Cindy

Droog

Read Cindy's bio and previous columns

November 24, 2008

My Son Has No Class, And I’m OK With That

There is clearly something wrong with me. My oldest son is two-and-a-half, and I’ve yet to sign him up for one single class.

Mommy and Me Yoga? It starts at 5 p.m. – totally inconvenient. Swimming? Great concept, but I hate pools. He’s never been to somersaulting, soccer or Spanish class.

I wouldn’t even have a Momplex (my word for Mommy Complex) about this if not for the fact that I seem to be the only mom in my circle with the philosophy that he’s too young for this stuff.

If he did go to swimming lessons on a Tuesday night, how would we have time for the important things? Like splashing in the puddles in our driveway? Cooking dinner (he likes to smash the Saltines for the casserole)? Discussing what all of the tools in the toolbox do? And the difference of posed versus action photography! (He really likes to know why sometimes I ask him to smile, and other times, the flash goes off in the middle of him flying his helicopter across the room.)

And we’d also miss “groovy time,” our nightly half-hour of singing and dancing. Unacceptable!

He doesn’t go to any classes, and sometimes I do feel guilty about that. How will he do in school? Am I lazy? Did his baby brother come along so soon that he wasn’t given a chance to seek his two-year-old passion? Am I selfish, wanting to keep both boys home with me after I get home from work, rather than rushing them to the fitness center and back?

I suppose I should give one of these classes a chance to usurp puddle-jumping as our preferred form of quality time together, but I’m not ready. And I just don’t know how to choose. Is he more of a Tumbling Tadpole (which frankly, makes no sense!), or is he a Tot-to-Trot, ready for a mini-people’s aerobics class?

Perhaps my biggest fear is that he’ll turn out like me in class. Given monikers like “clown” and “disruptive” by many of my teachers, I still have a tendency today – in corporate training seminars – to say something amusing to break the monotony. To draw pictures of the woman across the room who’s nodding her head and volunteering a lame answer from her life in the purchasing department for every question.

I loved learning. I just didn’t love doing it while sitting at a desk. Or copying down every word on the blackboard. (I did do the copying. But only because if I didn’t, I’d have died of boredom.)

Instead, I found myself drawing pictures of Mr. Peatch, the math teacher, ripe and falling out of a tree. Like real peaches. That one got me sent to the principal’s office. I wrote lots of letters to friends, often including rough versions of hangman or crossword puzzles. Across: Number Nine. This boy likes you but is kind of gross. Of course, Kelly – who I wrote the puzzle for – knew I was referring to Patrick Smith. 

I did like journalism class, because we put together a real school paper every day. And art class. But I’ve yet to find “Investigative Reporting for Three-Year-Olds” or a kids’ painting class that’s anything short of mass mayhem. 

I suppose I should get over my fears – that I should finally give my son some class. He might be good at it. He might not be like me at all. And then, I could show my face at my women’s book club again.

Or maybe I’ll just skip that in favor of groovy time, too.  

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

Click here to talk to our writers and editors about this column and others in our discussion forum.

To e-mail feedback about this column, click here. If you enjoy this writer's work, please contact your local newspapers editors and ask them to carry it.

This is Column # CD114. Request permission to publish here.