A guide to teachers’ code
My palms are clammy and my stomach is aflutter with butterflies.
I sit and shuffle my feet as I awkwardly attempt to keep my balance
on a chair meant for someone with a second-grade-sized posterior.My
posterior is several second-graders sized. Entire
second-graders.
I imagine that when I stand up again, the tiny chair will have
all but disappeared, which makes me chuckle at an inappropriate
moment.
A guide to teachers’ code
My palms are clammy and my stomach is aflutter with butterflies. I sit and shuffle my feet as I awkwardly attempt to keep my balance on a chair meant for someone with a second-grade-sized posterior.My posterior is several second-graders sized. Entire second-graders.
I imagine that when I stand up again, the tiny chair will have all but disappeared, which makes me chuckle at an inappropriate moment.
The Teacher has just informed me that The Boy has to sometimes be moved from his seat in “group” to another area as he is “quite social” (read, “talks way too much and I can’t get him to shut up, no matter how many red checks I put by his name on the board.”)
The Husband gives me a strange look from his perch on the same-sized chair. Only in his case, when he stands up, I imagine he’ll take the whole desk with him, too.
I sober up fast and lean forward in an equal attempt to keep from falling sideways and to appear completely focused on the moment. A completely attentive parent, concerned about her child’s education.
Why do all teachers do that thing when they tell you that your kid’s a total disruptive little (insert un-kid friendly expletive here) in class? They try to put this positive spin on it after telling you about these offenses:
He runs with scissors turns into: “He is so active and creative at the same time!”
He talks incessantly with the kid next to him and even more with the ones who aren’t, turns into: “He is friendly with anyone, from all different backgrounds.”
He shouts out the answers without raising his hand, with or without actually knowing the right answer, turns into: “He is so eager to participate in class and encourages others to join in the discussion, with their own interpretations.”
He chased Johnny and then pushed him down for taking the ball, turns into: “He is all about fairness. If he sees a wrong, he’ll try to make it right, in his own special way.”
Johnny’s parents might hear: Johnny is fun and encourages games of tag with the other children.
All that to soften the blow of finding out that your kid has impulse control issues.
I am gearing up for Parent/Teacher conference time again. This year, I am hoping that the chairs have graduated into a sturdier third-grade backside-size while also hoping that my own backside didn’t graduate, too.
I can feel the butterflies resurfacing just thinking about it; sitting across from another teacher who will put her own positive spin on The Boy’s aversion to anything that requires sitting still. Meanwhile, The Husband and I will silently wonder to ourselves how to disentangle from the petite furniture that we’ve somehow managed to squeeze into. Again.
We’d filled out the form that she had sent home, requesting the time most convenient to us, for all of us to meet. A few days later, she called and left a voicemail stating that it would be more convenient for her if we met another day. To afford us more time to “discuss” The Boy’s “strengths.” Strengths? Uh oh. That might sound good, but any parent knows that’s just bad news.
I can’t imagine anyone who actually thinks that breaking into song in the middle of “Quiet Reading Time” is a strength. Unless his voice is really, really good and Simon Cowell has approached him to be the next American Idol. Not that I know if he’s actually done that, but it seems like something that The Teacher could be reserving for just this special occasion.
So in a few days, when the butterflies have mutated into a full-blown sanctuary, I’ll find out just how much trouble I am … I mean, The Boy is in.
