7/22/10
School’s out! Too bad work isn’t.
Summer may be the most wrenching time of year for the working parent of the school-age child. Or it is for me anyway.
This never occurred to me when the child was in the year-round on-site environmentally correct, organic-food-serving preschool at the organic-farming company where I work. Fall, winter, spring AND summer she was cared for in a fantastic setting by warm loving staff with the same group of kids she’d been with since 10 weeks after her arrival in the United States.
We sent her to local kindergarten because it was time she got to know some local kids and we got to know some local parents. (The organic farming company is a LONG way from home, alas.) And it was great! She loved her teacher! She was friendly with every kid in the class! She learned the names of most of the kids in the six other kindergarten classes! Even her reticent mom had real live conversations with real live local moms.
To our credit, we saw summer coming as early as January and began discussing options. In-home babysitter to take her to pool and library every day? Country-club daycamp with daily swim and horseback riding lessons at exclusive private school that provides door-to-door service? (Oh, sure, that sounded great, and then I saw the price tag.)
For many good reasons, we landed at the local YMCA, which is indeed wonderful. Much of the staff also works at the before-care/after-care service the Y provides onsite at our elementary school and which our child attended two days per week (though not without complaint). Many of the kids at before-care/after-care attend the Y camp. Continuity! Every day they swim in the indoor pool. Swimming! Plus, listen to these options: Adventure camp, gymnastics, cheerleading, tennis, sports fusion, performing arts, farm camp, science explorers!
“I love gymnastics!” my child said after the first day of gymnastics camp.
On the second morning: “I wish gymnastics were over.”
And now, two weeks in, I hear this every day: “It’s a really long day. I want to stay home. I wish you’d stay home with me.”
I take her in as late as I can and sneak out of work as early as possible, but still, there are some days she spends almost 9 hours at camp. And she isn’t even 6 yet.
“I wish I could stay home with you, Mom.”
When I was growing up, my own mom worked, in the South in the 60s and 70s, which meant we had “help” (see Kathryn Stockett) and I had siblings: a big sister 13 years my senior who took me to her thrilling performing arts troupe (see 1960s) and a big brother 8 years my senior (see not happy brother looking after little sister).
After one particularly guilt-inducing dropoff and subsequent long day, I was stewing over all this, when my husband came home.
“Oh, eh,” he said and shrugged. “Summer’s almost over. It’s good for her!”
And you know, of course, he’s right.