It lived up to its name

I've written about the Pittsburgh Zoo and PPG Aquarium before on this blog. And I've been there many times since my son was born. We even sprang for a membership last year, which we thoroughly enjoyed. However, I've been somewhat spoiled in my zoo visitations, because I've always been able to take advantage of weekday mornings and off-season lulls. Our family's zoo escapades were made with crowd avoidance in mind, with daytime temperatures in mind, and we've always steered clear of May visits, period. Why? Field trips, that's why.

Except yesterday, I was the field trip. I went to the zoo with my son's kindergarten class. Some other insane mothers also chaperoned (one of them coming straight from a night shift—no sleep!!!) and we met the buses in the parking lot. We'd already received a list of the kids for whom we'd be responsible, and we checked names, counted heads, double-checked lunches, and set off through the zoo. We had to meet back at the entrance in under four hours, and there was much to see.

A couple of my little cuties immediately decided they wanted to stop at one of several shops; they seemed to be convinced that I'd be ponying up for everyone to purchase an overpriced item from China. Sorry, kids, not happening. I steered them clear of the first store and we made our way toward the leopard and tigers. It began to dawn on me, then, just how many people were visiting the zoo that day. Hordes of kids and a handful of adults, most in a series of matching t-shirts, were crushed up against all the fences surrounding the tiger area. People were standing several folks deep in places. It was a bit unnerving.

I tried to keep an eye on my five children, one of whom was my own; this was not an easy task in such a slew of small bodies. I'd have them in sight, and then one would be gone, then two... Sigh. When I finally was able to extricate all five of them from the mass, I called an emergency meeting. We needed a team name, I said. And some rules.

One child wanted to be the Cats, another wanted to be Orange Cubs, so we combined and became the Orange Cats* for the day. Also, I explained, there are tons of people here and I need to be able to easily see you all, at all times. That meant, I stressed, no one more than 10 feet away at a time. Perhaps I should have forced hand-holding, but honestly, it was hard to do—the day was heating up, people were sweaty, slippery little hands kept sliding away anyway, boys outnumbered girls... and I was not their teacher. They just weren't as willing to do that for me. I guess I can't blame them.

So, the Orange Cats set out once again, up the hill toward the savannas of Africa. It seemed that every display caused a slight uproar of sorts: the elephant house was too smelly, the fish in the pond were yucky, the orangutan was vigorously scratching an inappropriate area, the gorilla had some sort of visible residue on his posterior... Through it all, I kept losing my kids in the crowds, then finding them again. I can tell you in precise detail what each one of them had one because I got so good at locating the clothing. Happily, calling to the Orange Cats yielded better results than yelling out their names.

At some point, after much repetition of the phrase, "I'm hungry, I want lunch," I noticed that indeed, our bag lunches were looking worse for travel. I gave in at 11:30, and we found a large shady rock outside the aquarium and ate our sandwiches. Several people needed help opening packages, but at last we were all munching and for a moment, life was calm. We hit the head, and got drinks of water.

Refueled, we plunged into the aquarium (the building that houses the tanks, not the tank itself) and the madness resumed. Bigger crowds than ever shuffled through the dark halls, and the noise was deafening. Even if you could see your charge a few feet away, they likely couldn't hear you calling because of the throng of voices all around. We finally got out of there, passing through one of the cute zoo shops so the kids could see I was, in fact, not springing for toys for all. Once they comprehended this sad truth, they made their way outside again and we headed downhill to the polar bear exhibit. Outside the big bears' window, one of my kids announced that he was bleeding. Indeed, he was: lovely red droplets stood out on his shin. Did I have a tissue? Neosporin? Of course not. I'm the rebel mother who won't even join PTO, remember? Naturally I did not have the "good mom" tools of the trade. We found another restroom, I appointed the biggest kid as stand-in leader, and I rushed into the ladies' room to get a paper towel and soap. No towels! We're green!!! Blow your hands dry! So I had to stem the flow with toilet paper.

The boy survived and we went on. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.

Kids Kingdom is a part of the zoo specifically designed for kids. It has play areas, animals you can pet, crazy rope bridges and climbing apparatuses. The Kingdom also has several enclosed slides at its entrance. I hate enclosed areas and have never attempted to partake in these slides, but I know that even on less crowded days, the slides are popular. On this day, they were absolutely mobbed. The children in my little group had been talking about them and couldn't wait to get there; also, I'd happily noticed that my gang was getting a bit more tired and slowing down. I made them all promise to come right back to me and not leave the slide area. (Stupid, I know—I should have handcuffed them all to me and run in the other direction.) Anyway, the Orange Cats had been listening pretty well and staying together. I found an obvious place to stand and waited for them to return to me.

Minutes passed. The two little girls showed up at the bottom of one slide, and I quickly corralled them. One time down was enough. My son showed up. And the other two remained missing.

More minutes passed. It felt like at least ten. Maybe 7 or 8 minutes? I kept checking my watch. They were gone. I had the other three sit in front of me and we all scanned the crowd. I was praying they'd show up. Where were they? What could have happened? Would they have gone on to the next area without me? After we'd all agreed to stay here until we were together again? I scrunched around in my purse, found my wallet, pulled out the number of the teacher... I had to talk to her and find out the procedure for lost kids... There was another little lost kid just behind us, talking to a zoo worker and another adult, and the stricken look on the boy's face made me want to cry. Oh, why did this happen?! I trusted them to come back to me!

My mind raced ahead, to the moment of confrontation with the parents of the boys; would they shout at me? Call me irresponsible? What if someone kidnapped the kids? What if they were found by another teacher or parent, thus informing the world how ineffectual a chaperone I truly was? Would I be ostrasized from future trips? I was just dialing the teacher's cell phone when one of my waiting three hollered out to the missing boys. There they both were, coming away from the end of the biggest, tallest tube slide.

Oh, my Lord, I was so relieved. The two latecomers explained that the line for the big slide had been incredibly long. We hadn't been able to see that, because the whole Kingdom is cleverly designed in a stand of tall trees, most of which had foliage now. It's a great set-up for shade, a beautiful view when you're strolling along the elevated walkways above the whole place... but when you're missing two children? It is decidedly not pretty.

Well, we held hands for awhile after that. Then, after I'd finished having a heart attack, we made our way toward the final building, first stopping at another playground with—yep, you guessed it—more of the awful, horrible, infuriating tubes where kids can climb and hide. And one of my disappearing boys did his best trick again, while my other four students and I looked in vain at every tube opening. When he did finally emerge at the top of yet another slide, I waited at the bottom to nab him. Guess what? The little twit saw me and turned around to exit another way. Suffice it to say that he got to me my favorite little buddy and hand-holder for the remainder of the day, which was thankfully wrapping up. I might have sprained a couple of his fingers when he tried to re-enter tubeland, but at that point I figured it was worth the risk; missing the bus back to school wasn't much better than losing a kid or two.

We made it back in time, and found the sidewalk littered with weary 6-year-olds. The buses came, the kids climbed on, and I left with sore feet, salty brow, and a firm decision that I would not willingly participate in this particular event again. And then I thought, What if I don't go and there aren't enough adults? What if everyone has to keep an eye on 8 or 10 kids instead of 5, all because of me?

Well, I won't think about that now. I'll just keep researching hair colors, so as to best hide the additional grey hairs that I am certain to find after yesterday's adventure. I came away not just with more greys, but also with even more respect for people who can work with large groups of small kids. God bless 'em. Every one.

And for the love of pete, don't go to the zoo in May. Or early June. Or on holidays. Unless what I've just described sounds like a grand time to you, that is.

*I've changed our team name for privacy reasons. Because I'm anal like that.

Reading, writing, and…retention

It’s the end of the school year, and even for preschoolers, that means special events, performances, and more parental involvement. Recently, I found myself at my son’s school, helping to prepare for a special reading-focused day of fun, games, and—of course—books. I was teamed with a few other moms who’d agreed to come in and help prepare for reading day. One other woman’s boy was almost the same age as Marcus, and we two found ourselves paired up, cutting hundreds of strips of crepe paper to the same length. (Doorway and window streamers, of course.)

There we labored over a stubby preschool-height table, trimming strip after strip after strip, and searching for something to chat about. We ended up talking about next year. Both our boys will return to this school for another year of preschool, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. And after that? This kind lady informed me that she and her husband had already pretty much decided that their child would go into a pre-kindergarten class instead of progressing to kindergarten.

Why? I asked. Well, she explained, they’d done that with their daughter, and she was in kindergarten now and was doing very well. People had thought they were crazy, the teachers had not recommended holding the girl back, she was well within the age limits required for kindergarten admission, they probably could have sent her, but kids learn so much so soon these days… They wanted their kids to have the advantage. “But it’s not for sports or anything like that!” she smiled. I commented that I would wait until Marcus was closer to the mark before we made that call, and internally, I was shaking my head vigorously and deciding without hesitation that we would not take such a step unless strongly encouraged to do so by my son’s teachers—and maybe not even then.

What are we doing to our kids? I think of children a century ago, how it wasn’t unusual for many kids to stop attending school after 8th grade if not sooner. I believe it was common for many of the boys to be immediately apprenticed with their future employer. Probably plenty of them were being “men” by fairly young ages. I’d venture to guess that more than a few were breadwinners, husbands, and fathers well before age 20, willingly and by choice. And the girls? I’d guess that their paths were similarly responsible if single—working in homes, businesses, schools, factories—and if married, they were likely rearing their own families.

Nowadays, we delay the maturation of our children, supposedly for their benefit. Retaining a child in school back may be a wise move for some parents, when most people who know the child agree that this is for the best. But what about holding a kid back just because he doesn’t like to sit still? What about holding him back to ensure he’s not the smallest or youngest kid in his class? And what of those parents who do hold back children for sport-competition reasons? We know they’re out there. The end result is a lot of older, bigger kids in schools, advancing ages in graduates (high school and college), and increasingly late starts in real life.

When is a kid no longer a kid? Several years of trade school, college, maybe grad school, travel and volunteer opportunities, etc. allow a kid to remain fundamentally a kid for far too many years. When the president (in name, at least) starts suggesting work opportunities for young adults—and I believe he labeled young adults as up to age 24—that makes me feel a bit edgy. 24 is a young adult? I thought young adults were pre-teens and young teenagers. That’s what the literary market calls them, and the movie industry…

I realize that people live longer now. I am fully aware that the job market is quite different from what it was in the industrial age. I know that some fields of study require many years of education. All of that is inarguable, and none of it is inherently bad. But. Does that mean we should choose to restrain our children so they are better fit to handle the coming responsibilities? It seems to me that our reduced expectations are being met—as they always are. Lower the bar and watch the standards fall. Raise the age of adulthood, and watch the kids cling to childhood. The fact that most middle- and upper-class children in America are getting everything they want, too soon and with very little effort, isn’t helping encourage adulthood, either.

So, that’s what I’ve been pondering since I talked to that other mom. I was the 3rd youngest kid in my class, as far as I know. Did that ruin my life? Cause me to fall behind? Make me feel inferior? No. I had a crappy year of kindergarten, and that was pretty much it. We all dealt with the challenges of each grade level, and for the most part we met them. As far as the kids who didn’t meet them, guess what: they likely wouldn’t have met them even if they’d been delayed for a year, or two for that matter. The problem wasn’t their ability, nor their maturity—it rarely is. And yes, I speak from experience: 6 years spent teaching helped clarify the real reasons that kids fail a grade.

Maybe I’m being unreasonable. Yet—since most teens spend half of their exhalant breath declaring how grown-up they are, and the vast majority of them engage in adult activities, perhaps we should stop encouraging them to remain children. And we can begin by allowing our little ones to move toward the coming educational challenges on schedule. Yes, there are exceptions; there have always been, and that is as it should be. But exceptions are called such because they are exceptions from the rule. Let’s keep it that way.