A couple of weeks ago, I took The Boy to register for kindergarten. “They,” of course, did an evaluation. The evaluator was blown away by The Boy (as I frequently am), until it came time to rhyme.
He wasn’t very good at it. The evaluator was puzzled. “He has all these sophisticated skills,” she mused. “How is that he skipped rhyming?” I shrugged, trying not to let my incredulity show. The Boy can sound out and read simple words and she’s concerned about his ability to rhyme on demand?
“It’s obvious you read to him,” she pressed. When I said nothing, she continued: “Well, he’s definitely ready for kindergarten. Just make sure that you get his rhyming up to specs over the summer.”
I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell her: The reason The Boy sucks so badly at rhyming is my fault. I never got into singing silly songs with him, or other such mothering standards. I like reading, and I’ll read to him for hours, but I’m not into singing kids songs.
When The Boy listens to music, you can bet it’s stuff like Glenn Miller (which he loves), The Killers, Sarah McLachlan, Mozart and another assorted big band, alternative and classical tunes. We sing Oingo Boingo’s “Stay” together, but I’m not singing “Did You Ever” with The Boy.
But I don’t want him to be put in some sort of “remedial” type kindergarten group, so I’m pulling out the suggested songbook from the kindergarten readiness packet I got. Looks like instead of enjoying REM’s new album this summer we’ll be rocking out to “Turtle Talk” and “We’re Going To The Store.”
I can’t wait.