When I was growing up, I had a few moments where I held my breath every school year: report cards and parent-teacher conferences. The former usually yielded decent results in regards to grading, but it was the comment section that always bit me.
“Disrupts other students during work time.”
“Too often questions teacher’s methods and curriculum.”
“Talks with others too much during lessons.”
Yeah, I was that kid. I really enjoyed school, because the classroom was my stage. I was an only child who craved attention. And there was nothing better than making my classmates laugh. My antics would often land me in the teacher’s dog house or, worse yet, the assistant principal’s office. [Side note: Why is the assistant principal always the disciplinarian and the feared one? The principal gets the cush gig with their name on the wall and the first handshake at graduation. I was called to the office too many times over the school’s PA system to know my primary foe, serenaded to the chorus of “oohs” from my peers.]
And when I couldn’t hide, edit or ‘misplace’ my report card between the mailbox and my parents’ hands, I could always negotiate my way out of the written words that didn’t reflect the full scope of my educational experience. (I’m so sorry for the current student in the modern age, where technology serves up grades directly to the emails and iPhone notifications of moms and dads.) Those conferences, though. Giving any of my teachers the better part of an hour to share the stories of my one-man show was downright scary, often paving the way for the infamous parental claim—“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.”
To harness my inner George Costanza, my worlds were colliding—my parents didn’t need to understand my school persona and my teachers didn’t need to burst the bubble of the perfect son propped up by my mom and dad. Nonetheless, I survived all these years later, building a middling career and somewhat sensitive psyche.
Imagine my excitement when I was invited to be on the other side of the equation, scheduling both my girls’ conferences within the same week. Granted, we’re talking preschool and Kindergarten, respectively, so I wasn’t expecting any stories of them caught smoking in the baseball field’s visiting team dugout during fifth period (guilty as charged). But still, I was interested to see the inner workings of these confabs, despite my wife’s pleas to “not embarrass” her or “say anything offensive.”
In both instances, I was forced to sit in overly small chairs, designed for the mini stature (and weight) of small children. While I struggled to organize my wayward knees and silently prayed for the chair’s integrity, I listened to each teacher’s initial assessment of my daughters. I waited for pregnant pauses, big “buts” and overly lengthened sighs, but they never came. The juicy experience I had mentally prepared for was relatively boring. Both were smart, sweet and sound—model students by every measure.
I was proud, of course, not that I had anything to do with it. And it was cool to hear about their soft skills. They are kind, compassionate and helpful. All things I really wasn’t. Projecting deeply rooted fears upon my own kids—something I often find myself doing more and more as they grow older—is a wonderful lesson in counterproductivity. Spending so much time worrying about the “what ifs” keeps me too disconnected from the “what nows.” I’ve realized this; now I just have to change.
As we walked out of the classroom, smiling at the personalized cubbies and hand-drawn art, I knew I still had so much to learn about this whole dad thing. My kids aren’t me. They’ll make mistakes, find success and exceed expectations, all in their own way. That’s straight As in my book.