Jim, Maggie, Emma, and I walked toward the Ecole Maternelle on Friday morning in nervous silence. Silence is unusual for my family as there is always someone whining for a snack/book/toy, or tripping and erupting in tears, or chatting my ear off about dijets, detectors, and data sets. Come to think of it, I am usually silent, it is the people that surround me that are the noisemakers. But, on this particular morning we were all reserved because we were tingling with the anticipation of Emma’s adventure in French school. Jim and I were struggling with thoughts of our tiny baby girl (only 5 and 1/2 pounds when she was born, the little Bug) suddenly being old enough to wield a backpack and navigate a classroom all on her own. Emma was wide-eyed and serious, but not at all scared of starting school. She looked as if she would burst with excitement as we waited for the school doors to open. And Maggie, poor little sister, was panicked. She bounced back and forth between Emma and me, unsure of which person to attach herself to. She did not want to leave her beloved sister, but she was not quite ready to forgo Mama’s arms in favor of an unfamiliar classroom.
We waited amidst a crowd of parents and children, all buzzing with first day of school excitement. I strained my ears, searching out some English speakers in the native crowd, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a few families conversing in English. In fact, the more I listened the more English I heard, along with a little German and Italian sprinkled in with the French. Thanks to its close proximity to CERN and Geneva, our tiny town is really very international. It calmed my nerves a bit to know that my baby would not be the only non-native speaker at the Ecole Maternelle.
When the gate to the school was finally unlocked, we followed the crowd through the playground (temporarily losing Maggie to the brightly colored climbing structure) and into the school. Aided by our incomprehensible, yet visually informative tour that we took earlier in the summer, I was able to locate Emma’s classroom without any problems. We found her coat hook and shoe cubby and stood there for a few minutes unsure of what to do next. It was then that I remembered the advice of a very wise woman, who said that when navigating the first few days of school it is best to simply look around and do what everyone else is doing. Emma and I glanced at the families in our vicinity (Jim was wrestling with an increasingly more frantic Maggie) and noticed that all the children were sitting on benches and changing into their school slippers. (In France, children are required to bring slippers to wear in the classroom. When I first heard this I was panicked about where in the world I would find slippers, but then I stumbled across the endlessly long slipper aisle at Migros.) So we sat down and put on Emma’s brand new, purple flowered, velcro chausonns. Maggie escaped from Jim’s clutches and began tearing off her own shoes, still not knowing where exactly Emma was headed, but positive that she must be shoeless if she was to join in the fun.
Chausonns clad, with beloved backpack hung carefully upon her very own hook, Emma confidently approached her classroom door. We waited in line to speak to her teacher, Madame Doubroff, a gentle, gray-haired woman with a smiling face and brightly flowered dress. She greeted us warmly, and her smile did not waver when we answered her initial questions with distressed, blank stares. We explained that we did not speak French (I am becoming masterful at brandishing my “Je ne parle pas Francais”) and she was able to speak to us in broken, but much appreciated English. Emma, exasperated with her bumbling parents, slipped past us and immediately took up residence in the pretend play center in her classroom. We had to call her back to us to administer our goodbye hugs and kisses. I felt the tears welling up in my throat as I held her close, but she wiggled free, anxious to get back to the food and kitchen toys. She did not give us a second glance as we bade Madame Doubroff farewell, and wrestled Maggie away from the classroom where she was crying and clutching the door frame.
Our diminished family walked back to the car, peering into the window to ensure that Emma was happy and settled in her classroom. We spotted her firmly entrenched in the pretend play center, unaware that her overly emotional, voyeuristic parents were watching her with watery eyes. Maggie was making no pretenses of hiding her dismay at having left her sister behind. She was alternately collapsing onto the sidewalk in anguish, and making mad dashes back to the school in an attempt to infiltrate the doors and join her sister in the Shangri-la that was the preschool classroom. We made it back to the car where Maggie was easily distracted by raisins and the opportunity to read the Cinderella book that Emma usually commandeers on car trips. We dropped Jim off at work and spent a relaxing morning running errands and playing with friends at toddler group.
Three hours later we rejoined the families at the gates of the Ecole Martenelle and waited with bated breath to see Emma’s smiling face. Madame Doubroff greeted us again at the classroom door, and as I waited for other parents to claim their children I peeked inside and saw my little Bug sitting patiently on the floor (criss-cross, applesauce) in line of other children. I have never seen her be so still, so serene, and so quiet. It was then and there that I determined Madame Doubroff to be some sort of mystical preschool whisperer, able to silence whiny children with a nod of her head, and to quell fidgety bodies with the twinkle in her eye. When Madame Doubroff called her name, Emma flew from the ground and dashed into my arms. She had a huge smile on her face and had clearly had a wonderful morning, but I could tell from the way she clutched my legs, that she had missed me, just a little bit. Maggie greeted her long-lost sister with a joyful hug, that was (surprisingly) returned with equal love. Maybe this time apart will be good for my normally feuding daughters.
Reunited, we returned to CERN to have lunch with Jim and get the full report on Emma’s first day of school, which was unsurprisingly, but unfortunately vague. I found myself wishing that I had slipped a tape recorder in her pocket, or attached a nanny cam to her hair clip, in hopes of catching some glimpse of what had transpired at school that morning. She emphatically stated that the day had been “fine” and “fun” and had admitted to loving the play kitchen and dolls. She told us that Madame Doubroff had sung some songs, and that most of the kids had joined in, but that she just listened because “I don’t speak French, Mommy.” (Duh-uh, Mommy.) I felt a little nervous when she told us that she had not made any new friends, or talked to any children because (once again) “I don’t speak French, Mommy.” But then I realized that Emma is only three, and most three-year olds I know do not have stimulating, deeply intimate conversations with their peers, or with anyone for that matter. She will make friends, she will begin to understand the language, we just need to give it time. For now I am grateful that she enjoyed school and is anxious to return on Monday.
On a side note, on my trips to and from the school I noticed some very positive signs that led me to believe that our neighborhood school will be a perfect fit for Emma. One, was that on a clear day, which it was on Friday, Mont Blanc is visible from the playground. Imagine a bunch of maniacal preschoolers running rampant in a playground and pausing for just a moment to look up and gaze upon the snowy peak of Mont Blanc. It is quite a pastoral scene in the background of a lively and often chaotic place. Adding to this sense of calm and peace is the official name of the school “Les Tourterelles” which means “the doves” in French. What could go wrong in a school with such a beautiful, poetic name?
Hi Maura,
Your mom shared your link with me. What a wonderful account and description! So glad you are all doing well there, and I certainly put my money on Emma with her school experience!
Roni