I walk into the first preschool building with a twin on each hand at 12:30 p.m. It’s a small place, three rooms total, with a small playground outside. It’s old. It’s not sparklingly clean, but it’s not dirty either. Old is the best way to describe it.
Right away, the babies busied themselves with some of the toys. Magnets, toy trucks, puzzle pieces. I filled out some information and watched the administration staff struggle uncomfortably since apparently no one had told the boss about my appointment.
They brought me through a room with a few tables where the kids would eat their lunches to a small classroom-type area currently decked out for naptime with kids (all older than the babies, who will be three in August) sleeping on mats.
The teacher was quite nice. She spoke to me about how they would concentrate on one letter a week, and one shape, etc. etc. I found that a bit odd, as my kids know their letters and shapes already, but I didn’t say anything in case I had misunderstood. I know for a fact, having been on the internet since my children were infants, that compared to most babies whose parents visit online parenting forums, my kids are not the most specialest of intelligent snowflakes.