If You’re Struggling With Homeschooling a Preschooler, You’re Not Alone

According to UNICEF, at least 40 million preschool children worldwide have missed out on early education because of COVID-19. This is a staggering statistic, but while I was searching for information on how missing preschool could affect a child’s development, I could not find any data on how many would-be preschoolers have started naming letters of the alphabet “Jeff.”

Anecdotally, I can report that the number is at least one.

Like many children, my 4-year-old daughter has had a rocky year of “preschool.” Because we were not comfortable sending her in person to what would have been her year of state-funded voluntary pre-kindergarten, and virtual preschool was unavailable, we have been winging it.

With two older siblings in virtual elementary school for all or most of the school year, my daughter’s most consistent preschool teacher has been Blippi. When I have found time and space to take up the baton, things have been, well, uneven.

In addition to what I consider to be “soft learning” situations like playing card or board games, role-playing with dolls, and watching that little girl on YouTube whose dad is richer and more accomplished than I am, I’ve tried to institute a small amount of more formal learning at least a couple of times a week. The only way my daughter will allow this to proceed is if she sits in the blue chair that has her oldest brother’s name embroidered on it (you know, one of those gifts you get for first children and first children only) and writes on a small white table that has seen better days. Also, she must be flanked by at least two “classmates” that are chosen from our collection of stuffed animals and dolls.

I am typically required to address my daughter as “Strawberry” even though that’s not her real name. If I slip up and call her by her given name, we have to start over. It might seem harsh, but I understand that them’s the rules.

After the classmates are chosen, the chair and table are arranged just right, and my daughter’s pencil is tucked behind her ear where it belongs, I usually open the proceedings by addressing the class in a voice that is not my own. It’s hard to describe the voice I do, but in my head, it sounds like I’m a very proper sommelier at an extremely snooty restaurant presenting a wine list. Does that make sense? No matter. My daughter always interrupts my salutations by saying, “Why are you talking like that?”

And I’m like, “I don’t know. This is just how I talk now, Strawberry.”

After welcoming the class and commenting on how lovely or terrible the weather is that day, I hesitate because I have absolutely no idea what to do next. It’s kind of like I have a very specific type of amnesia that makes me forget how to run a preschool class for a girl and two to four stuffed animals and dolls even though I do it every few days.

My daughter typically saves the day by reminding me that I’m supposed to ask the class to take out their pencil and paper.

“Class! Take out your picture and paper and let’s start by writing your name at the top,” I say.

My daughter raises her hand and says, “I don’t know how to write my name.”

“I’ve seen you write your name.”

“I DON’T know how to write Strawberry.”

“Ugh. Yes, right. Sorry, Strawberry. Forgot about that somehow!”

And since there’s not much school-wise a person can do without knowing letters, we start working on letters.

“Alright, class,” I say, sounding quite proper, “can anyone tell me what this letter is.”

I write the letter “A” on a sheet of paper and point to it. My daughter raises her hand, I call on her, and she gives the correct answer. I ask her to write the letter down on her paper and we move onto the subsequent letters until we get to “D.”

“Can anyone tell me what this letter is? Yes, Ms. Strawberry!”

“D, but I’m going to draw a square because it’s easier,” she says.

“Fantastic!”

We continue in this manner until we get to the letters she doesn’t really know, I try to correct her, she insists that her name for the letter is right, we agree to disagree, and go about the rest of our day as if nothing happened.

Usually, she just swaps the names of letters, but one day when I pointed at the letter “P,” she said, “Oh, that’s Jeff!”

I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that one — they literally never talk about this in the at-home preschool manuals — so we cut class short that day and went to see what Blippi was up to.

Typically, I try not to think too much about what my daughter has missed or what her first year of school might look like when she goes straight to kindergarten in August. I’ve been pleased to see that she’s come out of her shell in the last year and been more agreeable to participating in activities when they are available. I tend to assume the rest will take care of itself eventually.

Anyway, I don’t want to spend a lot of time dwelling on the future. Particularly when that future likely includes an empty house on school days with no girl asking me to play dolls, no boys in front of their computer classrooms, and no Jeff.

It’s going to be so weird. I mean, even weirder than whatever this is that we’re doing right now.