Comprende? (Part II)

Originally, I wrote one long, introspective examination of why some relatively small issues about preschool were REALLY getting to me. Keeping me up at night and making me sweat, etc. Writing in my notebook, I realized that some of my angst was valid and some of it was rooted in unresolved anger over incidents that occurred during the disruption of our adoption. There are certain, sometimes awkward, concerns that are important to me as the mother of black and white, biological and adopted "forced twins." Other issues are mine to let go.

When I turned my thoughts into a post, the damn thing was so long (even for me, shocking, I know) that I broke it into three loosely related stories, organized chronologically. Posting the first part on its own really broke the flow of my thoughts. It is a painful memory, but I failed to see how sad and still mired in that time I would sound because I had the whole Rise and Fall of the AnyFamily Preschool Saga in my head.

Good lord, that's a long way of saying - wow - I just sometimes don't feel like I deserve the support I get from my friends who comment here. Your compassion and willingness to listen humbles me. If some of you were thinking, does she really need us to tell her that this is all okay again, well, I don't blame you.

Here's part two of three. Right? Good thing I broke the epic saga into parts.

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I have begun to dread pick up at the in-home Spanish language preschool that Saige and Garrett attend. It is the same every Thursday. The knot ties itself in my chest as I approach. I wait in the car until the door opens and they spill out.

"MOMMA!" I get squeals and hugs from both children. My daughter is bonded to us, as we are to her, I have no doubts about that. But the next few minutes never fail to make me sweat. I am thrown backwards. I experience some kind of post-traumatic-anxiety-stress disorder.

Senora B beams at me. "Oh, I just enjoy Saige so much. She is so good in class, she loves to sing, she loves to answer questions."

"Uh huh," I stay noncommittal. This weekly refrain is overdone and I am beyond making excuses for it in my head. I am done pretending that this is a normal conversation to have about a three-year-old girl. "She can be very sweet."

Garrett is tugging at the teacher's sleeve. He senses the inequity, I know. He has started to drag his feet before class and cling to me. Maybe it's not connected, it could well be unconnected, but I hate it. I hate that he feels the need to beg for equal attention. I hate that she is oblivious to the obvious facts, they are siblings, they are competitive, her gushing, superfluous praise is helping no one, least of all my daughter. Unearned praise is cheap indeed.

"Oh, she is always sweet."

"No three-year-old is always sweet," I say.

I can't help it. She is an experienced preschool teacher. Why can't she see? Why can't she treat my daughter exactly as she treats the other children. The same as she treats my son. Saige is securely bonded to me. We have, I generally feel, very few remaining attachment issues, but she is, like another child I once knew and still, on some level, love, a masterful little manipulator. Oh and yes, yes Senora B, I have noticed that she is black and cute in a fairly non-diverse area. That does not make her poo-poo non-smellyishious. Let's move on, shall we.

"She can be a pill when she wants to be." I keep my voice light, I am trying to give her a gentle clue.
Her incredulous look dashes any hopes I had of easing the situation subtly. "Oh NO. I can't believe it. Not Saige."

I walk away. I have to walk away. Again, really? Really, you can't believe it? You work with three and four-year-olds for a living. You can't believe that this child, this toddler, has rough moments?

I expect this occasionally, from strangers. This dramatic attention. This gushing praise. It is an odd reaction that some people have to our transracial family and our beautiful brown-skinned girl. I can't help but assume, these days, that there is a certain level of discomfort hidden beneath the effusive reaction. The perverse trouble-maker inside of me longs to answer the undercurrent, instead of smile and accept the socially acceptable words at face value.

From a preschool teacher, though, I expect more. Maybe my standards are too high, but I feel that a person who teaches children for a living should operate above and beyond compensating for the perceived injustices of the world through one fairly privileged child. Also, it effects my family and pisses me off.

The next week, when I pick them up, Garrett is in tears. Strangely, he is clinging to Senora B's leg and doesn't run to me. I can see the conflict and devastation in his small face.

"He had a very hard day," she tells me. "He wouldn't listen at all. I gave several warnings, but I had to give him a time out. He's been very upset ever since."

My heart breaks right there. Possibly, it's a coincidence, but I don't believe it. I think he acted out to get her attention, to feel special. I think negative attention sufficed, in the end. I hug him in the car and hold him tight. He sits in my lap all afternoon, refusing to leave my side. His clever brain is both awed and horrified by the power of his negative behavior.

"We love you, baby," I tell him before bed, "no matter what, even when you need a time out at school, we always, always love you." His face crumples again, he's been unable to tell me about what happened all day.

I rage at Matt for a while after bedtime and he listens patiently. When I calm down, he's direct and on point. "They shouldn't stay there. We can finish the year, if you want to, but that's it. It's weird. She doesn't get it. It's not healthy for Saige, it devalues praise, and it's awful for Garrett."

I know. It's that simple and yet so unbelievably frustrating. It's so small, seemingly so easy to grasp, and so important. That is what I have to keep reminding myself, over and over, as we face even more time at school next year. It is important. It is not all in my head, I am not crazy and I am not making problems up. It might be subtle, but it is important.