HOW PRESCHOOL IS LIKE LAS VEGAS
Apparently, just as in Las Vegas, what happens at school stays at school.
When I pick Cambren up from school, he does not like me to ask him what he learned that day or if anything noteworthy happened. This line of inquiry literally seems to pain him. Literally. The expression on his face, it’s as if his gall bladder has suddenly gone bad.
He’ll usually heave an exaggerated sigh and look out the window and change the subject. It’s like he’s in the witness protection program from 12:30pm to 3:30pm and if he tells me what he’s doing during that time, he’ll have to kill me. Ironically, I think he knows that not telling me anything kills me. And oh how he lords that over me in his 5-year-old power play way.
Yet I can’t stop myself from asking. I must get him to tell me something. Anything. Did you play on the playground? Did you ride on the see-saw? Did you eat your snack? Who did you sit next to? Were there other children there? Did the teacher talk about anything? Anything? Anything at all?
When I pick Cambren up from school, he does not like me to ask him what he learned that day or if anything noteworthy happened. This line of inquiry literally seems to pain him. Literally. The expression on his face, it’s as if his gall bladder has suddenly gone bad.
He’ll usually heave an exaggerated sigh and look out the window and change the subject. It’s like he’s in the witness protection program from 12:30pm to 3:30pm and if he tells me what he’s doing during that time, he’ll have to kill me. Ironically, I think he knows that not telling me anything kills me. And oh how he lords that over me in his 5-year-old power play way.
Yet I can’t stop myself from asking. I must get him to tell me something. Anything. Did you play on the playground? Did you ride on the see-saw? Did you eat your snack? Who did you sit next to? Were there other children there? Did the teacher talk about anything? Anything? Anything at all?
The other day, on the way home from school, I tried reframing the question about ten different ways to trick him into giving up some information. With skills like that I could probably get me a job as an FBI interrogator. For those many times when the FBI needs to get a 5-year-old to spill his guts.
Finally he gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Look mom, we talked more about the letter L okay?”
To which I responded.
“Oh.”
It was a riveting conversation.
To which I responded.
“Oh.”
It was a riveting conversation.
A few glimpses into where he conducts his super secret under cover work-I'm sorry I've been asked not to reveal the actual location.
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