There have been days when Beth has been quite a challenge, but you could not say that about the last week. Things have been almost effortless, which does not bode well for next week.

Things with Beth have not been easy lately. Beth has been spending time with the school administration all too often, and I’m beginning to get a little worried. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do about it, but I’m hoping that some of the folks that we’ve arranged to speak to in the near future will have some good advice.

You hope that you are doing a good job raising your child, and then they behave below other people’s expectations. Perhaps some of it is normal; after all, no one is perfect (neither parents nor children nor their teachers). For a long time I took it all in stride, or as best I could. Lately though, I feel as if we’ve begun to slip down the slope towards failure. Surely it is not so final as that, but it’s sometimes hard to remember.

We’re sitting here in the family room; I’m typing this entry, jazz playing on the stereo, the lights off, the drapes closed, and my supposedly sick daughter has risen and begun to spin wildly on the desk chair not three feet from my exposed knee. She gets up suddenly, the dark room undoubtably still spinning in her head, and she asks, “where are we daddy?” That’s a good question Beth.

Unfortunately, our trip conflicts with school. After a prolonged battle concerning whether it was wise to have Beth out of school for so long, we’re going anyway. I’ll just say that I lost. It’s not because I don’t want to go. I’m dying to go. I’m just worried about the precedent this sets. I want Beth to know that school is our top priority. So what do we do two months into her first year of school? We pull her out of school for almost a week for a trip to New England. I feel like a terrible father.

I am happy to report that Beth seems to be doing quite well. We haven’t had an “angry gram” in two weeks. Beth has had nothing but good things to say about school since she started. She has even gotten homework, which she has jumped into with enthusiasm and diligence (the lone exception being when we tried to get her to finish up an assignment at the Olive Garden, just before our meal was served – I have no idea what we were thinking). I haven’t spoken to her teacher since our last ominous but chance meeting, but I’m glad to take what I can get.

Something rare has just occurred. I’m recounting this event having just lived through it moments before. Thrilling, isn’t it? I’m sitting here in my doctor’s office, making sure the latest allergy shot won’t kill me, and who gets up to have their shots checked? It was Mrs. Weeks, Beth’s kindergarten teacher (and one time teacher of the middle child in my first family). We graciously engaged in the kind of small talk that two people that hardly know each other engage in. Without any subtle transitions, I dive into the issue which comes immediately to mind, “so how is Beth doing?” She answered, “well, Beth is Beth.” Yeah, I know. She adds, “Beth can be a challenge.” “Sorry” I answer. Sensing that she is digging herself a hole, she decides to dig it deeper, “It’s o.k., so long as I don’t have any other challenges.” I think to myself, “is this supposed to make me feel better?” Sensing that she has dug even deeper, she finishes the conversation: “she is a very bright child though.”

Have you ever had a conversation with someone and come out of it with no idea where you stand?

On the bright side, Beth has now received happy grams on three consecutive days. If nothing else, things are improving.

Well, I’m home now and Beth has just announced that she has let loose with “a great big poopy.”

Beth was very proud to deliver her very first happy-gram from kindergarten. We were happy to shower her with praise. I wanted to be a little careful to temper my praise: I don’t want this time to be more enthusiastic than future occurrences when the novelty wears off. I want to pace myself. We were not so happy when Beth delivered upon us her first “angry-gram.” This was a name I gave it while trying to explain to Beth what is was, and this was a term that Beth could wrap her mind around. The language of the “angry-gram” was quite serious sounding. “If this behavior continues, it could disrupt the learning process for your child as well as the other children in the class. Please speak to your child about this problem to help us correct the problem.” Wow! I was really set back that day. Visions of alternative schools for troubled kids flashed through my mind. “Can a child with a diploma from an alternative high school get into a good college? Will this go on her ‘permanent record?’ ” All of these questions and more floated through my troubled mind. So I did what any rational parent would do when presented with such a situation, I grumbled to my coworkers. When that didn’t make me feel better, I spoke to Beth’s teacher. She reassured us that now was not the time to find a good criminal defense attorney. She just wanted us to know that things were not at their optimum in the classroom, and that this was part of the learning process that all kids were expected to go through in kindergarten – learning what is appropriate behavior in the classroom. She said that most of the kids have to learn the hard way. I’m sitting there thinking, yeah that’s about right; if anyone is going to have to learn sitting quiet through class time the hard way it’s Beth. Don’t laugh Lisa, your time may be coming.

Beth starts kindergarten today (Wednesday). On Tuesday we went to orientation with her, and a funny thing happened. All this week Beth has been a little unsure of the whole kindergarten thing. On Monday, her last regular day in her pre-k class, she was sent in with the “school age” class, since she would be one of them in 48 hours anyway. When I picked her up, she was a little traumatized by the experience. ” “Why can’t I stay in Ms. Cindy’s class daddy?” What do I say? Then, on the day of orientation, we are talking to one of the secretaries in the school office, and the individual addresses Beth, “so, how do you feel about starting kindergarten Beth?” “I’m scared”, she replied in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. So we’re sitting in the cafeteria on Tuesday with all of the other parents and kids and the principle announces that the teachers will be calling out their student’s names, and the kids are supposed to walk to the front so they can go see the classrooms with their new class. This is all supposed to happen sans parents. Sensing Beth’s unease earlier that day and the previous week, I was prepared for a look of betrayal in Beth’s eyes when the time came for her to walk off without us. Then it happened, they called her name. Cheryl turned around and said to Beth, “that’s it, it’s your turn to go up.” Without hesitation, Beth popped up and confidently trotted up to the front of the cafeteria and off to her class in the other room. I had mixed emotions. On the one hand I was glad that she was not too scared. On the other hand, it was almost a disappointment to not be needed. Beth is all of five years old, so there will be plenty of opportunities to be needed. But, the first crack in the wall of her dependence has appeared, and they only get bigger. Of course, our goal as parents is to raise her to be an independent, happy, wise, and caring person. Today I got my first glimpse of what that will really mean. It’s one thing to know it, it’s another to live it. It should be an interesting ride.

Yes, it is almost time. On August 7, Beth will start Kindergarten. Just as we look to throw ourselves on the mercy of the public school system, we are served with reminders of what it was like when Beth was a mere baby. Cheryl’s ever enlarging profile brings me back to those days almost as often as I look at her.

On Thursday I had the opportunity to pick up Beth early. I was leaving work at 2:30, thanks to a long day in court on Wednesday. Customarily, when I pick up Beth early it means that we are going to do something other than just go home. So when we got to the parking lot outside Beth’s school I asked the question, “what do you want to do now Beth?” “I want to go to the park daddy.” I had driven through rain to get to the school, and I hadn’t driven far, so I knew this idea would not work out. I explained to Beth why we could not go to a park, and asked Beth if there was something indoors that she would like to do. “Do we have to go indoors at home daddy?” I answered, “we only have to go indoors at home if we go home.” “Can we go indoors somewhere else?” “Yes”, I answered. Beth considered her options for about as long as it took her to inhale between sentences. “I want to go see your work daddy.” We were off to see my office. Before we were even half way there, the skies opened and the rain fell. Beth was distressed that another opportunity to wear her new raincoat would be missed (it was hanging safely in the coat closet at home). She was somewhat distracted by the opportunity to use daddy’s big umbrella. I have to offer some explanation here. Daddy’s umbrella is not really that big. It’s one of those collapsable, compact folding umbrellas that can fit in a backpack or briefcase. However, compared to Beth’s Barbie umbrella, I guess you could say it was big – all things being relative. Luckily for me, the rain slowed down just as we were pulling into the parking lot, so I didn’t get too wet walking at arm’s length from Beth as she happily bounced underneath daddy’s umbrella. Visions of umbrella parts making shish-ka-bob of bodily parts kept me a safe distance, if somewhat wet, from my overjoyed and adorable daughter. We went inside, made the rounds, and made a brief stop over in my office to get a lay of the land. On the way out, we stopped by my boss’ office, and it was here that Beth really let loose. My boss wanted to remind me of a couple things before I left, but Beth, being the assertive child that she is, interrupted by announcing, “o.k., you can talk but talk fast because it’s time for us to go!” For a fraction of a second I was mortified. Then my boss erupts in laughter. It turned out that a good time was had by all.