The teacher's note

Is there anything that can shake a mother’s confidence in her ability to mother more seismically than a teacher’s note neatly tucked into her child’s homework folder?

In flawless handwriting (I’m convinced that most teachers were sit-upright-in-their-chairs, A+ in penmanship goody-goodies), the notes first convey what a joy it is to get to know my child, and then let the guillotine fall.

Lily is daydreaming half the day away and misses instruction. Jessica is turned around in her seat while the teacher is trying to teach, her penmanship is careless and sloppy and she can’t seem to remember where to put her homework each day.

Each time I get one of these notes, a cold, clammy fear takes hold of my body and I jump to the most negative conclusions possible. Lily has been having silent seizures for two years because we (I) never got her the sleep-deprived EEG the specialist gave us a prescription for (but said probably wasn’t necessary). Jessica is going to grow up to be an out-of-control, non-vegetable eating horrid pre-teen by the time she turns 7 because I’ve been too permissive and encouraged her budding gift for sarcasm, because it seemed so cute coming from a 5-year-old.

Then comes the adrenaline rush of anger and indignation against these all-knowing adults who dare to pass judgment of any kind on my children. Why, they are just free, imaginative spirits who cannot – and should not – fit into the conventional mold that public schools so desperately try to force them into.

After that – the twinge of working mother guilt rises to the surface. If only I worked closer to home, or worked 3 days per week, I could spend more time helping them navigate the public school system that, like it or not, they’re going to have to live with for the next decade. And I could be one of those perfectly organized, perky class parents, closely attuned to the teacher and the politics of the school and classroom.

In the end, I do what I do best. I call them to discuss the issues, or write them long, thoughtful notes back, trying to give them a better insight into what goes on in my little girls’ hearts and minds, and offer suggestions for how we can work together to make sure they develop a deep love for learning and school.

And I scheduled that EEG for Lily, and clued Jessica in to the fact that sarcasm and hastily scrawled ABCs are not the best way to win friends and influence people.

These notes may temporarily throw me off balance, but I’ve realized that what it comes down to is this:

My daughters are the most interesting creatures in the world to me. As a result, I listen, truly listen to them. And with a scientist’s trained eye, I watch them interact with each other and with the world.

So I can safely say that nobody knows them better than I do, and nobody can advocate for them as effectively as I can.

I’m sure I haven’t gotten my last note home from a teacher. But next time, I’ll know to take it for what it’s worth – one person’s observations about a child they don’t know very well.

And remember that when it comes to these two exasperating, imaginative, devilish, wonderful little 6-year-old girls, I am the resident expert.