I never went to preschool. Two weeks after I turned five, I made myself a crumpled peanut-butter sandwich, stuffed it into my orange Tupperware lunchbox, climbed the steps of the school bus and went off to Primary. Before that, I was at home, mostly. Or crying in the front hall of a babysitter’s house.
|My guy. Not crying in the front hall of a babysitter’s house.|
I don’t know if I showed up at school knowing how to write my name or how to form an orderly line — all I remember is that I used to wear my underwear on top of my tights, because it looked better that way. (I also wore sweatpants under dresses when it was cold, so clearly I had questionable fashion instincts.)
But I do know that schools expect a lot more from brand-new Primary students today.
There is no “attending only in the mornings until Christmas,” and then attending full-day starting in January. It’s all full-day, all the time. I mean, these are kids who grew up counting in Spanish with Dora the Explorer and learning to read from Super Why. The TV shows I watched as a kid taught me how to drop anvils on roadrunners and bring mannequins to life with a magic hat. The bar is higher.