I'm so happy now that the boys are in Pre-k. And it's not just because the gracious state of Georgia pays for it. After almost three months in summer camp where the ages ranged from 4 to 8, the boys are finally in an age appropriate class. Now you wouldn't think that 4 to 8 would be such a big age range, but it's almost like the difference between a high school football jock and the clarinet player in the school band. They have nothing in common. And unfortunately, my boys felt it almost instantly. What's worse, is I put them there.
They were the youngest in the class and I knew that going in. But I had a decision to make and because of their age (between preschool and Pre-K), it was either have them be the oldest in their class or the youngest. For some reason, I though "youngest" would be better. they could learn something from the older kids, blah, blah, blah. Plus they LOVE big kids. Big E literally follows bigger kids around like a lost puppy dog. Mimicking their every move and coming home talking just like them. (on a more obvious level, that's not always a good thing). But to make them the oldest in their class, I just wasn't sure that was right either. Some of those kids were not fully potty trained and I couldn't risk them reverting back to their old ways, because I knew Peanut would jump at the chance! So I ultimately decided older class is better class.
That was the choice I made and I knew it was the wrong one by week two. I have always made myself a wallflower beside the door when I picked them up from school in hopes that I could see how they interacted when mama wasn't around. By the second week of summer camp, I was heartbroken. There they were, in a lonely corner of the room, just the two of them together with no other friends around. They would sit there quietly and read a book together or simply talk to each other. I was sad because they weren't making friends. And I totally got why. When you're seven or eight, why in the world would you allow yourself to be caught playing with a four year old? Four year olds are babies. And hence, my boys were outcasts.
Of course, not all the kids in the class were seven or eight, most were six. But my boys were four. And although there were two other four year olds in the class, those two only attended three days a week. I tried to have them moved down to the younger class hoping that they would fit in a little better, but by that time, the class was full. So we stuck it out for two more months. I would like to say that things got amazingly better, but that was not the case. Things got better, that's all. They made friends with maybe two other kids the whole summer. They cried when we dropped them off and they were angry when we picked them up (for not picking them up earlier.) But we pushed through and before we knew it, it was time for Pre-K open house.
So now they are in a class full of four year old super heros and princesses and they couldn't be happier. I literally get pushed out the door these days. And I'm totally ok with that.
Sometimes we make decisions that we truly feel in our hearts are the right ones and sometimes those choices fail us. I know that I have a lifetime of failed choices ahead of me. I just hope that my kids will forgive me. And I hope that I learn from these poor decisions and not sentence my kids to a lifetime of being the outcasts. Lord help them.
41 of 365: My little big man.....
Good Night All!
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