A For Effort

What I’ve learned six weeks into this academic school year is that I'm earning about a D minus as a parent.  

I’m nearly failing my children by making them go to school even when they don’t feel well (“But my lips hurt real bad!” said Madison last week channeling Napoleon Dynamite).  I’m nearly failing school administrators because my family bus runs, on average, 65 seconds short of the starting bell.  And I’m completely failing myself because as of yet, I haven’t been able to raise any academic self-starters.    

But don’t take my word for it, this was all confirmed at parent-teacher conferences last week. 

Because I pride myself on being a lifelong learner, I will acknowledge that my terminology is somewhat behind.  Conferences have since been designated as Early Interventions, though I hesitate to fully embrace this new title. Having attended as many of these meetings as I have in my career as mom (x5), I would definitely call them something else.   I could teach seminars entitled “Poopy Parenting 101” or “It’s All Your Fault Your Child is Failing!”

But because two separate teachers called me on two separate days encouraging me to attend, I encouraged myself to push aside any maternal insecurities and suck it up.  And if that meant dragging along two teenagers, a ten-year-old, as well as Max and Kenny for the sake of intervention, then so be it. 

Take a picture—this is my life.

With interim reports and stroller in hands, we began our interventions tackling first the most precarious of academia.

Conference one was a twofer.  I wish I had known that Stancey and Madison shared a class prior to walking in.  As I talked with the teacher, Max and Kenny were content to climb from one desk to another, Madison rocked on his heels in worry, and Stancey observed through the fray of her bangs, quietly detached.  She did, however, interject that the class was “dumb” and “boring” and that she already knew everything.  She must be right because she’s holding a pretty strong D in there.  And Madison, in what was to become the theme of the evening, was a good kid but didn’t complete homework assignments. 

At the close, I affirmed that I would check their daily work.  I would download and print their study guides.  I would orchestrate study groups.  Hell, I would even take their tests if need be.  After ten minutes, and no serious injuries, I considered our first “intervention” a success. 

Unbroken, we moved on to intervention number two.  I thanked the teacher for her concerned phone call as I watched Thing One and Thing Two perform circus acrobatics on the computer lab chairs.

By the third intervention, the motifs of the evening were unobstructed.  Stancey knew everything and Madison did no homework. As I watched Max telletubbie across the dirty vinyl floor, I began to question why I was even there when it was apparent Stancey and Madison obviously felt interventions were not necessary.

Defeated, I walked my wounded soul back to the car, talking to another parent departing from her own intervention. 

Enthusiastically she said, “She’s doing great!  No complaints!  How about yours?”

I didn’t know where to start.  Dare I mention the collective missing assignments, tardiness, and bad attitude? 

“Great!”  I lied, smiling until my cheeks went numb.  “School…is… just… great!”

As I drove home, I gazed in the rearview mirror just as Stancey swiped Kenny’s head.  As he screamed in mock pain, I contemplated my effectiveness as a mom. 

As for the rest of the teachers I never managed to see that night, I followed up the next day with E-mail.  And I was right.  The theme of the evening never wavered.  Ultimately, I can’t make my kids be model students.  I can, however, threaten them.  And even if my grade as a parent is a D minus, I should at least get an A for effort.