, but still, there am I, asking them to adjust to my kid's quirky levels (because there's never just one level for a kid, they vary by subject, y'know? untidy, that), and drawing on the EYCRS. Because heaven help us all if he gets bored. Trust me on this one.

So when it comes down to it, kiddo me love, you've got too much going on to be pulling more out of the bucket. It's unfair, but that's just how it goes. Can you talk to us, work with us rather than getting wired up and achieving new heights of grinning, PIA kid-ness? We-ell, maybe. The Eldest is blessed with two teachers of an admirable degree of probity and sense of humor, one of whom is openly fond of him. And who tossed him out into the hall. I asked him, she said on Friday, if he could work with me, so that he could make a good choice. I explained that he was not making good choices, she said, and sighed. I dropped my head into my hands. Not again.

I know the answer to the teacher's question: I'm sorry, the Eldest told me recently, but I really just can't. I looked at his earnest face, had seen his efforts to work with me on a calming technique, and I knew he was telling the truth. And it hurt to watch him run out into the hall, jumping and twisting so that his body bounced off the wall, mid-air, land and run on.

He can't help it. We've done testing (more on that later, too), and we know that sometimes, he really can't. Still, the kiddo wants to please the adults, he wants to do right, but it feels good to be ramped up, he told me. And he can't - yet - ramp down without my help, and he certainly doesn't understand why he has to. And I know absolutely and with a fierce pleasure, that the bucket doesn't mean crap-all to him.

And honestly, it shouldn't.

But the Toddles was happy: part 3

When I talk to a school about food allergy, they are waiting for me to be the Crazy Allergy Mom, demanding extreme measures that they can walk away from, certain that anything that strict cannot possibly be necessary. No, they soothe themselves, these can only be the ideas produced by the fevered, overprotective neurotic parent. Cannot possibly be necessary.

And with that comforting thought, doors close.

So, my approach is a bit different. I talk people through anaphylaxis (scary, scary) and talk them through how moderates develop into anaphylaxis (oy with a dose of sheesh) and review how different each allergic kid is. Allergies are like toddlers, I tell teachers/admin/people in charge. You never can tell what they're going to do, you can only make sure the sharp stuff is out of reach. (wry, almost funny, see not so bad, come smile with me)

When I'm done, I offer a dose of serious combined with teamwork. I know my kid, I tell the teachers/admin/p.i.c, and you know your environment. Together, we can figure this out. I know we can. A chemist-friend calls that declaration of trust manipulative, and well, yes. But usually, the schools and I do work it out, and that initial, instinctive trust is earned many times over in that process.

One nursery school, one preschool and one grade school have worked with me, had follow-up meetings, stop-and-review meetings and happily used my approach to hammer out workable guidelines. Often, they start with too much strictness, then scaling back. They wait for me to take extreme stances, and are often surprised to find that they prefer those positions, for their safety and simplicity. Identify allergen, remove allergen, right? Still, they look to me to do it first. Parents will say anything where their children are concerned, and I expected you to have demands. I thought that taking the Eldest was just crazy, the assistant head of the Eldest's school told me. But you didn't, and your approach made the difference. (summarized, not quoted)

I agree. And, had I walked in with firm guidelines as to practice (no X in the classroom), rather than firm statements as to the Eldest's needs (not touching anaphylactics), then the staff/teachers/admin/p.i.c would not have understood the needs as well. Which is crucial, in my view.

Classrooms are not static. Things happen, children bring in mice from home and teachers realize that there's something problematic in the mouse food. They need to understand the issue without being specifically prepped for it, and respond. (although in reality, the mother of the mouse-lover called me first, but still, it makes a nice example) One kid wants to sit next to the Allergy Kid at lunch, but he's got something allergy-questionable in his lunchbox. Now what? There's a bunch of wrappers at the bus stop during the field trip. What do you do?

It's just not enough to have a food allergy management plan. People also have to understand why it's there, and be able to work with the underlying principles. Not just follow bullet points. And this understanding is my real goal. The bullet points build habits to reinforce the understanding, or to buy time while the understanding develops.

When it works, this is an astonishingly powerful approach. But it's great weakness is that it depends on the ability of the teachers/admin/p.i.c to partner, or work with me. We walked away from a grade school that had no interest in doing so, and I was surprised to be sitting in a meeting that, post-allergic reaction, demonstrated that I'd walked into another.

We don't understand why we're here, they told me. Can you explain what you want us to do here? I took a deep breath. No point going postal on them, they really don't understand. (Note to self: they don't understand? Oh. my. god. They do not understand. And yet.)

I explained that I've been at this point before, where something happens that is alarming, but it's part of the deal: no bubbles for my boys. Sending my boys to school means accepting the chance that something can happen to them. It's a harsh reality. But, we all work to do our best to keep them safe, and when something like this does happen, it can shake you. Then, it's good to sit down and review what we're doing.

Silence followed. I fell into the trap, and leaned forward to explain.

I'm not as interested in what happened as I am in what happens next. In this room, we have caring people who are putting in the time and energy to keep the Toddles safe, and to let him have this opportunity. We have experience here, we have knowledge, and we have caring, right in this room. We have everything we need to make this situation work, and I know that it's working this well because of the systems and arrangements you have in place. What I'd like to do is understand those better, so that I can help support them, and we can look for where they need to be enhanced.

I looked at a circle of blank - and one closed - faces, counted to ten, and pressed on in the silence. I handed out a copy of the Board of Jewish Ed's excellent "Managing Food Allergies in Jewish Schools" (oddly unlisted on their site). As the director took her copy, she began to look offended, while the teachers looked bemused. I handed out the FAAN's guide to managing food allergies in schools, speckled with seals from approving organizations, and explained that I'd used these as guides to think about what is typically done for food allergy management plans. The director's jaw clenched. And I handed out a skeleton FA management plan based on these, in which I'd identified things that I thought of as the parent's responsibility, teacher's responsibility and team responsibility. I explained that this was a potential template, and perhaps we could use it to clarify together how the Toddles' allergies are being managed.

Too much paper for one meeting, I know. It's a failing.

And apparently, it was offensive. The director's jaw tightened farther, while the teachers looked astonished. And then, after a brief, gaping pause, the hail began to fall.

Why do we need to write this stuff down? It's just what we do.

Why do you need to know this? You could come and watch us. (I could, I'd see what you do, but I also want to understand why)

Look, look what we do for him! (example A, example B, example overwrought C)

See, here's all of his foods (cupboard opened), just like we told you. See? the baking things? (cupboard opens again), all kept separate.

But why do you need to go through this? We're doing what you told us to do. See, we use paper plates for his food. (I find an internal wall, and bang my head on it.)

Here, here - this is our food allergy plan for the school. (I look at this piece of paper, surprised. I'd never heard of its existence until then, but oh - before I pause to be reassurred, there's the Toddles' allergies listed at the top, along with every allergic child's list. Except that many of the Toddles' are missing. Sigh. But enough rumination - people are hollering now.)

Here, here - this is what we do for him, specifically. (Another piece of paper, also missing great big important things. I ignore the sense of disorganization from these bits of different, incomplete papers. Be positive, I remind myself. Point out opportunities - not lack. I find with my finger a few such on the FA management skeleton I've given them, and then my hand goes limp as the tide rushes past me.)

Okay, so what about this? (finger jabs at page) What does that mean? Realizing that I actually get to speak, I open my mouth. This means that one of you does a quick visual scan of a room when you enter it with the kids. You don't have to leave the children, just run your eyes over the area, and if you see some food there, be prepared to respond accordingly. (Referee's call: clock runs out for the mama, possession turned over to the other team)

What do you mean scan? We have responsibilities to the other children, we can't just abandon them - and what if we see something, we'd pick it up, but can he react to the crumbs? (blood pressure climbing - mine. blood pressure climbing - theirs.) And what if there are crumbs that we don't see? Is he that sensitive? (penalty to the mama for opening her mouth, preparatory to trying to respond, saith the ref) Does every room, asks the director almost gleefully, have to be vacuumed before he walks in? Because that, she says, the glee shifting to triumph, we cannot accommodate.

sigh. Did I ask you to?

Oh, but I can't narrate the meeting. It washed over me like a bad sitcom, predictable once it got going, and with an inevitable result. Hours, minutes, who knows what later, I felt like a herd of elephants had been testing their hot pink stilettos on my skull. Don't you trust us? asked the director, and I nearly began roaring.

Trust is earned, I nearly said. I trust that you will learn with me - not from me, with me - to figure out how to keep him safe. That we will work together. This is not the same as trust that you'll instantly become an expert on my son's specific allergies. That would be unfair to ask of you, I explained, actually managing to get a couple of full sentences out before the next stiletto descended.

But on they went. Until finally, it ended.

So, will he be back at school tomorrow?

Gathering up my things, I held myself together. While for the first 2/3rds of the meeting, my job had been to listen - but never, ever criticize (note: asking a question implied criticism, criticism implied a lack of appreciation for the astonishing, unbalanced and deeply caring effort the teachers had put in), for the last 1/3rd my job had been not to lose my temper. Or, worse, burst into tears. I respected those tears, but I knew that the room of defensive, perplexed - and one rather spiteful - women would not. So.

I took a deep breath, and spent a steadying moment putting my pencil too carefully into my bag. Then I stood. No, I said, gasping a bit. I'm sorry. He won't be back tomorrow.

But it's his shabbat!*

I struggled a bit, and then said, very low, yes. But we haven't resolved my concerns about the allergy management plan, so no, he cannot come back. And I left, brushing past blurring faces in the hall, and making it nearly to the curb before the shakes started.

Oh, no, said one of the parents as I rushed past. That doesn't look good.

I couldn't have agreed more.

* each child takes a turn bringing the challah for the shabbat circle, lighting the candles with one or both parents, and sharing the challah they'd brought with the class. For the Toddles, this would have been especially significant, as he is always the child who isn't shared with. And he notices that.
************************************************

I am sorry to admit that no, this was not the ending. I wish it were. But I'll continue telling this story. In the meantime, I've finally licked every damned flap on the Chanuka cards, a tradition stalled for three years (buy the cards, refuse to spend extra on preprinted, buy card stock in bulk, plan to cut stock, print photos, cut photos, glue photos, write sweet little message, make list of people to send to, find addresses, address envelopes, seal, mail. Or not).

This year, off go about 20 or so cards into the wild, addressed to a slightly random assortment of people whose mailing addresses were close enough at hand. And especially to my grandmother, recovering from emergency hip surgery and doing her best to prove that she can go home, rather than to a nursing home. Oh, yes. Especially to her.

Wishing you all light and joy and health this season, and especially some listening, caring ears. My thanks to the oh-so patient skulls attached to mine. Yes, I know I'm droning on. I wish I weren't. Change the channel, somebody, 'kay?

Coming Soon: Talking to the Toddles (part 4, but the Toddles was happy)

Backtracking? See here for parts 1 and 2.

But the Toddles was happy: part 2

The day before Thanksgiving, the Toddles' school had a Thanksgiving celebration.

Everything will have wheat and eggs, the director'd tossed at me, and surprised at the ire in her voice, I'd backed away. But not far - uncertain how the Toddles' needs were being considered for this event, I arranged to be one of the people setting up for it. I spent an astonishing amount of that time running around to figure out what the allergy plan was, and who was responsible for carrying it out.

Surprisingly, that person seemed to be me. Um. Insofar as the organizer could tell, she said, puzzled, and tried to find someone to tell her what she should be doing. I shrugged.

Since the Allergy Kid is my kid, I ran back and forth while the organizer asked the parent association folks for guidance, securing the Toddle friendly cookies in my bag, marvelling at the squishy Toddle-friendly cupcakes (did they follow the recipe? I wrote it down - but no, they hadn't) and flipping plates onto tables.

A rather rushed job - and quick breather - later, the room was packed with children and their parents. For a large social hall, the room blinked and was full. We blinked again, and were mustered into a large clump, to sit and listen to stories and sing songs.

did she really say Indian? hissed a mother behind me. Shhhh, said the other. I grinned. Toto, we ain't in Cambridge no more. But the songs were silly and fun and we giggled our way through Albequerqe and his turkeyness. When we all sat down, I noticed that our table was the farthest from the door (far, far, far), and yet closest to the food (wheat, wheat, wheat, eggs). From behind my shoulder, a parent flipped a plate of cakes past me, dropping then sliding to the child across from us. Crumbs bounced across the table as a nearby parent watched, then looked at me worriedly. This stuff is all safe for your kiddo, right? I shook my head slowly, the hairs rising on my neck. No, I nearly whispered. It's really not.

Around us, children ran through the room, shouting and carrying food (wheatwheatwheateggs), and I looked at the chaos and realized that we were safer huddling in our corner for a bit.

So, the Toddles and I sat and ate bowls of soup, made especially in his classroom, with a knife and board reserved for them (and kept there), and tomato juice that I'd spent two hours checking out. (Oddly, tomato juice manufacturers also tend to make fruit punch sorts of juices. A.k.a., kiwi.) I'd carried the sealed pot upstairs, heated it myself, served it myself with a clean ladle. Plus, it was good. Hey, look, I pointed. Is that a green bean you've got there? Oh, but I've got corn in my spoon. The Toddles considered, and dug his spoon in deeper. Aha! I have corn, too, he informed me.

So. We avoided crumbs on the table, did not pick up his fallen spoon (crumbs under his seat), did not leap up to play with his friends and all in all, did a fantastic, unexpected, desperate job at teamwork. I was so grateful to him, I nearly cried. I carried him out in triumph, wiped him off and popped him into the car. As I finished the last buckle on his carseat, his teacher walked by.

So, how was it? she asked, kindly. I shuddered. Not going to do that again, I said ruefully. She patted me sympathetically. But, I perked up, he loved that vegetable soup! What was in it? Happily, the teacher reeled off a list of ingredients and I listened. Until my brain stopped cold, clutching my spine for support.

I muttered something and drove off, checking the Toddles in my mirror. One eye on the child, I drove past the Eldest's school, completely forgetting his early pickup time, watching, watching, watching the little one.

Thirty minutes later, the Toddles woke out of a sleep, wailing. Don't make me eat any more food - my tummy doesn't want any more food, he wept, clutching his middle. I eyed him carefully. He was flushed, and clearly in pain. And nausea.

A reaction, with one - possibly two - body systems, if the flushing was allergic and not from sleep. I nodded grimly, and stuck the EpiPens in my pocket.

Soothed back to sleep, the Toddles had perhaps a 40 minute break before the second wave. Already wire-tight, I was moving up the stairs before he quite finished that first cough. (Behind me, the Eldest watched with wide, worried eyes.) I held the little guy while he coughed and cried, my hand creeping towards the Epis, stilling, moving towards, stilling, pause and vibrating pause after pause. Finally, he stopped.

I knew what had happened, but not how. The teachers had used a soup mix for the veggie soup, one I'd flagged as potentially problematic. It could be fine, but I just don't know, I'd admitted, using one of my favorite lines. So I'll check it out and get back to you. The teacher smiled. It's really no problem, she said, we can always use water and a bay leaf or two, maybe a peppercorn. I nodded. Conversation done, messages delivered. And, short of someone sprinkling flour on the soup I'd guarded and served, the culprit was unlikely to sit somewhere else, thanks to the Toddles' unrepeatable teamwork. So how did we end up here, wavering on the brink of anaphylaxis?

I hadn't a clue.

The Man and I talked through the weekend, weighing the risks. The math just didn't look good, and we now worried about how little we actually knew about the allergy management. Three repetitions of the same mistake, four exposures and two subsequent reactions, I said, each one worse than the last. How willing are we to stick around for the next one? The pattern is just not good. We looked at each other, worried. I'll call the teachers and explain, I suggested, and we'll keep him out of school until we can have a meeting to review the allergy plan, given what's happened. The Man sighed. Keeping him home will, if nothing else, show how seriously we take this, he pointed out. And I hoped so.

On Tuesday, the Man kissed me goodbye, airline schedules in hand - and wished me good luck. I juggled kids, housework and agenda building until Thursday, when we'd all agreed to meet: the teachers, the director and I. I left the boys delightedly dangling off of QG at home, and drove off smiling. But by the first stop sign, I missed the Man fiercely. Three schools before this one, I mused, years of advocacy and teamwork in emergency situations, academic settings, and oh so much more - and yet, something here worries me.

I walked into the building, and nearly into the preschool director. Her back to me, I listened to her spitting out her frustration with me, and her relief that we're meeting with her tonight. If she's not prepared to be flexible, then she can just go. Over the director's shoulder, her listener met my eye, embarrassed.

oh, dear.

The director turned, saw me, ducked her head and escaped down the hall. Now this, I whispered, is not going to help at all. And it did not. I walked into the classroom, chatting with the teachers, and popped into a chair. The teachers sat down, and we chattered happily until the director came to the room, sat in the chair next to me and slid it away. I looked at the arc she'd deconstructed, and considered the row of four chairs now sternly facing my lonely one.

oh, boy. This is not going to be good.

Clearing her throat, the lead teacher caught the director's eye and began. We're not sure why we are here tonight, she said, and my heart sank. We've been over the things we did in preparation, she went on, and we see no problems. I aimed at looking friendly and interested, glancing at the bit of paper she gave me.

There, about a third of the way down, it said: onion soup mix - approved by Mom.
I looked up at the calm - and one smug - faces.

oh, NO.
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Coming soon: But the Toddles was happy: part 3

Backtracking? Look here for the start of the story.

insert post here

no, really.

We're sitting in a painful limbo with the Toddles' preschool, for reasons I just don't have the energy - or coherence - to explain. But there will be a story to tell, and a post that fits here. Right now, there's just a sense of being stuck. And worried. And not really wanting to feel betrayed and angry, because how on earth is that going to get us unstuck?

But feeling that way anyway. And still, trying to get unstuck.

oh, crap, here we go

Remember when I said that we don't do things the easy way? Did I ever say that?

Well, I should have.

The verdict is in: the Eldest is invited to join the wait list at the pluralist school. Which means our luck is holding steady, which means that the chances of his getting a spot are, well, about as good as (How good is it, Johnny?) a sesame seed and my kid's immune system. So, we now have to argue about the local Ortho school vs public school for a year. This is going to suck. Nobody is going to like this discussion, and offering to put all of the tuition money to the kids' college fund (a tactic I've considered) is not going to make it any simpler. And that's a lot of nickels, folks.

Sigh. Even offering wild monkey sex isn't going to help this conversation. Although it would make for an entertaining time-out, assuming the participants were still on speaking terms by then.

Which means it is now time to do a post I've been putting off: the quality of education post. Shifra, a J-blogger whom I alternately like and find irritating, noted here this post by Rabbi Horowitz (nobody I've heard of, but he has a blog that is clearly aimed at the right-wing Orthodox Jewish community. Erm, very right-wing. Shifra, in turn, posted this about the question of Jewish education.

Horowitz's point is a good one: schools should serve all. The hallmark of a good school should be that it serves each and every student, irrespective of their level of intellect and capability. Not that every kid goes to the Ivies, but that each child comes out a committed and interested learner of the subjects offered. That is excellence.

Here's where it gets interesting: public schools, which have to accept each child who registers (barring charter schools and others with application exams), know this. They have evolved to suit each child's needs as best as resources permit. Admittedly, around here the resources are ample, which skews my view. Disclaimer finished, let me say that the Cambridge public schools that I've visited offered ample evidence of this mandate. I suggest this post, by Nancy Walser on the subject - her comment in response to David Kravitz is especially interesting, particularly the second comment in response to him. By contrast, the private schools I saw were either aware of the implications of their population and its needs - or not.

Private schools have the luxury of refusing to admit a child for any number of reasons, including that s/he wouldn't fit into the 'classroom environment.' This is a splendidly slippery phrase, meaning, essentially, that your kid might not be bright enough, your family might not be rich enough, your kid might be too medically complex - but all of that fades in comparison to what it really means: we're not interested in adapting our classroom to suit you. Given resources, given a desire to adapt and nurture, a classroom can accommodate any child and see them flourish.

No, really.

What I see in the schools around me is either a sense of exhilaration, of enthusiasm and commitment to the child's needs - or apathy and self-satisfaction. Which leaves me with this question: why should I, as a religious Jew, accept second-rate education simply because it happens to be Jewish education? And why is the community putting up with education that segregates people by the child's intellect and/or the family's income?

Let me be clear: it's not that the local Jewish schools aren't accepting kids because, as in Rabbi Horowitz' and Shifra's posts, the kids aren't smart. To the contrary. They are either succeeding or failing to keep the smart children engaged and flourishing. So, the smart kids leave and head to greener pastures. Elsewhere, yes, children are failing to make the cut. Failing? What a concept to apply to a child. Shouldn't their success or failure be taken on their own terms? Certainly, for lower and middle school, at the very least.

This is lazy pedagogy - worse, it's a cop-out. And one that fails the children. No fools, the kids will pick up on this intellectual/economic snobbery (even if it is snobbery by default) - certainly, at one of my private high schools, my classmates were quick to make it clear to me that I was there despite my family's lower income level. Not every bright child is uniformly stellar, not every average kid is, as Rabbi Horowitz points out, uniformly ordinary.

Teach the children successfully in a mixed environment of individual skills and values, and you create a community that embraces differences. Differences in abilities, differences in income - and yes, because I am my boys' mother, differences in needs. But it only works if you do it deliberately and well.

Oh, crap, here we go.

how far away is December?

Not far enough.

Around here, December is the beginning of K-8 school applications for the Jewish day schools. I've sharing serious subconscious space with the issue, going on dream-tours of schools, sitting over pages of unhappy looking numbers.

I want it to all be over. And yet, I'm not ready.

In this post, I mentioned that I went to a day school Q&A, at which three of the six? local Jewish day schools were present. The ranking went like this: the Reform school, the Conservative school, the pluralist school. Missing were the Orthodox school and two of the Lubavich, or ultra-Orthodox schools. I'd hoped to talk to the Ortho and pluralist schools, our two top choices, with the Conservative place a back-up in case of major spousal deadlocking. Phooey. And, by the way, not so very much the Q and A - more the schools' directors of admissions talking about how wonderful the school is and why everybody should give their kids a Jewish education, and the parents talking about how much they love the schools. Blah blah blah.

finally, I raised my hand, and waved my sheaf of papers. I sort of took the Q&A part literally, I said somewhat sheepishly. And then took over the meeting while the other parents sat in silence.

The results were rather fun, a sort of duel between the spin doctors, but here's what I don't understand:

how can you have no questions? These institutions will wield an extraordinary influence on your child's attitude towards learning, his moral sense, his social interactions.

why do these directors of admin think that a slick line and a quick tour is enough? Even if I had the most ordinary child in the world (anyone out there with one of those? somewhere? no, didn't think so), this would be like buying the first car the car salesman shows you. Directors of admissions are selling a product, and they should be viewed as such.

And alarming to me is the influence that rumor holds here. So and so pulled their kid out, is the school going down hill? So and so switched back, and did you hear that they are losing enrollment? Yes, they say they are happy, but did you notice in shul (synagogue) that their kids aren't singing along? Sigh.

My plan was simple: visit the schools, ask a million questions. Then, sit in classrooms for most of a day, watching various teachers at work. Finally, meet with the director of the Eldest's preschool to discuss his learning style and what environment will best support him.

Here's how I've been foiled:

stage one: visit schools, ask a million questions.
After the tour, there is a typical fifteen minute period of time. This allows max, four questions (none of which are answered without speechification). Walk away muttering about content versus seizing the opportunity to hold forth.

stage two: sit in classrooms.
One school calmly accepted this idea. Another called me over and over, passing me from High Personage to High Personage, trying to figure out how to accomodate me, and whatever was wrong with me that I would attempt such a thing.

• Am I overly attached to my child, and will have separation issues? no.
• Am I trying to pre-select my son's teachers? no.
• Am I worried about food allergy? yes, but that's no reason to observe a classroom.
• Am I a wierd, possibly pedophilic person? Good grief, people. Wanna see my CORI clearance?
• Am I going to be critiquing the teachers, making them nervous? of course I'm going to be evaluating the teachers! That's the whole point. But not out loud...

Finally, school # 2 invited me to come, and escorted me nervously from room to room. I got maybe 5-10 minutes per room, then the requisite four questions. I was left with the following gem of advice: if my family truly wants a (religious style X) education for our child/ren, we'll choose that school. It should be simple as that.

Ah. So it comes down to a question of religious identity, does it? School #2 has been losing enrollment over exactly that attitude, as the liberal Orthodox, smelling pedagogical blood in the water, take their kids over to the pluralist school. And so sinks a once successful school, even with a whopping 10 million dollar grant.

If only school #2 had been impressive in snapshot format. But it wasn't. Too many indifferent teachers, too many classrooms with glossy posters instead of the kids' work. And when the kids' stuff was hung up, it was way too uniform.

And the biggest strike? teachers mixing interpretive narrative (midrash) with the biblical text, and making no distinction. Never mind that while I was in the classroom, boys were called on twice as often as girls. Never mind that 'wiggly kid' to the principal means 'ADHD/ADD,' or that when asked what their goals are, the administration showed nothing beyong 'Keeping Up With the Kerrys.' Their communication skills lag, yes, but above all this is a school that is purporting to teach Orthodox Judaism, and they are being sloppy about it. Phaugh.

Author's note: yes, this is a minor point, mixing text and interpretation, but it rings a specific alarm bell. A school that allows confusing of pshat (straight up text) and drash (intrepretive narrative/text) may also mix minhag (custom) with halacha (law), or fail to give the range of practice on a single law, giving only one variant, as if it were Law, rather than practice of law. I find this to be intellectually dishonest, and actually discouraging to the student who might otherwise be taught that the Talmud's dialectic is still on-going, and that s/he could join in or observe the conversation in process.

Really, it comes down to the kind of religious mind you want to train: mimetic or active choice and study. My experience is that mimetic religion is far too dependant on environment (a community of like practicing individuals, friends and family, easy access to things like kosher food, etc) and falls apart more easily than active choice when, say, a kid leaves the Orthodox bubble to go to a secular college. Or mimetic religion is the kind that is easily swayed to the right or left by charisma (anyone remember the kids who seriously frummed out, becoming super-right during their year in Israel? and where are they now?). Seems a risky foundation to be building, if the goal is a child who grows into a thoughtful, religiously invested adult.

Oh, yes, and that keeping me out of the classroom thing? Way to inspire trust, people. Jeez.

And yet I wish it worked. I went into this knowing that #2 would make us happy, religiously, but with vague alarm bells ringing. I pursued #2, hoping to find some glaring flaw, some awful evidence that would show it clearly as Bad For The Child. I saw mediocrity, poor communication, lack of innovation and awareness. But no Great Educational Evil, unless that evil is expecting middle of the road thoughts and work from children. And not listening to them.

(Actually, I think Dante was remiss in not having a circle just for people who do not listen to children, and teach children to talk to them. Corruption, perhaps, but not listening to earnest young spirits? Burn, baby, burn.)

I waited for the heavenly voice to decree that yes, for my son I am absolved, I do not need to place religious training higher than shaping a thinking, questioning brain. Or maybe that with this sea of money, wonderful transformative things will happen to school #2. Possibly next week.

The hell with the heavenly voice. This is the right thing, my bones tell me, my brain tells me. On Friday, the Man threw his hands up and stalked off, muttering. He knows enough, he says.

And yet, I can't just start filling out applications. Because I have a process, damnit, and I don't yet know what stage three will show. Okay, so maybe I do, but see earlier grouchy comment re:process, cross-referencing with hope regarding heavenly voices.

a small, irritable voice in my brain is telling me that this obsession with gathering every relevant scrap of information is part of the reason I haven't finished that chapter in my dissertation. I hate when those wee voices are right, therefore I shall ignore it.

Ah, the hell with it all. The new Sharon Shinn book is here, courtesy of half.com, and I'm going to dive into it and let this all sit.