About 70,000 Colorado kids are starting kindergarten this school year.
One of them is mine.
Ike is 5, our youngest. He has army-green eyes, a mother lode of freckles and a new haircut that he says makes him look like a dude. He gave permission to write about him on the condition that I mention the haircut.
“Oh, and the block city — say the thing about the city I get to build out of blocks in kindergarten,” he said, backseat columnizing on our way to school.
Getting our little guy this far was itself an accomplishment. He had been warning all summer that he’d be taking a pass on primary education and visiting his old preschool every morning, then hanging out at Pablo’s, his favorite coffee place, every afternoon until he’s old enough to drive.
What persuaded him finally to give kindergarten a shot was the promise of a hot lunch and the chance to see a girl named Charlotte.
I drilled him on his kindergarten survival skills.
What, I asked over dinner Tuesday, should you do if you have a question?
“Raise your hand,” he answered.
What if you’re thirsty?
“Get your water bottle.”
And if you have to go to the bathroom?
“Wash your hands. Duh.”
Fair enough.
Ike was the first to get dressed, fed and sun-screened Wednesday when he nudged his brother, dad and me to hurry up. I noticed he’d put on sneakers that Velcro rather than tie. Wise choice. Kindergarten is tough enough without having to mess with laces.
The shoes reminded me of the day three years ago this week that Ike started preschool. We were taking pictures on our front porch when he tipped over from the weight of his green frog backpack. He went to school anyway, uncomplaining about the 50-something splinters in his hands.
So it came as no surprise that Ike wiped out in the parking lot chasing his big brother toward the school Wednesday. He got up, brushed off his clothes and picked up the yogurt stick that had fallen out of his backpack (the same frog, also known as “Ribbit.”)
“I’m feeling strong, ma. Look at my muscles,” he told me, puffing up his chest as we entered the building.
We walked to his cubby, where he hung up his Ribbit, then headed into his classroom. I tried wiping the Cream of Wheat off his face. My husband tried shooting a photo with his new teacher.
“None of that,” Ike told us. “Love you. Bye.”
And that was it.
We took our cue and exited. We parents stood in the hallway cursing the architect who designed the door without a window to peek through. We resorted to a window around the corner with a view of the courtyard that the classroom faces. Through it, we could barely make out which child was our own.
I stood there spying on the back of Ike’s head thinking how psyched he must be sitting on that rug, cross-legged and ready for circle time. I cried, of course, when I saw him raise his hand.
My husband prodded me out the front door where moms and dads had gathered for a tradition called “Kleenex and Coffee.” We lingered and blew our noses collectively. Our babies are no longer babies, we reminded each other. This kid thing goes crazy fast.
Susan Greene writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
