Sitting here in a little blue plastic chair in the school corridor, facing the closed classroom door, I feel nervous and guilty, braced for punishment.
I’m a picture of grown-up self-possession, but inside I’m staring at my shoes, chin quivering.
(The secret pleasure and torment of parenthood is that it keeps catapulting us back to our own childhoods, like some kind of emotional time machine.)
But I’m not in any trouble. At least I don’t think I am. It’s parent-teacher interview time, and we’re up next.
Two weeks into a new school year seems a little early. Do these teachers even have the names of these, what, 24, 25, kids straight yet? I get our own children’s names mixed up on a daily basis, and there are only two of them. (To be clear, these are slips of the tongue rather than actual confusion over their identities, but you see what I mean).
They’ve just started grades two and four, both with new teachers and class groups. Our son, who’s seven, has expressed no opinion on these, beyond continuing to state his preference for not going to school.
I’m a picture of grown-up self-possession, but inside I’m staring at my shoes, chin quivering.
Our daughter finds her new teacher pretty strict and doesn’t approve of her having favourites. To be fair, house point deduction for in-class shoulder-shrugs or yawns does sound a little draconian, but the dramatic tension might give the lessons some extra edge.
As for the favourites thing. I take my hat off to any teacher that can help having favourites. Faced with a full gamut of learning styles, from the eager to the permanently indifferent or distracted (not to mention challenging behaviour and booger-disposition habits), how could any human-being, with all the professionalism in the world, not warm more to some little people than to others?
Our son will celebrate a birthday in a couple of weeks. There will be a party. Among the guests will be at least one kid whose company I’ll enjoy, and another I’ll find as agreeable as ingrown toenails. And as I dish out the slices of birthday cake, though I’ll do my best to be even-handed with the icing-to-sponge ratios, who’s to say I won’t be swayed by a degree of unconscious bias?
Yes, we expect more from our teachers. Maybe too much. The one we’re waiting to see is already a quarter of an hour behind schedule, and our son’s name is only the third on her list. The 10-minute slot for each interview was never going to be enough. What time is she going to get home this evening? (I hope she has snacks in there.)
The teachers I’ve known have told me it’s the parents who wear them down, not the children. The ones who want to micromanage every step of their unique kid’s progress have great intentions, but there are only so many hours in a day. And then there are the parents who don’t want to know at all.
Damn, are we being too high maintenance?
Hey. Wait a second. This interview with our son’s new teacher is important, it’s an opportunity, not a burden. Let’s hold back a little on the teacher-empathy I’m breathing in with the school corridor air (as distinctive a noseful as a hospital’s) - I’ve got to remember I’m here for our son.
School is not going great for him. He has a diagnosis for autism spectrum disorder, without intellectual disability, though his assessment shows learning is unlikely to be any picnic. He can find the classroom and playground arenas of bewilderment and shame. (Though he has fun, too.)
We want to talk to his teacher about how she can best engage him, support his learning, motivate him to get his attention on task. We’re looking to come up with some ideas, maybe get an occupational therapist to observe him in the classroom and help us with some strategies.
Damn, are we being too high maintenance?
In turn, I’m guessing his teacher will have to point out that, when his focus drifts, which is often, he’ll look to distract others, and that’s a problem. And we’ll agree to work on that from home.
She wants the same as we do. To make his time at school as rewarding as possible, and to help him make positive contributions to the classroom. She also wants to finish this conversation in ten minutes, and not get home any later.
The classroom door in front of us opens, and two parents of illegible expression emerge through it.
Maybe it’s the rush of blood to the head, but up on my feet I’m suddenly feeling good about this interview. It’s a chance for us and this teacher, this brand new player in his and our lives, to establish a partnership, some goals, a bit of rapport. This is the start of us working together, for him.
But as I follow my partner into the grade two classroom, where the teacher awaits us, with a big smile and outstretched hand, I can’t quite shake this weird hope that she gives me a gold star reward.
Ian Rose is a freelance writer. You can follow Ian on Twitter @IanRose.
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