Co-op

I fell in love yesterday. . .with a preschool. It's a co-op, meaning the parents participate in the school by volunteering a few times per month, among other duties. I was a co-op kid and I still maintain that my nursery school experience played a big role in the person I am today.

We walked into the school, Lily, Cyrus and I, during their last day of class before summer vacation. Three parents were working outside the front door, loading artwork and personal items into paper grocery bags labelled with the children's names. One of the moms greeted me and became my guide, offering information about how the school works and asking if I had any questions. The kids walked right in and made themselves at home, admiring the three turtles swimming in a tank and then climbing some stairs up to the Quiet Room where a girl was using kid scissors and markers. The teacher swept into the room asking for help in finding their bug catching net. There was a big moth in the playground that wanted a closer look. One mom sat at a small, round table keeping kids company as they ate their snack.

We stayed for circle time, listening to the story and watching the kids march in a circle with their teacher as they all sang about being dinosaurs. They all crouched down onto the rug to eat their pretend dinosaur lunches and then got up to march again. After a while I ushered my big twins, two this Saturday, outside to the yard. Oh, heaven. Cyrus immediately found a car his size to sit in. Lily headed for the bounce castle, inflated specially for this last day of school. Kids weaved around the three of us--pedaling heavy, metal tricycles, jumping, sitting in the sand. As I stood near Cyrus who was playing on a metal airplane, a little girl under the climbing structure called out to me "Come here, I want to show you something." She was probably three and her speech wasn't completely clear but I understood her.

I walked to the end of the yard and leaned over to have her show me. There was the moth--three inches long, the color of dust with intricate wings and antennae.

So pretty, I said.

It's so cute! she exclaimed.

We stood admiring it for a while and then I left, thanking her for showing me.

While we were there my kids moved from one nook or cranny to the next, punching keys on an old computer keyboard, playing with toy cars, poking fingers into the art project. I watched two girls climb up what looked like a heavy bag--a wide, black cylinder as big around as my arms could hold and as tall as I am--off which they jumped, landing on mats below. A few parents talked to me about the friends they've made, about how fun the community is and how much they love the teacher. Three or four students asked me questions or asked me for help:

Why did you put my name tag on my back?
Can you help me find the black, plastic phone?
Where is your girl?

Those kids, those questions, are the main thing that draws me back to a co-op. What I say yesterday matched up with my own memory--of feeling safe, of knowing that all the big people in the room were there to help me, of knowing people were interested in what I had to say, of knowing that I was important. Of note, neither of my children looked for me the entire time we were there.

Part of a co-op is parent education--a monthly mandatory meeting. You get to be a part of your kids' early school days and you also get to be a student, to learn how to be a better parent and to be a part of a community that values parenthood and childhood.

We're on the wait list and the kids won't be old enough to start for another six months anyway. I'm excited!