A Tale of Two Preschools

Fall is in the air.  It’s my favorite time of year.  Reminds me of new beginnings: back to school shopping, buying my first home, my wedding day.  And suddenly before the dust has had a chance to settle on my maternity clothes, I find myself shopping for preschools!  And while I hesitate to acknowledge the reality that my baby is not a baby anymore, these preschool application deadlines are forcing the point.

I have the happy fortune of being in close proximity to two Spanish language immersion pre-schools.  Being that I work part time an hour away from home it was great to find options close to home (for my days off) vs. close to “Grann and Papa’s day care” where Morgan spends her days while I’m working.  Each program touted similar philosophies, yet I walked away with two very different impressions.  

The first program I found nestled along the winding suburban roads of a medical office park campus.  They welcomed me with coffee and donuts.  The open house yielded fewer visitors than expected, so the admissions director forewent the powerpoint presentation to pitch me one on one.  The newly opened preschool center is part of a family of centers that grew from a small co-op of like-minded parents.  The 4 co-founders hail from a varieties of cultural and educational backgrounds but came together out of a shared passion for “creating a community of those committed to bilingual education.” The classrooms were bright, clean, and wanting for more children.  Circle time in the upper class centered on identifying shapes and colors.  The children responded with a mix of Spanish and English, as the teacher worked diligently to redirect them.  The younger 2-3 year old class had been struck with a rash of absences leaving only four in attendance that day.  The two youngest children painted, while the older two ran about on the carpet. The director was quick to communicate that they would gladly have my 18 month old come aboard right away.  While was eager to apply was not ready to let go quite yet.  

At the end of my visit, I walked away feeling satisfied and encouraged.  I had shared my personal goals for my family, and the program sounded like a good match.  Polished, new-age, suburban. Right in the heart of my hometown it felt. . .Familiar.   

The second program I found just minutes from my home, renting space inside a local church.  My daughter came along for our first visit.  I was greeted by a teacher who alerted the director that we had arrived. The director met us with smiles and directed warm niceties to my daughter in Spanish.  She revealed her country of origin as Chile, the same country where my husband gained fluency in Spanish.  Her childcare/learning center came about out of decided lack of language immersion programs in the immediate area.  The closest immersion preschool programs are housed within our nation’s capital a solid 45 minutes away.  Her office felt lived in, but organized nonetheless.  Morgan grew restless, peering at all of the knicknacks and kitsch lining her desk’s edge.  The director handed her a shell, “una concha,” she lilts in a didactic tone.  Morgan reached higher inquiring “lapiz?” She was met with kind instructions in Spanish to take the pencil and paper, turn around and write on the small table behind her (no doubt positioned there for these occasions), and Morgan happily obliged.  The directors family, including her sister and mother are amongst the experienced, accredited teachers providing bilingual education in her school.  As we toured the various class groups I was impressed by the warmth and life within each room.  I marveled at the implicit diversity I could gather at a glance.  A young girl runs to the directors embrace.  She mumbles some tearful words in Spanish, as the director comforts her and redirects.  The 2 year old class was a buzz with song and ceremony.  The director encouraged me to “let her go,” as Morgan’s eyes lit up with excitement at all the happenings.  The lead teacher (the directors mom) pulled Morgan right in, and plopped her on a tike sized chair for songs and snack.  She grabbed her the way your best friends mom might handle your child.  A knowing, familial kind of direction.  The director pulled me aside, to give me more details about the curriculum but I was admittedly distracted.  As she ushered me back up the hall, we peaked in to check on Morgan, who was fully immersed in the pre-school experience.  She happily munched her cookie and sang along to the Spanish song hand gestures, refrains and all.  I on the other hand burst into tears.  Later in the hour, the teacher lead a rope of singing children up the hall for bathroom break, dropping my daughter (the line leader) off along the way.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all for show: the songs, the comfort, the intangible feeling of family amongst total strangers.  But that was just it.  A school built up with the support of women connected by blood can’t help but to feel anything other than – Familial.  Maybe it was her Chilean roots, maybe it was that Morgan came with, and was clearly very happy, but all at once I felt prepared to embark upon this next first, trusting that my baby was in both competent and loving familial hands.  All at once my decision was made for me.  Now, on to mastering potty training!