I once believed myself rational, pragmatic and well-adjusted. Then I became a parent. Nothing caused me to spiral quite like selecting a kindergarten.
“Fear is an awful place from which to make decisions.”
I explored every option: Spanish immersion, Chinese immersion, an arts magnet, a STEAM magnet, open enrollment in a nearby district, an expensive but intriguing private school with an offsite farm and, of course, our community school, the public school where my kids were guaranteed placement.
The Grand Piano and the Good Vibe
On our community school tour, the International Baccalaureate coordinator greeted my husband and me in an airy room filled with natural light, children’s art and plants.
“What’s that for?” I asked, gesturing toward a stately grand piano. “Oh, we have volunteers play every arrival and dismissal.”
Excusez-moi, is this a Dayton’s? Charming!
We met a few teachers, many with a decade-plus at this particular school, and watched smiling students snake down the hall in neat-ish lines. I’d heard nothing but vague disdain for Minneapolis Public Schools, but the vibe here felt good. “Okay,” I thought, “this could work.”
Two Viruses: Fear and Self Doubt
But over the next weeks, the anxious creepy crawlies trickled in. Why don’t I know anyone who sends their kids to this school? Shouldn’t some of our neighbors? Why are there zero alumni families from our nearby preschool?
I asked a mom friend, an intelligent, community-minded neighbor, politically involved, I respected, “What am I missing?”
“Oh, you can’t send your kids there,” she said. “I think before the Comprehensive District Design it was okay, but that screwed everything up. Plus, the acoustics are atrocious!”
And just like that, she infected me with two viruses plaguing every parent: fear and self-doubt.
She suggested I check out her kid’s charter school, or try open enrollment in a nearby district, or Minneapolis’ one public Montessori school with an excellent reputation, warning me that we probably wouldn’t get in.
Panicked, I took her advice, selecting the Montessori school as our reach school, the Harvard of Minneapolis Public Schools, but thought we’d probably end up at our acoustically off-putting community school. That piano seemed less charming now.
And then I got the email:
“Welcome new Montessori families!”
“A suburban or country mile is no biggie, but a city mile is like dog years.”
Four Miles, Nine Hours, One Small Backpack
I should’ve felt excited. My daughter would attend a great public school, maybe even the city’s best. But at four miles away, it felt so far.
A suburban or country mile is no biggie, but a city mile is like dog years. String four of them together and you’re in a whole different world.
We attended the back-to-school open house, meeting her teacher in a small, windowless classroom. “Administration had to get creative with rooms because there is just so much interest,” she told me.
No natural light wasn’t ideal.
And isn’t window washing supposed to be one of the pillars of a Montessori education? I filled out our contact information and in-case-of-emergency paperwork.
Just before Labor Day weekend, we learned our kindergartener-to-be would spend the first and last 55 minutes of her school day on the bus, a full nine hours, door to door.
I knew I’d hate that commute, so you’d think this is where I’d look at my husband and say, “Are we really doing this?” But no, we forged ahead, chalking it up to pre-kindergarten jitters.
It didn’t take long for the proverbial wheels on the bus to fall off. Watching my child, dwarfed by her backpack, leave the neighborhood on a big yellow bus left me bawling my eyes out.
When she returned nine hours later, it was her in tears. She loved school but hated the bus. Too loud, too bumpy, too long.
That night, my normally balanced daughter cried herself to sleep. She cried through breakfast and boarding the bus.
On the fourth morning, while I wrestled on her sneakers, we watched the bus fly past our picture window. I drove her to school every morning after that. I didn’t get to work until 10 a.m., but it allowed us to start the day without a surge of cortisol. Most afternoons, she rode the bus, arriving home a deflated balloon.
By October, things hadn’t improved. School was fine, nothing special to be honest, but the commute felt insurmountable.
I called her teacher for advice. “I hate to tell you this,” she said, “but I just heard the bus ride is about to get even longer.” I asked what she would do if this were her daughter. She didn’t hesitate: transfer.
Five Blocks and a Wall of Windows
The day after MEA break, my daughter and I walked the five blocks to our community school. I helped hang up her backpack. Her new classroom featured a wall of west-facing windows overlooking a park. A classmate immediately approached my kid, introduced herself and took her hand for a tour of the classroom. I knew everything would be okay.
This is year five at our community school. My 8-year-old son attends as well.
GreatSchools ranks it 2 out of 10, meaning test scores are well under average. Eighty-five percent of students come from low-income families. Every year, there’s a new classmate who has never attended school before, and about half of students are learning English.
I don’t know how a teacher manages a classroom like this, though class sizes smaller than the district average help, but they do. I’m endlessly impressed at the work coming home in the backpack: stunning poems about the color orange, deep dives into the rock cycle, the history of ancient Greece.
My kids are happy. Our mornings feel easy. I’ve never, not once, noticed the acoustics. We’re connected to the community in a way we’d never be if we bussed our kids out of it.
Fear is an awful place from which to make decisions. I’m ashamed to admit I trusted another parent’s opinion more than my own gut. But then again, I’d never before sent my heart, beating outside of my body, into the world alone.
A few years later, a neighborhood mom asked me about our school. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said. “There are so many opinions and choices. I’m crumbling!”
I hugged her. “I know just how you feel,” I said. “And I think you’ll like our community school.”
Molly Mogren Katt writes for the Hill & Lake Press and also publishes the “Hey Eleanor!” column on Substack. She lives in the Wedge.
