Kaela and Ben both had their parent conferences at school a couple of weeks ago. They could not have been better reflections of our kids! I'm still cracking up.
First of all, let me just preface this by saying that we are not the kind of parents who need everything to be perfect. I'm a teacher. I know my children. I know their teachers. I have no delusions of their intelligence or behavior or innocence in daily skirmishes. I wouldn't think I would be intimidating in a conference. Just tell me what you see...
SO...Kaela goes to school where I teach. I was able to choose her teacher, and I can see all of her test scores, etc. through our school's computer system if I want to. I don't look. We know that she is smart. And disorganized. And worries too much. We weren't expecting any surprises. Her teacher was sooo funny. She worried that we would question how she challenges Kaela in math, so she brought out all this documentation. Eric took a legal pad with him with a list of fake questions on it just to freak her out--and it worked. :-) She said her belly hurt as soon as she saw that notepad. Crack me up! She told us that she can continue to differentiate in the classroom for Kaela for now. As she gets older, we will have other options to consider to ensure that she is challenged. And we got all this information about parenting high-potential learners, which I don't care a bit about--I just want her to like school. To be friendly and respectful. To not be anxious. And to keep her cubby organized.
Easy, schmeazy conference.
Then we arrived to the preschool for Ben's conference. We joke all that time that Ben isn't going to break a sweat or waste a minute worrying over anything. He is SO HAPPY. His teacher is also amazing--perfect temperament for Ben. So we sit down across the table from her, and she leans over and says to me gently, "Amy, Ben hates working on his letters." Well, I had just left Kaela's conference, and was all ready with the "we trust you to give him what he needs academically, and we don't worry about his learning" talk, when she repeated, "Really. He REALLY hates his letters." So I'm beginning to worry just a tad, and I say, "Well, he's young. His birthday is right on the cutoff, and we aren't sure whether we'll start him in school next year or not..." and she laughs and says, "Um....yeah. I could support that." And she pulls out his little portfolio of work, and I mean the kid has scribbled on EVERY letter. Dug that crayon in! There were notes on a couple that said, "He seems to understand this one!" with smiley faces on them. And I began to laugh. That's our boy! The pediatrician says it's a little thing called the "Y chromosome." We know he's smart--he has the vocabulary of an encyclopedia, and a sense of humor that is just plain witty. But the boy hates to work on letters. When we do it at home, he sticks out his bottom lip, slumps his shoulders, and eventually covers his head. "I hate this boring stuff," he complains. Not born to be a reader, it seems, at this stage in his educational career.
He was, however, born to be a little brother.
So we leave the conferences, and he says to Kaela in the parking lot as we're walking out, "You're not smart."
And she says, "Yes I am, Ben. Who taught you about black widow spiders?"
And he replies, "I learned that in a book. Your brain is tiny."
"Who taught you about praying mantises?"
"Your brain is still tiny."
She was getting agitated. "Who taught you about the little snails...?"
Ben repeated, (his favorite way to annoy us) "Your brain is still tiny."
And Kaela, having exasperated all other options, drove in the final nails. "Hey, Ben? Where do you think you're going to school next year? Big school? Think again, little brother!"
And with an evil laugh, our evening of fall conferences went into the books for another year.
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