[Author’s Note #0: Yes, I’m shamefully publishing this as my November story — not because it was finished in that month, or even because it was mostly finished in that month. Rather, I’m claiming this as my November post because to skip one month would open up the possibility of skipping every month. (And yes, I still need to finish my May 2023 post. I didn’t skip it! I’m just… struggling to get things done on time.)]
[Author’s Note #1: This post has taken an embarrassingly long time to produce. It’s complicated and kinda boring — even though it pertains to quite important decisions. My previous stop-gap posts — The Art of Potty-Training and The Legend of Halloween Costume-Making were both easier (and quicker) to write — mostly because their content was not nearly so complicated.]
Back in August, my oldest son started kindergarten.
Twice.
Does that sound messy to you? Because it felt messy to me.
And so, after much delay, what follows is the long, drawn-out story of how we reached that point.
But first, a bit about my childhood.
My autistic sister is two-and-a-half years my senior, so she was already a second-grader by the time I began kindergarten. My parents had been extremely happy with the special education program offered by her [very conveniently located] school, so they made the eminently reasonable decision to enroll me in that institution, too.
It didn’t go well.
To put it simply: I was bored. I dreaded the endless routine of “learning” letters — all of which I, as an early reader, already knew. I rolled my eyes at the simple addition lessons — because I could already do simple division. I chafed under instructions to “make the rectangle into an oval by just clipping the corners” — since I already knew how to produce curves. No tasteless “clipping corners” for me.
Oh, and I also thought all my classmates were dumb — and because my socioemotional skills were still that of a [slightly-below-average] kindergartener, I generally told them the same. Not surprisingly, my boasting convinced everyone that I was smart — or, more accurately, that I was a smart… donkey.
Thus, by the end of the year, my parents had graciously decided that they wouldn’t leave me to wallow in that academic cesspool. (Kidding — mostly.)
But what to do instead? We couldn’t afford private school, and my mother was reluctant to homeschool me. (Partially due to my poor socioemotional skills.)
We had heard of another option, though: a relatively new school called “The Classical Academy”.
[Note: This was back when there was apparently just the one classical academy — so, accordingly, it could presumptuously arrogate the article, “The”. In fact, the school was so keen on being The Classical Academy that it also chose to disregard standard abbreviation conventions and instead call itself “TCA” (rather than merely “CA”). All these years later, I still can’t decide if the nonstandard abbreviation was truly pretentious… or if it was just dumb.]
There was just one problem for us: other people had heard of this new school, too — and many of them had heard of it before we had. Unfortunately for us, TCA enrolled students using a chronological waitlist: i.e. first come, first served. We were not the first to come; thus, we were not the first to be served.
As the start of first grade approached, my chances at admission looked increasingly slim — and so my mother dutifully prepared to homeschool me for the year (or more) necessary to afford me a slot.
But then, two days before the start of the school year, we received a call. Against the odds, I had gotten an offer! My parents gratefully accepted, and I embarked upon a successful career at TCA — my academic home right up until my family moved to Oklahoma.
And, while I ended up loving my tenure at Enid High, my heart never left the classical model.
Fast-forward to the conclusion of my college career, as we prepared to launch into the vast unknowns of parenthood.
Even amidst all the uncertainties, though, there was one thing I knew: if possible, I wanted my future children to attend a classical charter, as I had.
Thankfully, we were in luck: there’s just such a school within ten minutes of our house! (For the sake of this story, I’ll call it “Classical Charter”.) I was pleased with what I read of the school’s pedagogical philosophy: an emphasis on the holistic person, coupled with a respect and reverence for wisdom of the ages. Plus, I even knew (and liked) several teachers who worked there.
So, by the time Borealis was born, I was settled: he would attend Classical Charter — if, by some bizarre twist, we were still in Golden when he entered kindergarten.
[Note: I put as much — if not more — effort into researching Oklahoma schools, since that information seemed much more pertinent to my ideal future.]
As the years went by, however, it became increasingly likely that Borealis would, in fact, attend elementary school in Golden. Taylor’s secure and well-paying job — plus our cozy and affordable rental house — practically cemented us in place. At this point, it will take a dramatic move of God to dislodge us from our current location.
One thing had changed, though. As Borealis had gotten closer and closer to kindergarten, Classical Charter had become less and less accessible. The barely-known startup charter of Borealis’s infancy had become a regional magnet by his preschool years — and since the school enrolls based on a random lottery (rather than a chronological waitlist), it didn’t really matter how early *we* selected the institution. It only mattered whether the lottery selected *us*.
What to do? Well, as addressed in Dr. Borealis, Class of 2043, we considered applying for kindergarten a year early — but in the end, we determined that, despite his academic preparedness, Borealis was simply not socioemotionally ready for kindergarten. He finished his first year of pre-K still totally unable to self-advocate — or even to speak audibly around his peers. So, instead of immediately pursuing kindergarten, we enrolled Bo in another round of pre-K, but at a different school.
Our son’s subsequent transformation was astonishing. About a month into his second year of pre-K, he announced, “I thought that I couldn’t talk at school, but now I’ve realized that I can.”
That revelation proved *extremely* significant. Overnight, our choleric wallflower became a social butterfly. (He’s still pretty choleric, though.)
Instead of mutely staring at classmates, he suddenly began asserting his desires — like, “Can I play with you?” or “Do you want to be friends?”.
In a stunning about-face, Borealis’s second year of pre-K catalyzed his metamorphosis into a buoyant extrovert — one obviously prepared for the social rigors of kindergarten.
If only we knew where to send him….
Ok, let’s back up a bit — to last autumn, about a year ago.
With Bo’s final round of pre-K well underway, we started hammering out our plans for his kindergarten year. After all, Classical Charter wasn’t a sure bet, so we needed to examine all the alternatives.
We quickly eliminated one choice: our neighborhood school. I’d volunteered there in my former life as a Mines student, so I had some familiarity with the institution — enough to know that it wasn’t right for our family.
But, we had other options, too: namely, a straight-laced, traditional public school near Taylor’s work. I was extremely wary of sending my firstborn to a school that I had never even seen, let alone entered — but the institution (which I’ll call “Heritage Public”) came highly recommended by one of Taylor’s trusted colleagues, so I reluctantly assented to an application there. After all, it’s not like we had to say yes, even if we got in.
But what if that didn’t work out, either? Well, we always had a guaranteed [albeit pricey] option: a private school that I’ll call “Christian Classical”.
On a purely pedagogical level, this option felt like the best fit: the inculcation of a Christian worldview, coupled with the classical model’s reverence of inherited wisdom. When we finally toured the school, we found the students to be respectful, and bright, and not very different from those of Classical Charter — except that these students’ families could apparently afford the multi-thousand-dollar annual tuition.
“You really think it’s worth it to send Bo here?” Taylor asked as we left the tour. It was early December, but the day was sunny and mild. Aza clung to Taylor while Rhys rode in my front carrier.
I gritted my teeth. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It will all depend on Classical Charter’s lottery in February.”
“So if we get into Classical Charter, we’ll go there — and if we don’t, we’ll go here?”
I avoided Taylor’s gaze. I could barely admit it to myself — but lately, I’d been wondering whether we’d send Bo to Classical Charter, even if he did get in.
It wasn’t that I suddenly disliked the school: I still believed that Classical Charter was our best holistic option — incorporating culture, cost, academics, and proximity. However, I was mercilessly plagued with preemptive guilt: the feeling that we would be taking a priceless, free spot from someone who couldn’t afford to just go to Christian Classical instead.
But we could afford it — if only just. So, wouldn’t it be more ethical for us to stomach the cost of private school — thereby allowing a less fortunate family to attend Classical Charter, instead?
I eventually shared this reasoning with Taylor, who was [unsurprisingly] less-than-enthused about the idea.
“Uh, no. We’re not going to blow thousands of dollars to send Bo here, just for some hypothetical family out there.”
“It wouldn’t be a hypothetical family! I would call and ask if we could trade places with one of our friends — one of the ones whom we know to be applying.”
“I seriously doubt they would let you choose who to give your slot to.”
“But maybe they would! Do you think I should send a preemptive email?”
“Absolutely not. It’ll sound like you’re not actually interested in the school, at all.”
I bit my lip, because Taylor had a point. “Well…” I finally said. “I mean, let’s keep praying about it, and we’ll see what happens in the lottery. It’s supposed to be the first week of February.”
And it was: February 6th.
The date just happened to be exactly one day after Taylor and I made a life-altering decision — one that, unfortunately, comes with a considerable financial burden.
[Note: That expensive decision is largely still a secret, but it will definitely feature in a later post.]
Thus, with our financial forecast significantly altered, publicly-funded Classical Charter was once again our top choice — as of *that morning*. We still intended to pray about our decision… but we were also pretty sure that we’d accept.
That is, until I got an unexpected text that afternoon.
Borealis’s application to Classical Charter was waitlisted. Please check your email for further details.
I followed the link in my email and discovered that Borealis was, indeed, on the waitlist… at number fifty-nine. Out of a combined kindergarten enrollment of only sixty. An entire grade would have to decline admission before we’d get a chance.
I was floored. To miss the cutoff by so very much — how was it even possible?
I mean, obviously I knew that the lottery was impersonal. [Note: Except, of course, for the priority given to certain applicants: children of teachers and staff, siblings of current students, students at affiliated charter schools, etc. So, to summarize: besides all the personal elements, the lottery was totally impersonal.]
But, even believing in its impersonality, I could still hardly believe we hadn’t gotten in. Really? I’ve been donating to your school for *years*. How could you reject us?
In short: The lottery may not have been personal, but it certainly felt personal.
In a way, though, the outcome was a relief. We had landed behind everyone to whom I had considered giving our spot — so I no longer felt guilty. If, by some miracle, the waitlist reached us, then we could claim the spot with a clean conscience.
Except… there was clearly no way the waitlist would ever reach us. In the first two weeks, only one student turned down enrollment. We shifted to #58, and we stayed there for a loooooong time.
There was clearly no benefit to sitting around and waiting for the highly improbable. We needed to cut our losses, reevaluate, and select a different option for Borealis’s kindergarten year.
At that point, it was easy (if financially painful) to choose Christian Classical — mostly because it was our only remaining option. We had already declined enrollment at our neighborhood school, and we hadn’t gotten into Heritage Public, either.
Borealis had landed somewhere in the sixties on the latter school’s waitlist — and while he was now in the forties, his eventual admission was still far from certain. And, truthfully, that was fine by me, because I didn’t really want to send him there, anyway.
Thus, we paid the administrative fee to enroll our son at Christian Classical — which was now even more fiscally challenging, what with the unexpected financial burden of our secret decision. On paper, we could theoretically make everything work — but it would be tight, and it seemed unlikely that we’d be able to afford more than one year of tuition at the private institution.
As winter bloomed into spring, I became more and more nervous about our financial commitments. I prayed that God would clarify our path forward — because I was no longer convinced that we’d made the right decision.
I even began reevaluating my opinion of Heritage Public — rather pointlessly, I might add. After all, Borealis was still #25 on the school’s waitlist — but at least it was better than #57, where he still languished on Classical Charter’s waitlist.
My feeling of unease rose to a fever pitch, but I still had no idea what to do. That is, until I got the chance to catch up with a homeschooling mama during our April 18 MOPS meeting. For the first time, I discovered that she doesn’t actually keep her kids home every day: rather, once a week, she sends them to a homeschool co-op.
A *free* homeschool co-op.
I was unexpectedly enamored with this yet-unexplored idea. There were so many benefits — besides just the financial one. I would get to keep Borealis at home with me for another year, which would give his personality more time to soften — maybe shifting away from innate rigidity and toward acquired flexibility. Additionally, a sparse school schedule would also mean that he’d have another year of weekly visits to my parents’ house. Plus, I’d have closer control over how and what he was taught, and I assumed I’d probably have good access to his teacher, too.
But… saying “yes” to a homeschool co-op would necessarily mean saying “no” to Christian Classical.
I knew my answer for a while before I finally admitted it — but eventually, I made a list: “Reasons that Christian Classical isn’t for us”. Here’s what it included:
- Barring an unforeseen windfall, we’ll never be able to afford to send more than one child here in a given year. Even if we can muster up the tuition for the year after this one (Bo’s first grade year), it’s very unlikely he’ll remain enrolled once Aza reaches kindergarten.
- Christian Classical is a super tight-knit community — much more so than we had initially realized. We now perceive that students are generally expected to remain enrolled through graduation — but we’re almost certain that Borealis wouldn’t. [see previous reason]
- Oh, and we’ve also got that other five-figure financial obligation — so it’s really hard to have this one, too.
When I presented this list to Taylor, he agreed, “Well, yeah. I never thought that he should go there. You were driving the fight on that one. If you think that a homeschool co-op would be better, then let’s do that instead.”
So, after a somber and uncomfortable call with the Christian Classical office manager, Borealis was officially unenrolled from kindergarten.
There are a number of homeschool co-ops offered through Jefferson County Public Schools, but none of them are conveniently located. (For us, at least. Presumably, though, they’re conveniently located for someone.)
Thus, right off the bat, exactly zero of the options was ideal — so I resigned myself to a year of high mileage.
Although, I reminded myself, we’ll only be driving there twice a week — which means that none of these are *too* awful. <pause> And also, *Taylor* will be doing the bulk of the driving, so….
Accordingly, instead of searching by proximity, I filtered the schools by pedagogical ethos — which narrowed the pool significantly. Among those remaining institutions, my first choice was already full — so I reached out to my second choice (“Homeschool Co-op”) and scheduled a tour for May 1.
When the afternoon arrived, Taylor tensely drove our whole family up to north Arvada. “It’s really far,” he muttered.
I couldn’t disagree, but I pointed out, “Well, it’s only Mondays and Thursdays, so it’s not like you’d be making the drive every day.”
Taylor: <grunts in simmering discontent>
Over the course of our short tour, we found Homeschool Co-op to be as we had expected: sweet, and well-intentioned, and cooperative — but completely disorganized and underfunded. It was basically as though a MOPS group had decided to become an educational institution. For detail-oriented folks like Taylor and me, the school felt painfully slapdash.
But… it still seemed to be our best option.
We decided as much while we ate ice cream afterwards at nearby Scrumptious.
“I think I feel peaceful about it,” I said. “And we’ll keep praying, too.”
Taylor grimaced. “But is two days a week enough? Like, for his social development?”
I chewed my lip. “Well… he’ll also be at MOPS with us, and we’ll just have to make sure that we’re scheduling lots of playdates.”
Taylor: <grunts negatively> “Ok, but I still don’t like it.”
“Me neither — but until another option presents itself, this seems to be our best bet.”
So that’s how Borealis got enrolled at his *second* kindergarten school.
Bo’s pre-K tenure ended several weeks later. We drifted into the interminability of summer with kindergarten as a distant smudge on the horizon. Taylor and I stayed extremely busy with our secret project… but our kids were not quite so entertained.
Aza, at least, was content with the endless, lazy hours — all the more opportunity to color and draw! Borealis, however, chafed under the season’s lack of structure. He wanted every day to involve plans, and every plan to involve friends — and he let me know that our sporadic, weekly-ish playdates were simply not adequate.
(Oh, and Rhys? He basically just wanted me to carry him everywhere. As of this writing, he’s only recently reached the point where he can actually productively play with his siblings.)
So May drifted into June, and June drifted into July… which I’ve long said is the most deceptive month. Every year, it feels absolutely endless — as though it contains sixty days, not thirty-one.
And so, every year, August arrives like a well-planned ambush — totally inevitable, but still totally unexpected.
This year, that assessment was especially true. August 1 felt like a blow to my stomach — but it wasn’t because we didn’t want Borealis to go off to kindergarten. After all, by the end of the summer, we were positively desperate for him to spend some days outside of our house. In my mind, it was time for some *other* china shop owner to wrangle this bull for a little bit.
So why was August’s arrival so overwhelming? Well, because we still didn’t know where Bo would be attending school.
Wait — you *did* know where he’d be attending school! You *just* decided on Homeschool Co-op, right?
Well, yes, we had decided on that — provisionally. In May, Homeschool Co-op had seemed like our best option — because it was, for all intents and purposes, our only option.
But what if there were another option?
As August dawned, that’s the question we found ourselves debating.
And no, our other option wasn’t Classical Charter — the waitlist for which still had Borealis in the low fifties.
Rather, it was Heritage Public, where he had somehow dropped to number seven.
And then six. And then five. And then four.
Finally, a few days into August, Taylor addressed the elephant in the room. “Look, we have to decide what we’ll do. The Heritage waitlist keeps moving, but I got a voicemail today from Homeschool Co-op.”
“Yeah?”
“It was the principal — calling from her personal number, which was kinda weird.”
I cringed. “Oh, that is a little weird.”
“Yeah. Anyway, she says that Bo is enrolled, but he isn’t registered. Or maybe it’s the other way around — I can’t remember.”
I groaned and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “But, you don’t want to register him at Homeschool Co-op… if we’re just gonna send him to Heritage instead.”
Taylor: <grunts affirmatively>
I bit my lip. “I mean… but the waitlist still might not get to us! I don’t want to get attached to the idea of sending him there, just for that idea not to materialize.”
“But what if it does?”
“But what if it doesn’t?“
Taylor shrugged. “I’ll call them tomorrow and ask how many slots they’re trying to fill. That’ll give us some idea of how likely it is that Bo will get in.”
I sighed deeply. “But, we still don’t even know that much about the school — like, only what your coworker said.”
“Yeah, but I really trust that coworker — and he’s even more skittish than we are. Do you remember his story? They pulled their son from their neighborhood school because of its crazy content, and then his wife quit her job to homeschool him.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And then, after all that, they sent him to Heritage Public.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I remember that, too.”
“Well, even with their previous bad experience, my coworker has had only good things to say about Heritage.”
I sighed again. “Yeah, well, that is a pretty good endorsement.”
“Better than we got for Homeschool Co-op, at least.”
“It’s not that bad!” I laughed — and then added, “Well, probably.”
Taylor: <grunts uneasily> “I am really uncomfortable about it, Wifey.”
I looked at my husband. Indeed, he radiated discomfort — and I suddenly felt terribly responsible.
I had asked God’s opinion on each of these [many] choices, and I had tried to listen for His answers. But… had I asked my husband’s opinion? And even if I had — had I listened to his response?
I didn’t realize I was crying until Taylor gently brushed away one of my tears. “What’s wrong, Wifey? Just that I’m so uncomfortable?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just that… have I disenfranchised you for this entire process?”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
I chuckled softly. “Like, have you felt like you had the ability to voice your thoughts on where we should send Bo for school?”
Taylor shrugged. “I mean… you always had such strong feelings about everything. It seemed like you knew what we should do, so I just went along with it. You always took the lead.”
I sighed out another laugh. “Babe, I took the lead because I was getting nothing from you!”
Taylor nodded pensively. “Yeah… I guess we fell into our old patterns.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about what a friend recently said of us. Taylor wears the pants, even though Holly wears the mouth.
That assessment is true, *now* — but it wasn’t always true. Taylor used to defer to everything I said — even when it wasn’t good for me, or for us.
I groaned. “Taylor, you can’t just let me steamroll you. We’re not dating anymore!”
Taylor: <grunts with ironic laughter>
“Seriously! I need you to be my partner on this!”
He lifted his brow. “So you want to know what I actually think?”
“Yes!”
“I think we should send Bo to Heritage — if he gets in. I know that you want to keep him home with you for another year… but do you want that for his sake, or for your sake?”
This question caught me completely off-guard. “Um… I don’t know,” I finally admitted. “I want him to have time to grow into his strong personality… and I guess I thought it’d be best if he did it here.”
“Ok, let me ask this: does it seem like he’s thriving at this point? Staying home over the summer, I mean?”
“Uh, no.”
Taylor: <grunts in sardonic laughter>
“He needs more input than I can give him right now,” I explained. “I think he’s read each of his Dog Man books at least a dozen times, and he’s not really interested when I ask him to engage with math or other stuff.”
“So what do you think is gonna change if you try to homeschool him?”
I grimaced. “Well, for one, that learning would suddenly become mandatory, right?”
“Presumably.”
“Like, he would have to do math lessons with me because it would actually be part of his kindergarten curriculum,” I argued.
Taylor: <grunts incredulously> “You think he’ll be that compliant?”
“Absolutely not. He’ll be a nightmare to homeschool, just like I would have been.”
“So… are you ready to admit that Heritage is the best option?”
I closed my eyes for a long time. Finally, I said, “Almost. I think I need to hear Bo’s opinion first.”
And so, the next morning, I explained the options to Borealis while Aza ate breakfast and Rhys slept in.
“Alright, Bohbi — if you went to Homeschool Co-op, you’d go to school on Mondays and Thursdays, but you’d still get to come to Amma’s house every week. I would do most of the teaching, so you’d have to be good for me.”
Borealis raised an eyebrow at this stipulation.
“But,” I continued, “if you went to Heritage Public, you’d be there the whole day, every day — Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday. So you wouldn’t get to come to Amma’s house very often, and you might get really tired from being there all day. And, you would have to be good for a different teacher, whom you don’t know yet.”
True to character, my firstborn took this question very seriously. His brow furrowed with concentration as he gazed off into middle distance. Finally, he answered, “I think I would prefer Heritage Public.”
I was totally surprised by this pronouncement, so I inquired, “Uh… why?”
“Because then I could see my friends five days a week, instead of just two days a week.”
I bit my lip. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Borealis had immediately identified the key difference between the options. “Well, yeah. But two days a week is still good, right?”
“No, that’s not enough days.”
I laughed — but Bo was serious. And, based on his restlessness throughout the summer, he was also right. That kid desperately needs social engagement.
I sighed deeply. “Ok, thank you for your input, Borealis. We will certainly take it into consideration — but we also don’t know whether Heritage will actually have room for you. So, you may have to go to Homeschool Co-op.”
Bo’s face registered alarm. “Oh, but I hope that they do have room for me!”
I shrugged. “We’ll see, Bohbi. Daddy’s on the phone with Heritage right now.”
At that moment, Taylor walked back inside.
Taylor: <grunts wearily> “Well, the good news is that we dropped to number three this morning.”
“And the bad news?” I asked.
“They’re only trying to fill one slot… and, this next family has already said that they’ll take it.”
I pulled Bo into a hug. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I think you’ll have to go to Homeschool Co-op this year. We’ll try again next year.”
“For me to go to Heritage?”
I shook my head. “Probably not. We’ll try again for you to go to Classical Charter, and hopefully you’ll get in next year.”
Bo deflated. “But I will be so sad to only see my friends for two days a week!”
Taylor silently squeezed Bo’s shoulder, while I reassured our son, “Don’t worry — we’ll do lots of fun things on the days that you’re home.”
Taylor added, “Oh, and there is some other good news — registering for Homeschool Co-op doesn’t take us off the list at Heritage.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. So do you want to go ahead and register Bo at Homeschool Co-op, then?”
“No.”
I laughed. “Sorry — will you register Bo at Homeschool Co-op, then?”
“Reluctantly, yes.”
But, he didn’t — at least, not immediately.
“I’ll do it eventually,” Taylor explained. “There’s seriously no rush — this school is a total mess.”
I grimaced. “But, like, let’s not wait until the first day of school, ok?”
Taylor turned a sassy glare on me. “Look — I can’t even figure out the first day of school. All the dates on the website are still from last year.”
I checked my email. “Well, preschool starts on Tuesday, August 15th… which is a week from tomorrow. So we need to figure out the Homeschool Co-op start date, like, pretty soon.”
“Yeah, sure. Wait, so will Aza go on Tuesdays?”
I shook my head. “No, she’s going Mondays and Thursdays, same as Bo. So, like, her classmates start on Tuesday.”
Taylor: <grunts in understanding> “Oh, ok. Yeah, I would guess that kindergarten starts next week, too. I’ll call tomorrow to check.”
“But you should probably register him first.”
Taylor: <grunts in defeat> “Fine! I’ll register him!”
So, Taylor called the following morning — after finally registering Borealis for Homeschool Co-op.
To our surprise, he was informed that the first day of school was actually Monday, August 14th — oh yeah, and there happened to be a meet-the-teachers event *this very afternoon*, sooooooo hopefully he could make it!
Normally, I would have conducted Borealis to such an event — but this week was even further complicated by another impending extravaganza: my DIY production of a whole slew of wedding flowers.
With Taylor’s permission, I had previously volunteered to do the wedding flowers for a young couple from our church — a couple whose nuptials were set for that Friday. (You know — a few days before the start of school.)
I had naively offered to donate the floral arrangements before ascertaining exactly what the bride wanted: centerpieces and bridesmaids’ bouquets and altarpieces and floral crowns and cake flowers and boutonnieres — and, of course, a big beautiful bridal bouquet.
[Note: It should go without saying that this experience taught me a valuable lesson about the hazards of writing a blank check.]
Does this endeavor sound time-intensive? It was —shockingly so. In my defense, I had expected that the ordeal would require many hours of toil in my still-carpetless basement; however, I hadn’t expected that, during my late nights of floral work, I’d listen to the entire Pentateuch… with several hours to spare.
Thus, when Taylor offered to bring Bo and Aza to the Tuesday afternoon kindergarten meet-and-greet, I gratefully accepted. Rhys napped while I continued the interminable floral processing before me.
My husband returned several hours later in a recalcitrantly foul mood — which wasn’t great, because *I* was already in a foul mood, and we’re supposed to take turns. (At least the kids were happy, though.)
I paused my floral work and addressed Taylor. “Ok — what’s wrong?”
“It’s just… so weird,” he spat. “It makes me feel icky in my spirit. It’s so disorganized. No one knows what’s going on. It’s complete chaos. And everyone is sooooo weird.”
This rant was quite a lot from my usually-terse husband. I cringed at his tirade, then sneezed. (I’m pretty allergic to most flowers, which makes floral design a bit complicated.)
After grabbing a tissue, I asked, “Well… what do you want to do about it?”
Taylor shrugged. “Pray that God gives Bo a slot at Heritage.”
I tried to smother a yawn as I nodded. “Yeah, ok.”
I did pray for Bo’s schooling that night — just as I did nearly every night. This time, however, I asked for something for which I had never yet petitioned.
“Lord, would You please make a way for Borealis to get in… to Heritage?” I was shocked by how disloyal I felt in giving voice to this prayer, so I quickly added, “And if it’s Your will that he go to Classical Charter, then please make a way for him to go there, instead.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “Oh, and if he has to go to Homeschool Co-op, then please give us peace about the process.”
And, then I did a few more hours of centerpiece arranging.
The next morning started off just as usual: Borealis and Australis irritably picked fights with each other while Rhys tried to stay out of their way. Oh, and *I* added to the pandemonium by vainly attempting to continue my floral work. [Note: The overall drama level of our house has markedly improved since the start of the school year.]
It seemed impossible, but my stress level increased even further a few hours later — upon receipt of an unexpected text.
We’re #2 at Heritage.
I didn’t immediately respond to Taylor — partly because of the chaos detailed above, and partly because there hardly seemed anything left to say.
Yes, we might get in to Heritage — and then, seemingly, that’s where Borealis would go. Or, we might stall out at #2, and then he’d stay at Homeschool Co-op. Heck, he could even max out at #1— with exactly the same result. However, we could do literally nothing to speed up the process or change its result.
Alas, only time would tell — and in the meantime, I had wedding flowers to do.
Taylor took off work the following day (Thursday) and brought our kids down to my parents’ house in Colorado Springs — affording me precious hours during which to work toward my seemingly unachievable goal. He returned home with Rhys late that night, leaving Bo for his last “Amma’s House” sleepover before the start of kindergarten — and, you know, whatever schedule changes that would entail. (Aza, at least, would continue her trips to the Springs.)
Taylor graciously watched Rhys the following morning, too — during which time I frantically completed some last-minute arrangements and hauled everything to my church for the wedding.
Oh, and while I was at the church, I got another text from my husband: #1 at Heritage.
I rolled my eyes and went back to finalizing the cake flowers.
Especially on the heels of such an overfull week, the subsequent quiet weekend was absolutely agonizing. Would Borealis get into Heritage? Would he stay at Homeschool Co-op? Or… would he finally get into Classical Charter?
Oh yeah — because, of course, that last waitlist had finally begun to move, too. Like, why not?
Admittedly, it wasn’t much movement. By Sunday afternoon — the day before Bo’s first day at Homeschool Co-op — we had still only fallen to #52. But, considering where we had started, the development seemed like a huge leap forward — and that raised another question for me.
“Would we switch Bo from Heritage to Classical Charter, if he got in?”
Taylor: <grunts in surprise> “Look, Wifey, let’s just deal with one problem at a time. Bo hasn’t even gotten into Heritage yet.”
“But… you think that he’s going to, right?”
<pause> “Yes, I do. I think we’re going to find out tomorrow, and I just wish that this last family could have said ‘no’ immediately, instead of dragging it out for three full days.”
I shrugged. “Who knows when they got the news on Friday. And also… they might still accept the slot.”
Taylor squeezed his eyes shut in mock pain. “Don’t even say that.”
“He might have to go to Homeschool Co-op!” I insisted.
“Wifey, my insides shrivel at that thought.”
I laughed. “It seriously cannot be that bad!”
Taylor: <grunts noncommittally> “Well, I’ll have another chance to see it tomorrow — so I guess we’ll see if my opinion changes.”
I nodded. “Right, the parent orientation.” I paused, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring Bo to that?”
Taylor gave me a tortured look, then mumbled, “Uh, no, I think I should go. And also, aren’t you bringing Aza to the preschool open house?”
“Oh, shoot — yes, I am. But, I guess I could still bring her — just, after the Homeschool Co-op orientation?”
“Nah, I’ll just go. I’ll end up having the most face-time with his teachers, anyway — so I should probably be the one to bring him to this, too.”
I nodded. “Ok, well, I guess I’ll go get his stuff ready for school tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I think they probably have a back-to-school supply list, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe we’ll get it at the orientation tomorrow. So… I guess just pack whatever you think.”
And so, in the morning, we prepared Borealis for his first day of kindergarten — complete with a very sparsely populated backpack.
“Smile for your first first day of kindergarten!” I directed.
“You mean, my first day?” Borealis asked.
“Sure. That’s what I meant.”
The next hour and a half passed without incident. I got Rhys and Aza fed and dressed, then began cleaning up the floral discard pile that I’d left in our basement. Aza colored upstairs, while Rhys “helped” me scoop floral detritus into a compost bag.
But then my phone rang, and I left Rhys to clean up the mess on his own.
“Taylor?” I answered. “How did it go?”
Taylor: <long, frustrated sigh> “Where do I even start?”
“We got into Heritage?” I guessed.
“We got into Heritage!” he spat back. “The *moment* I got to my car, the email came in.”
I smirked sardonically. This “coincidence” seemed a bit too convenient. “So you’re going back to get him?” I asked.
Taylor balked. “Uhhhhhhh, I don’t know. He was so excited, and he had already started making a friend.”
“But can you imagine saying ‘no’ to Heritage? And leaving him at Homeschool Co-op?”
Taylor groaned in anguish. “No, I really can’t.”
“How are you so certain? Can you put it into words?”
<pause> “No. I think it’s, like, a feeling from the Spirit, maybe. Like, I have such revulsion, on a gut level, but I can’t explain it. It’s not, like, gross — it’s just, like….”
“Gross?” I supplied ironically.
“Like… gross in my spirit,” he amended.
I nodded slowly, although of course he couldn’t see it. Finally, I answered, “Ok. I trust your judgment. And, I think that this ‘coincidental’ timing might have actually been God’s provision — so that you’d have total certainty about the decision.”
Taylor was quiet for a few seconds before finally responding, “Yeah. I am certain. We’re sending Bo to Heritage.” <pause> “Well, for this year, at least.”
Fast forward to that evening: past the hectic exchange of phone calls and online forms necessary to enroll Borealis at Heritage; past the awkwardness of Taylor’s shameful retrieval of our son from Homeschool Co-op — barely an hour after his having arrived; past Aza’s preschool open house; past the rest of Bo’s *actual* last day of summer break; past my frantic, last-minute back-to-school shopping; and to another bedtime full of pre-first-day jitters.
“Remember, Nyla will be there tomorrow,” I encouraged my oldest son as I tucked him into bed.
Born only two months apart, Nyla and Bo have grown up in the same neighborhood all their lives — but after meeting as infants, they didn’t reconnect until they happened to find themselves in the same pre-K class last year.
Borealis visibly perked up at the mention of his neighborhood-and-pre-K friend. “Will she be in my class!?”
I shook my head. “No — I texted her mom, and she said that Nyla has a different teacher. But, I think maybe you’ll see her at lunch and recess?”
My son nodded confidently. “Yes — and I will say hi to Nyla whenever I see her.”
“That’s a good thing for you to do,” I agreed. “And you’re going to make new friends, too! There are twenty-three other students in your class, so I know you’ll that find some who like to play the same sorts of things as you do.”
My son gave me a big, fake grin — which made me laugh, which made him laugh. Finally, his face resolved into a real — albeit still nervous — smile.
“I love you, sweet boy,” I told him, giving him five kisses — and with that, it was time to prepare for another first day of kindergarten.
This past year, Jeffco Public Schools rejiggered all the schools’ start and end times — principally so that the high schoolers wouldn’t start so unbelievably early in the morning and finish so unconscionably early in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, since there’s only *so* many buses to go around, this switch for the high schoolers has had major ripple effects: that is, it means that everyone *else* now has to start unbelievably early in the morning.
Apparently middle schoolers have it the worst, but elementary school isn’t much better. Heritage does a “soft start” at 7:45am, followed by a tardy bell at 8:00am. Complying with this schedule isn’t an impossible feat, but it certainly isn’t comfortable, either — especially right on the heels of a lazy, agenda-free summer.
So, we did our best to prepare. Taylor pre-packed Bo’s backpack, while I laid out his clothes and tried not to laugh aloud.
You see, every year, I pick a specific shirt to be “Bo’s shirt” for the year. He wears it for the first day of school, and the last day of school, and significant days in between. That way, when I pick the clothes to retain for my kids’ kids, I’ll have some easy, iconic choices. For instance, last year’s shirt was the bluish button-up in But At Least I Kept the Kids Alive; the previous year’s was the orange-ish button-up in Dr. Borealis, Class of 2043.
This year, though, was different. Because I suspected that we might be doing a mid-year (or, rather, mid-morning) school swap, I chose not one shirt, but two — the pair that just happened to be identical.
So when, the next morning, Borealis posed in front of our picture tree for the second time in as many days… the resulting image felt eerily familiar.
Seconds later, Taylor stuffed an already-late Borealis into the car, while Aza, Rhys, and I waved farewell.
And then, we waited the long, long hours until pick-up.
Despite signing over custody of my firstborn to Heritage Public, I had still never laid eyes on the institution. Nor, apparently, could I even locate it on a map; instead, I was embarrassedly relegated to using navigation on my first trip to my son’s school.
I cried tears of fear when Google Maps directed me to make an unprotected left across an extremely busy thoroughfare in a suburb that I hate, then tears of relief when I arrived in the foreign parking lot.
I had thought that I’d made it “on time”, but I quickly realized that “pick up at 2:50pm” did not mean “pick up from 2:50-3:00pm”. Rather, it genuinely meant, “pick up *AT* 2:50”. Borealis came outside looking like a kicked puppy.
“You were late,” he accused. “All the other kids already left with their parents.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, I think most of the other parents didn’t have to — just now — wake a baby up from his nap, either. So have a little grace for me.”
(But, admittedly, we did start leaving the house earlier.)
Aza began school on Thursday, which was almost a non-event after all the hubbub surrounding Bo’s kindergarten debut(s) earlier that same week.
Thankfully, Aza’s transition to preschool went basically without incident. She was already very familiar with the school — and especially with her teacher, who had also taught Borealis last year. It hardly felt like any time had passed at all; our family melted right back into the preschool environment.
And at Heritage? Things were going… slightly less well.
On the plus side, Bo’s teacher began to recognize me — and I started to recognize some of his classmates, too. Of course, I always said hi to Nyla. [Note: In fact, she now rides home with us on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Nyla’s grandpa brings her and Bo home on the other schooldays.]
Even so, I still didn’t feel settled at the school — and I had a suspicion why. The Classical Charter waitlist had continued to move — far faster than its initial crawl. Now, we were practically in a free-fall — through the forties, the thirties, and even the twenties.
Thus, I wondered whether my unrest might actually be premonitionary. Would Borealis end up scoring a hat-trick: three first days of kindergarten?
He might… but only if we accepted a Classical Charter slot: an eventuality of which I was no longer certain. I could hardly believe it — but once again, we were seriously considering an option other than Classical Charter.
But why? Well, for one, Borealis had already acclimated to Heritage and was thriving under its rigorous academic standards and disciplinary structure. He had also begun making friends, and he came home everyday with plenty of energy — even despite the full-day schedule. My unease didn’t seem to have affected him in the slightest; he, rather, seemed perfectly at ease.
Additionally, I had finally done a more thorough side-by-side comparison of the two schools in question — and in terms of academics, Heritage was decisively superior. (Like, its test scores round to 100.) Oh, and Heritage’s associated high school? It’s renowned for producing doctors, and lawyers, and engineers. If Bo actually wants to be an astronaut — his current career aspiration — then he could certainly do worse than attending the Heritage school system through graduation.
Nevertheless, I still felt inexorably drawn to the culture of Classical Charter. I acknowledge that a huge part of that feeling stems from my own time at a charter school — but it’s more than just that. I also discovered that a large segment of our beloved church attends Classical Charter, too. It’s the children of everyone from the lead pastor, to the missions minister, to a founding member, to the big foster-care family, to that random guy on the security team. To send Borealis to Classical Charter would be practically akin to sending him to hang out with our church family. I could hardly imagine forgoing those connections, just for the sake of academics. If our whole church family chose Classical Charter, shouldn’t we, also?
Except that… well, Borealis is going to be an intellectual mover and shaker, right? More so than our younger children (whose giftings appear to lie in different realms) — and more so than most other kids, too. Accordingly, doesn’t he *need* a school renowned for its unimpeachably exemplary academics?
[Note: Admittedly, a discussion with one of my teacher friends helped allay my test-score-related concerns about Classical Charter. The school is, after all, still pretty new. Sometimes teachers and administrators have to try a number of techniques before they determine which ones actually work. In contrast, Heritage’s fifty-year history has seemingly given its faculty that opportunity.]
I felt like Borealis was on the finale of the Bachelor, trying to choose between two enticing options. (Or, rather, we — his parents — were trying to choose on his behalf.) Should he propose to the glamorous lawyer lady who will impress all his friends — but who probably won’t ever want to stay home with kids (or even have them)? Or should he select the sweet and cute girl next door — the one who works hard in school, but whose real calling is to be a stay-at-home mom someday?
And, just like the quintessential Bachelor, I agonized over the decision in comically dramatic fashion — but, with absolutely nothing to show for it.
In short: I had complete and utter decision paralysis.
This was exacerbated — or perhaps, caused — by what felt like radio silence from God. I was absolutely certain that my prayers were being heard. I wasn’t so sure, however, that they were being answered — or, at least, not in the way that I wanted.
I did have some sense that the decision would be made clear, in time — but I wanted a conclusive answer, now: either Heritage or Classical Charter. The long, strung-out nature of the unresolved situation was driving me mad.
Alas, I received no such conclusive answer — and neither did Taylor. We resolved ourselves, once again, to waiting — but, if possible, we still wanted a bit more information.
Thus, in early September, when we finally hit #20 on the Classical Charter waitlist, I called the school’s admissions gal and asked, “How many slots are you trying to fill?”
“I’m sorry, what grade?” she responded.
“Oh, sorry — kindergarten. I definitely should have led with that.”
Some keyboard tapping preceded her answer. Finally, she said, “We still have three slots open.”
“Three!?” I marveled. “So it may get to us within the week!”
“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily bank on it,” she cautioned me. “Because you never know when the waitlist will stop. It all depends on which families are ahead of you.”
“Oh, of course,” I agreed aloud — but I was really thinking, Seriously — what are the odds that *all* the slots will fill up before the waitlist gets to us? This decision is *imminent*.
Except… it wasn’t.
After all that buildup, we nevertheless stalled out at #16 — which meant that, out of the next four families, apparently three of them accepted slots at Classical Charter.
So… Borealis is still at Heritage — and he will be, through the balance of this school year. (Barring some intensely unforeseen circumstances, of course.)
But as for next year? Who knows.
(Well, God. Obviously.)
And so, this year, the decision was made for us. Borealis is at Heritage because he had no other option. (Well, besides all the other options… that we shamefully eliminated.)
But, notably, we still haven’t made a long-term decision. We chose Heritage for *this year only* — with the knowledge that our ultimate choice still remains painfully *un*-made….
Until February, when Classical Charter runs this year’s lottery.
[Author’s Note: This is not the conclusion I had hoped to write.
The mother in me truly couldn’t decide between the two schools in question. However, the writer in me absolutely wanted to end this story with Bo’s enrollment at Classical Charter. I mean, come on — who *wouldn’t* read a story entitled The [Third] First Day of Kindergarten?
Plus, there would have been a beautifully full-circle, coming-home feeling if Bo had actually been admitted to the school that we had chosen for him before he was born — the school that had initially rejected him, but now, by God’s grace, had eventually offered him a slot.
Yes: it would have been a lovely narrative arc.
Instead, I’ve had to end this story on a painfully *in*-conclusive note — hardly desirable for, you know, a conclusion.
That’s part of the reason that the story has taken so long to produce: I kept hoping for a wrap-up where, as of yet, there is none.
Alas — most real-life situations don’t actually fit into a satisfyingly neat narrative arc.
But, it’s nicer when they do.]