My Son Is Starting School – Nursery School That Is

I’ll always remember when we decided to register our older son in our Jewish center’s nursery school.

My wife and I had talked about the idea for some time, and when we told the little darling he was going to nursery school like “big” children do, he was thrilled.

Two days before the school term was to start, he was sitting on our front stoop with two of his little friends, Seymour and Irwin. Seymour was five; Irwin was six.

“I’m going to nursery school – my mommy is taking me on Monday!” my little one exclaimed to his friends with glee.

Seymour, an alumnus of the nursery school fraternity, puffed out his chest and proudly exclaimed, “Yeah, yeah, that’s kid stuff. Wait’ll ya’ have to go to kindergarten – that’s real school!”

The other youngster, Irwin, a first-grader, sat back like a politician and chewed on his piece of licorice. “Yeah,” he said, “and wait’ll ya’ have to go to first grade. There they give ya’ real writing to do – with a pencil!”

My little one was all ears.

Seymour leaned back and boasted, “I even get homework in kindergarten. I had to write a whole page of letters in my notebook yesterday. And if ya’ don’t write the homework, the teacher yells at ya’. And she yells loud.”

Little Irwin started to snicker. “Ya’ call that homework? In the first grade they even make us write numbers. Yesterday I had to write a whole page of sevens – and that’s hard.”

My little one swallowed hard and looked at his friends incredulously. “Gee, how do you write a seven?”

“Oh, it’s very hard,” said Irwin.

“Please show me,” my little one begged.

Irwin grabbed a stick and scratched out a figure on the pavement. “See, like that. And it’s hard! It’s even harder to write with a pencil.”

My little one was floored. “Will I have to write a seven?”

The two old-timers began to laugh benevolently. “Not until ya’ get into first grade,” said Irwin. “In nursery school they make ya’ paint pictures. And the teacher yells at you if ya’ don’t paint good. But when she yells a lot, spill some paint on the floor and then cry. The teacher will feel bad and hug ya’.”

“Oh, yeah?” exclaimed Irwin. “My teacher didn’t.”

Wanting to sound like a man of the world, my little one said, “I draw pictures with crayons in my house.”

“Pictures with crayons, huh?” laughed Irwin. “Wait’ll they make ya’ paint with a real paintbrush. And make sure ya’ use a lot of black paint and smear a lot of red paint on the picture. That’s what the teachers like. When ya’ paint first with black paint and then mish the red paint around, they are so happy. They always walk over to see what ya’ painted. Then they say, ‘Oh, how beautiful – what is it?’”

Seymour chimed in: “And don’t ever tell them what ya’ painted. Make ‘em guess. Then they hang it up someplace and show it to everybody who walks in. It’s a snap.”

“Don’t they let you draw pictures with crayons?” my little one pleaded soulfully.

“Only if ya’ cry,” Seymour counseled. “Remember, whenever they don’t let ya’ do something, ya’ gotta start to cry – but loud! Then they let ya’ do it. I know. Remember, I graduated from nursery school a long time ago.”

“Yeah, and on Simchas Torah the teacher gives ya’ a flag with an apple on top,” said Irwin. “That’s what’s bad about first grade. They don’t give ya’ nuttin’ in first grade ‘cause they only got big kids in there like me – but in nursery school they give ya’ a flag with an apple.”

“And sometimes,” added Seymour, “they even give ya’ the flag and apple with a candle stuck on the top of the stick.”

He sighed wearily. “But I don’t think they give ya’ the candle no more – because my brother almost burned down the clothes closet one time. The teacher got mad at him for that. And even the rabbi yelled on him – and nuttin’ even got burned except Feivel Weinberg’s coat, his old one.”

“I like apples on sticks,” my little one volunteered, trying to be part of the dialogue.

“And on Chanukah, that’s when ya’ really have fun,” Irwin noted. “They light candles and sing songs.”

“They didn’t let my brother light those candles either,” Seymour said, a look of disgust spreading across his freckled face. “All because he set the wastepaper basket on fire. But it was the old broken basket. And what a fuss they made.”

My little one was bewildered by all this big-time talk and began to feel a little uneasy. “I’m gonna sit next to my Mommy when I go to school. She told me,” he said.

“They don’t let ya’,” little Seymour shouted. “They chase your mother out if she comes in. And sometimes they even hit them. I know, because my mother took me to school and she was crying when the teacher made her go home. I know.”

Little Irwin added knowingly, “Yeah, my mother too – my teacher hit her because my mother came back to get me at lunch time. She tried to smile but I could tell she was crying.”

“No teacher better not hit my mommy,” my little one said, making a fist for emphasis.

Irwin and Seymour exchanged knowing glances. “Just ya’ wait and see,” Irwin chortled.

And with that the small fry broke up their conclave and rode off to their homes for lunch, tricycles gleaming in the early afternoon sun.