Back in the late ‘60s when I went to preschool, preschool was a sweet little two or three hour break for Mom. We sang songs. We colored in books. We ate animal crackers and drank juice. Maybe we had a little nap. Then our moms, fresh from the hairdresser or their afternoon martinis, picked us up and took us home.
But sometime in the last 15 or 20 years, preschool got serious. Educated, upscale parents began viewing preschool as the first in many steps toward entrée to the Ivy Leagues, and as such, began making preschool admission an elaborate game of one-upmanship.
There are preschools in Manhattan and San Francisco that cost upward of $10,000 a year and have waiting lists parents scramble to get their names on before their children are even conceived. There are complicated applications, complete with mandatory letters of recommendation and entrance interviews for you and your child. How a child of three can come to have references is something I’ve always scratched my head over. Presuming grandparents are disqualified from writing these letters, who becomes the best person to opine on the tot’s character, experience, and exceptional qualities? And how does one write a letter of recommendation for a preschool child?
“Young master Skylar is an exuberant lad, with boundless energy and curiosity about the world around him. His concern for the environment has informed his vast collection of dinosaurs, suggesting a future interest in fossil fuels. He loves fruit and pasta products, as well as the outdoors. He is a high-achieving young man who seems to be able to function on a minimum of sleep.”
And an interview. I love that. Like putting your typical three-year-old into a room with a stranger will accomplish anything productive at all except for maybe discovering new ways to hurl vomit. True, there is a sub-genre of preschooler that will embrace this opportunity to impress preschool administrators with their bravado and wit (and come to think of it, a preschool made up of this kind of kid really is educating the next generation of investment bankers and corporate lawyers) but your kid, and mine, are unlikely to make the cut.
We in the provinces used to laugh at this sort of elite excessiveness, until it became the norm. I remember having to do exhaustive legwork and research to find a preschool that did NOT offer pre-reading, French or tennis. I wanted my three year olds to play in the sandbox for three hours, have a little juice, a few goldfish crackers, some circle time, then nap. After that grueling half day, I wanted more sandbox. Maybe a little climbing structure action. Apparently people think that’s odd these days. Apparently the competition to succeed in this country now begins at three.
Fortunately, there are still lots of parents who believe the experts when they say that the way preschoolers learn best is through play. And free play in a stimulating environment is better than any kind of structured classroom experience. Structure is important to this age-group, of course. The 3-4-year-old set want to know what happens first, second, then third, and so on. But that’s no reason to forgo the circle time followed by mudpie factory for the worksheets and lectures.
At the end of the day, the best preschools remains what they’ve always been -- a happy, safe place for your child… and three precious hours of tantrum and question-free bliss for mom. Good luck, Ladies.
© 2002, Julie Tilsner
from Attack of the Toddlers: Further Adventures on Planet Parenthood, Contemporary Books, a division of The McGraw-Hill Companies, 2002