I struggled to keep up as Heidi trekked across the slushy street. I could tell she was not just trying to beat the arctic Chicago cold. She was fleeing. And it was only when we were safely inside her Honda that she dared to speak: "I felt like we were visiting the Moonies."
We had just completed a tour of an immaculate, light-filled Montessori center, the first stop in a two-day open-house marathon aimed at choosing a preschool for her 3-year-old daughter, June. Since Heidi had invited me along for my perspective—I've spent 20 years working with young children and their families and wrote The Gay Uncle's Guide to Parenting (Three Rivers)—I told her how much I liked the school's emphasis on skill-based learning. But I, too, was freaked out by its cultlike solemnity. The kids were counting cowrie shells and labeling volcano parts as if adhering to divine commands.
Heidi was right to call me for backup. As a former preschool director, I know firsthand how confusing our nation's vast, patchwork early-childhood infrastructure can be: It's a decentralized jumble of private, public, and in-home centers. If your needs are specific (you work nights; you're vegan), your options shrink. But Heidi's situation lacked restrictions. A part-time journalist, she was pregnant with child number two, and she and her husband were unsure if it would make financial sense for her to return to work after the birth. Plus, she craved flexibility. "I want time alone with the baby, and I want June to have her own thing," she said. "But I don't want to have to rush her to drop-off at 7:30 every morning."
"Your perfect preschool doesn't exist," I told her. "You need to prioritize."
She thought for a moment. "I want June to have fun. If she's also learning, great. And I don't want her to be away all day, every day." Essentially, she wanted what she had, just an upgrade. June was spending three days with a sitter and two mornings at a local park-district program, whose dilapidated building we drove by en route to our next tour. "It's the opposite of what we were looking for," Heidi said. "The toys are Barbies. The snacks are cupcakes and Kool-Aid. And the daily lesson is, like, Duck, Duck, Goose. But the teacher is warm, and June loves it." As a fan of surprising choices and cozy shabbiness (the school I ran was staffed by oddballs and housed in a crumbling brownstone), I adored this shack. But I also recognized June's need to move on. A precocious, chatty, adventurous kid, she needed greater challenges than choosing blue or green juice. Heidi agreed: "I know she's ready for more—she's already talking about going to a 'real' school."
Fortunately, a pair of "real" schools were our next stops—two pre-Ks run by the Chicago Board of Education. At the first, a tuition-supported extended-day center, I was impressed by the simple materials, on-site playground, mixed-age groups, and engaged teachers. And I liked its thoughtful balance of engaging literacy instruction—reading aloud, storytelling—with play-based learning. Heidi liked the diversity, bright classrooms, and, yes, healthy cafeteria options. But the annual tuition was a hurdle. "For their coverage, $10,000 is cheap," she admitted. "But we don't need 10 hours a day, every day."
"True enough," I said. "But remember, kids adore routine. And while you think you want June around now, you might feel differently once the baby arrives." Heidi nodded loosely.
Next Page: The next school, a science magnet, was a more traditional direct-instruction program...
