Catch the Door Before it Closes

I've been keeping pretty close tabs on things. All of those people who said that time flies have nothing on me, I'm watching it happen. And I am doing my very best to suck every bit of life out of every minute of every day because I know, and it bangs away in my head every time my mind wanders, that this is THE summer after third grade. When they look back at pictures they will say things like "oh Mary, that was the summer after third grade, when you fell out of the tree by the coffee shop" or "Kate! Look at this picture of your knees! Mom, was that the day she learned to finally ride her bike?". Yes, I am painfully aware that the door on this summer is about to close, a big loud slam that is set to happen in three days. I'm on top of it. I think.

There are things that I like better about children who are eight and not three. We do not have to assess their level of exhaustion before deciding to eat in a restaurant. Unless it's way, way past bedtime, they can swing it. We can stay up to watch fireworks, catch fireflies, and eat s'mores. They sleep in, current wake up time is between 9:30 and 10:00 (which is going to be a bear of a reversal once this summer door closes). They can pour themselves a glass of lemonade, after, of course, asking if they may. We can take a two hour car trip without an arsenal of activities; for two glorious hours they are actually somewhat happy talking to me (recent topics of conversation include: what exactly is in strawberry jam? and why is it called jam? what does it mean to sue someone and why does everyone sue McDonalds? is it because they have bad food? why don't boys have boobies? how long until the new prince will be king? and why isn't the queen's husband a king?). Distinct advantages to being eight, and I appreciate every one of them. However, eight is just a stop on the road to summers spent working and sweating and cursing the humidity for creating a droopy mess out of a once crisp linen blouse, and that I'm not ready to accept.

As much as she hates it, Mary's somewhat diminutive size means that I can still scoop her up and carry her when one of her summer battle wounds is proving too much for the last block on a long walk home. She fits quite nicely on my back, at least for one block, and I love that she still finds that space a safe spot to shrug off the responsibilities that come with her eight years. Her sister, now much too tall for me to carry, is perfectly content climbing into our bed and reading with me for hours. She brings her bear and senator and rainy Sunday mornings are the best part of my week. Because even though they are eight and much too rapidly picking up the this and that's which will lead us to the teen years, they still fit snuggly in my world, and they still like it here.

We have three days before we return to a schedule that requires an alarm clock and a strict adherence to bed times. A Monday to Friday gig that means less spontaneity, more responsibility and quite often a scramble for clean clothes. We're going to make the most of these three days, I'm watching, I see the time flying by but we are loving every bit of it. It's been a glorious summer, don't let the door hit you as it closes.

Show What You Know

My daughter was afraid to go to school today, which is consistent with her thinking at the end of second grade when she was terrified of third grade in whole. It's not her safety; she isn't being bullied nor has the onslaught of gun violence created this fear, it's testing.

In Illinois state standardized testing begins in third grade.

She's a bright child who I know will do well on the test, but that isn't the issue. It's her fear and anxiety and what drives this which concerns me.  The truth is what starts now is not just this week's testing but an immediate future of bubbles to be darkened, test booklets to be opened, and timers to be set.

The challenge is in balancing the importance of the test with my child's sanity. She is not told that school funding is tied to her performance, or that her principal and teacher are evaluated based, in part, on these scores. She's eight, she has years and years of worrisome burden in front of her; for now the world is hers to enjoy and so this test, she is told, is a tool for the teacher, to help her better understand where her students are excelling and where they might need more help. It's an assessment, which seems a far less scary word to me.

One of the teachers at school tells her children to "show what you know". We've adopted this mantra, be proud of all you can do and all that you have worked so hard to learn, and yes, do your best. But remember, you still get to come home at the end of the day, and go on vacation and play with your friends and be a wonderfully silly eight year old girl. This test won't change any of that one bit, and that's very important to know.