The Pre-School Rant

If you know me, then you probably know the three most important things about me:
I have no regrets, I treat others as I expect to be treated, and I don't hold a grudge.
Every so often, however, someone comes along who makes me rethink the three basic principles by which I live. I thought I could let it go, but apparently I need to write this off my chest.

September of last year, Bram started going to a pre-school near us. It had recently undergone major changes due to a new law passed by the government involving the merging of pre-school and daycare facilities. The idea was to offer a sort of 'one-stop-shopping' for parents - instead of the hassle of bringing their children to one place and having them transferred to another during the day, all childcare benefits would be held in one place. We gained a central location but were forced to say goodbye to our experienced and much-loved caregivers. What we were left with didn't really become clear to me until much later.

The first couple weeks was fine. Then, things started to go downhill fast. When Bram saw the front door of the pre-school and realized we were going to leave him there, he would begin to cry. Then he would begin to scream. And holler. And kick, hit, protest with his entire body. Several times, I would see the eyes of one particular 'caregiver' (in her case an extreme contradiction in terms) roll when she saw me approaching with the clearly audible protesting Bram in my arms. Then, he would repeat all the crying, screaming and hollering when I picked him up again in the afternoon. Something was very clearly up but I didn't get it yet.

As the months passed, Bram became increasingly more audible about not wanting to be anywhere near that pre-school, and especially that particular 'caregiver'. I blame myself for not recognizing the signs earlier, but continued to bring him to that place four times a week, despite his consitent protests. Bram didn't have words to communicate yet, so he used what he did have - his entire body and every sound he could produce in a wide range of frequencies.

There were a lot of kids in the pre-school group, and I knew Bram wasn't too fond of large groups anyway, so I attributed his behavior on that for a while. Whenever I brought him to pre-school or picked him up, he sought negative attention by biting, hitting and doing just about anything he could come up with that he knew wasn't okay. His behavior was extremely unlike our little Bram!

It was autumn, and colds were reigning the schools. Bram's drippy nose was a constant factor, but when I picked him up from the pre-school, his face was often bright red and infected with snot and filth. The 'caregiver' thought Bram's snot was too disgusting to wipe away. When I asked how things had gone, she would describe Bram in terms of 'naughty' and 'difficult'. I simply couldn't understand why he acted so differently in that pre-school than anywhere else. I hated bringing him there against his will and proceeded to ignore that gnawing gut feeling that told me not to.

Then, the hair that broke the camel's back came crashing down. One afternoon, when I picked Bram up from the pre-school, the 'caregiver' told me between big smiles and laughs that she was forced to tie Bram up to his chair that morning because he wouldn't sit down.
Excuse me...? She tied him up to a chair?

She tied my child up to a chair.

I cannot explain my behavior upon hearing that, but I can tell you, it was anything but rational. I didn't tell a soul about it for days and let it rot away my insides. I was actually led to believe my son had deserved to be treated like an animal. I felt ashamed and confused. Bram so clearly felt threatened, he felt unheard and he felt misunderstood, and instead of standing up for him, I let the 'caregiver' convince me my child was a bad egg.

So, I told someone. And then, I told someone else. The reactions I received from other moms, dads, family members and specialists were abundant and in the same exact tone: get him out of there now. I talked to the head of the facility and told her about the monstrous mistake her employee had made by tying my son up. Unfortunately, and to my utter dismay, she defended the 'caregiver' and implied that Bram had deserved it. On top of that, she insinuated that Bram was mentally challenged! I was shocked and apalled and removed Bram immediately from the facility alltogether.

Bram has been in a new pre-school since January and the improvement is incredible. It will be a while before he really feels safe again in any kind of facility, after such a gross breach of his rights as a person, but his new caregivers are aware of this and they give him all the space he needs to gain their trust. In the past couple months, I went from the blind mother to the hawk-like mother, just about ready to peck the eyes out of anyone who told me my child was anything less than amazing.

I hear now and then stories about the 'caregiver' blaming Bram for the behavior of kids in his old pre-school group, even though Bram has been out of there for almost two months. Apparently, this 'caregiver' considers blowing a raspberry (a pretty natural step in a child's speech development) not only as as something negative and wrong, but as Bram's fault. If she wants to raise her own children in that frame of mind, and bear the adverse consequences it will most likely have, then she has every right to do just that. I just can't understand why someone who so clearly dislikes certain children is even pursuing a career in caring for them.

I am still in doubt about whether or not I should press charges against this 'caregiver'. To be honest, I worry about the children who still go to that pre-school, and truly hope that they will not be subjected to the same torture as my child was. It doesn't take much to fall into this 'caregiver's' bad egg category, apparently. Needing to go on the potty outside the scheduled potty-time is a sure way to get on her black list, for example. I do not want to expose Bram to any more negativity by going through some sort of legal process, and I am not the vindictive type... but am I wrong to keep this to myself?

Like I said earlier, in this situation, I need to rethink the three basic principles by which I live:

I have no regrets...
but if I had listened to my gut instincts, I could've gotten him out of there sooner and prevent the damage that was inflicted. 

I treat others as I expect to be treated...
but I would willingly drag that caregiver's name through the mud and ensure she is never allowed to be near children again if she slanders my son in my presence.

I don't hold a grudge...
but my increasing contempt for her keeps me up at night.

At the end of the day, I learned perhaps the most valuable lesson of parenthood, which is to never doubt my ability to raise my children with unconditional love and understanding. It wasn't my fault that Bram was unhappy, but it was my fault that I didn't listen to him when he tried to tell me in his own way. Communication comes in countless forms. Just like love.

I Laughed, I Cried, I Kissed Thirteen Euro Goodbye...

Yesterday was 'Koninginnedag' or Queen's Day, the one day of the year where the entire country is clad in orange to pay homage to Holland's 'queen bee', Queen Bea.

To an ex-pat like me, it's a confusing day. Apparently, it is a celebration of the Queen's birthday on the 30th of April, which is not actually her birthday at all. It's actually in the fall, or something, but it's celebrated in April because the weather is supposed to be better...

So what happens on Queens Day? Queen Beatrix and all her entourage parades through one lucky town somewhere in Holland, shaking hands with boyscouts and showing off her hat. It's also the day where the 'Vrije markt' or Free market takes place, meaning anyone and everyone can empty their garages and attics onto the street and sell their junk without a permit. (This is a huge exception in a country where you need a permit to breathe the air.) But what it has to do with the Queen's birthday has me stumped. Maybe it represents some kind of benevolent gesture by the monarchy, that the common peasant can also earn a bit of cash on her Majesty's birthday.

But aside from selling your crap in honor of the Queen and the celebration of it not being her birthday, there are all sorts of activities for young and old to participate in throughout the country. It seems to me that the main requirement for the adult activities is a colossal amount of beer. For the kids, it's a lot more complicated. There need to be pony rides and dressing up and fire-engines and making noise and toddler discos, to name but a few essential ingredients. This year, Mia and Bram were invited to attend, and compete in, the local 'decorate-your-bicycle-and-make-as-much-noise-as-you-possibly-can' parade.

Seeing as they are both crazy about their tricycles and ride them around incessantly, I couldn't imagine a better way for all of us to enjoy the day and have a memorable, positive experience. I was wrong. And I was right too. I'll explain...

In the days leading up to the parade, the entire Stolk family was involved in decorating the aforementioned tricycles. I went to the store and bought thirteen euro worth of plastic bicycle ornaments, which my husband and I painstakingly attached to the trikes under the uncompromising instruction of our children. Mia shoved some peacock feathers in the back of her trike, threw some flowers in the basket on her handlebars. Bram and I wrapped some old Christmas decorations around his handlebars and hung some flags along the back. Both kids adorned their trikes not only with sparkle, but with a huge amount of love. I was convinced: the parade was going to be a hit.

The day before the exciting event was about to take place, it reached temperatures of up to 80 degrees. Pretty exceptional for the end of April, and a promising prospect for the outdoor festivities planned for the next day. My wonderful mother-in-law, 'Oma' Rik, showed her unconditional love and support by accompanying us. I was blindly confident, it was to be a lovely day for all.

On the day of the parade, it rained. No, it didn't just rain, it poured. It pelted. It continuously drizzled, then it cat-and-dogged, then it just poured some more.  Unphazed by the adverse weather conditions, Mia was just thrilled to be a part of it.

Mia pedaled her way to the group of kids gathered at the starting line, who were mounted upon the most extravagantly embellished bicycles I had ever seen. I was convinced, as I gawked at the constructions most of the children were riding around in, that if those bikes were decorated by the kids, well then my name is Martha Stewart. After all the effort Mia put into decorating her tricycle, I knew she could kiss a prize goodbye. But, I told myself, we weren't here to win, we were there to participate and have a good time.
Outside in the cold. And the rain.
Without an umbrella.
And, I had to pee.

For at least a half an hour, kids, 'omas', 'opas', moms and dads, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters stood there getting drenched as the mayor of the town commemorated a bunch of total strangers, who were called up one by one to receive totally irrelevant awards. Kids all around me began to get restless. One kid in particular was making it very clear he did not want to be there anymore, and that kid was Bram.

Bram had wriggled his way out of the seat-belt on his trike and made a break for it. He scurried through the crowd, dodging this way and that, protesting loudly as he ran. He tried to escape down someone's driveway, then attempted to mount an elderly man's lap. When he realized his efforts were futile, he promptly threw himself down on the wet pavement and began to wail. My husband and I looked at each other and knew, it was literally raining on Bram's parade. He needed to go home.

Thank goodness for 'Oma' Rik! While trying to retain the kicking-and-screaming Bram, I explained to her and Mia that we were taking him home, and that I would come back a.s.a.p. She agreed to escort Mia, who didn't even seem to notice Bram's screams and the persitent rain. Amidst the impatient bicycle horns and bells, I hurried through the sheets of rain to the car as my husband cleared the path like a police escort, barely managing to hold the flailing and fussing Bram in my arms.

It only took about fifteen minutes to get Bram home and get back to the parade, by which time it had ended. Utterly disappointed, I turned into the street where the finish line was to find it completely abandoned. I had missed the entire thing. Bram didn't get to participate, thirteen euros of plastic crap was down the drain. We all got wet, and, I managed to take only two measely photos (which is a record for me)! A memorable and pleasant day for all? Hardly.

That's when I heard a familiar voice call, 'Mamaaaaaa!' It was Mia, drenched to the bone and wearing a smile broader than the Grand Canyon. She had reached the finish line, all by herself, and was carrying a bag of sweets that she had rightfully earned by doing so. 'Oma' Rik was also wearing a smile, which warmed me to my very core. I felt raindrops mix with the tears on my face, and gave my mia a Grand Canyon-size smile back, plus an even bigger hug.

Photo of Queen Beatrix courtesy of the Reformatorisch Dagblad