The Parent-Teacher Conference

We’re about two weeks out from the twice-yearly event that has me waking up in the middle of the night with sweaty palms. The Parent-Teacher Conference.  

I love the teachers. I hate the conferences. I know they are important but I can’t help feeling that it’s my mothering skills, not my boys’ academic performances, that are being critiqued. I know this is twisted. I’ve always believed that children are NOT extensions of their parents, that they are separate individuals with their own personalities, skills and challenges, and that we should not take everything they do and make it all about us. But that objective wisdom escapes me when I squeeze my behind into those little chairs and face the teacher.  I feel like I should show up with a nice apple for the desk.

When a teacher says, “Your child would benefit from a little more nightly study,” I hear “You are a big fat loser because your son has an itouch and you’ve allowed him too much time to play with it.”

When another teacher says, “Your child needs to focus a bit more in class,” I hear “You know all those Little Debbie Swiss Rolls you ate while you were pregnant? Well, you’re paying the price for them now.”

When I’m told, “Your child gets a little rowdy during recess,” I hear, “You just couldn’t give up the caffeine while you were carrying him, right?”

Conversely, if an instructor says, “Your child is well-liked by his peers and is a good leader,” I hear, “It’s a good thing he’s got you for a mother because you’ve clearly raised him right.”

My boys have always been blessed with great teachers. Very committed. Very kind. Nevertheless, I skulk into and then skulk out of these meetings. It’s enough to make me want to homeschool. Which is saying a lot since I’ve always declared that the Almighty himself would have to walk in my house and instruct me to homeschool my kids before I’d even consider it.

Thank goodness my husband is usually present to serve as the voice of reason after these meetings. But oddly, when the teacher says “Your child needs to focus,” my husband hears, “Your child needs to focus.” Weird. He clearly doesn’t know how to read between the lines.

And I know he thinks I’m a little wacky about all this. Maybe. But I’m going to go polish some apples just in case.