Reflections

Parent/Teacher Night was last night.

I’ve gone every year for the past 5 years. It’s a quick greeting, followed by a synopsis of curriculum and classroom expectations and goals for the year. Sophie had already told me she thought that this might very well be her favorite teacher of her illustrious school career thus far. Nothing new here, she claimed the same about every teacher for the previous four school years. I, of course, have my favorites and I think I might agree with her that this years’ teacher might be on PinF’s short list as well.

There is, for those of you who haven’t visited an elementary school room in many years, something very cathartic about doing so. It is the one common denominator we all share, along with the same hopes, fears, aspirations, and experiences­ -- all in different degrees mind you, but similar all the same. So there I sat in my daughter’s chair. Viewing what her daily world looks like from day to day. Trying to imagine her little mind at work. My first impression was why she can’t she keep her bedroom as neat and orderly as her desk was.

My second impression? How many silly, clueless, and nervous Nellie parents there are in the world. I don’t know if it’s because I’m one of maybe two fathers in the class, and women are just different, or if I just seem to recognize some women who are too involved. Instead of just taking it all in and maybe reserving questions for after the teacher’s presentation, many parents seem to want to pose questions on a personal level about their children’s performance. This is often done by way of a statement-pseudo-question where the parent begins with “…Bobby says…,” I don’t get that. Luckily there are usually only a few of these parents and the one’s that are clued in usually recognize each other with a knowing nod.

Of course every parent wants to hear good things, PinF is no different. Probably one of the great disappointments of parenting is to realize that the cooperative, angelic, and responsible child you thought you were raising was the complete opposite in class. For some parents this was obviously the case, either by way of the state of their messy desks, missing papers that were to be on display for parents, or the chart of behavior demerits on the wall. Nothing egregious mind you, just fourth grade stuff; forgot my homework, talking in class, hitting, etc.

So it was that that when I got my opportunity to speak with Ms. Pifer I just let her speak, not trying to tell her about my kid, but rather letting her tell me, she is after all the third most powerful person in my daughter’s life­ at least until May. Blessed as I am, I got exactly what every parent longs to hear. “She’s a joy to have in class….always follows directions….is reading above grade level…..her cursive is very nice….” What I did to deserve this, I’m still trying to figure out, but I’ll take it.

The memories that come rushing back to your mind as you sit in a miniature desk looking at the cursive writing chart are for the most part incredibly vivid. You can actually relate to the smells, the sights, and the sounds of school, even a modern one with computers and CCTV’s. Even more interesting are the many emotions you recall of excitement for the year, goals you want to achieve, and the sense of moving on that each successive grade represents. You can feel all of this and more as you step out of your own daily grind and world, and sit behind a little desk, in a little chair, attentively listening to teacher lay out the plan for the coming year. My “plan” is to try and get her to savor her years, as they are going very quickly now.

The presentation complete, we were asked to take out a letter each student had written to their parents and respond with a letter back for them to read when they came to school the next day. Sophie, like any kid, thanked us for her stuff in life, her summer vacations to the Keys and her cruise to Mexico. The last sentence was the most telling, written in the innocuous way that only a nine year-old can write it to her parents: Thanks for making me.

Little can she realize now, that it was her who made us.