|all fresh and new|
As you may remember, the Littlest went to French créche last year and before settling into the calm, quiet French stylee ways he was quite a spectacle. He got used to it though and we were both happy with his three hours/three afternoons a week.
Real school is just four days a week here and he doesn't have to go the entire day, plus with the two hour lunch break....well it'll end up being just about the same thing. The good thing is that his new school is on the same grounds as the Big Kids' so I feel happy knowing they're together.
Back to yesterday.
We woke up early, all very excited and shared a breakfast of Daddy-made waffles and Mommy-made smoothies. Everyone looked fresh and nice by the time we were out the door--new school supplies, backpacks and shoes.
And somewhere along the way, it hit me. My oldest child is in the 4th grade. And this, more than anything else, made me want to cry. I think we've never really considered how time is passing schoolwise because over here, and in Ireland too, the class years are called different things. Ma Fille is officially in what the French call, 'CM1' so sure, no problem, CM1. That's manageable.
But 4th grade? I started getting boobies in 4th grade! I had my first crush in 4th grade! And I'd already made my first real best friend by then too...the friend who I spent every weekend and rode around in the neighborhood on a golf cart with.
And then I got to thinking. And looking. And realizing that it's true.
She walked in all self-assured, greeted her new teacher and kissed us goodbye. Stunning.
And then there's the Middlest. I think I am safe in officially declaring this (drumroll please): The Year of the Middlest.
|sparkling & self-assured|
He has always been, in the way of middle children, kind of middley; a bit unsure, a bit sensitive, maybe a touch hesitant. But yesterday and today he was sparkling with confidence. I think it helps that he's already done the French school thing for one year. I think too that he's finding his footing through simple maturity and a bit of distance from his omnipresent Big Sister.
But there's a wheelbarrow full of credit that should go to the teachers. His teacher last year was fantastic. And this year he has Ma Fille's teacher from last year and she's beyond lovely. I don't know if you remember but she's the one who wrote and directed last year's Big Spectacle. And she's thought my Middlest was the cat's pjs ever since he convincing and hilariously enacted 'terrified' during practice.
Yesterday when I said hello to her and told her how glad I was that he's in her class she said something like this, 'It was my wish'. He was beaming with that same sparkle when we picked him up after school and this morning he combed his hair, 'for Madame Greenhouse'. (we think it's fun to call our teachers by their translated names) Brava Mrs Greenhouse!
But. The Littlest. Mon Mari and I walked away with him crying; fat, little baby hands covering his eyes while his teacher hugged him. On with the sunglasses to hide my own tears.
|look out people!|
Ten years of parenting, five years of school and two and half languages. (Irish included) I am proud of my resilient babies and all they've accomplished.
Now to the question of boobies and crushes for which I am decidedly unprepared.
I hope you have all had a happy and successful rentrée.