I'm very slowly getting used to this juggling three kids thing. Some people just pick up the ball (or new baby) and run with it, but I'm more of a stumble-and-fall-and-nearly-drop-the-baby kind of person before I start my dash to the other side of the field. It takes me a while to catch on to new ideas and sports have never been my thing.
Around noon I showered, dressed, put on some make-up on and threw some de-frizzer in my locks before heading out the door to Intrepid's parent-teacher interview. Spawnling came with, of course, and slept the entire time because he loves being all snuggly warm in his snowsuit. When Spawnling and I were waiting outside the classroom we were bombarded with teachers who came by to say hello. I was told I look 'too beautiful to be a new mother.'
... Um, how, exactly? What makes me look great? Is it the grey hair protruding from my months-old highlight job? Or perhaps my double chin matches Spawnlings just perfectly? Teachers are loco, man. Apparently all you have to do is slap some lipstick on to look 'beautiful' or 'radiant' after a child. I'm going to write a book about it and make millions. I might even get to go on Oprah, which is every stay-at-home-mom's dream, right? I hear she has free bon-bons in the green room.
Anyway, back to the parent-teacher lovefest. The very best way to tell if your child is doing well in school prior to the meeting is to check the time slot. If it's a 15 minute time slot, you're fine. If it's 30 minutes, you have problems. Intrepid's kindergarten and grade 1 conferences were 30 minutes in length. By grade 1 I was sweating more than a middle-aged man at an Eagles concert.
Then the magic happened: Grade 2, the hearing loss diagnosis and the first full year with hearing aids. I was beyond thrilled to receive our time slot of 2:30-2:45pm. Fifteen minutes! All good news, no bad news and happy Maven walked out with a huge grin on her face. Grade 3 was more of the same.
The lovefest this time went well, too. He has the same teacher as last year and she happens to adore him. However, she used the awful g-word on three separate occasions. I don't know if my wincing was apparent, but she did talk to me about IQ tests ('I'd love to see how high he would score') and when I said I try to teach Intrepid that everyone is smart in their own way and he's no different than anyone else in that respect, she said 'But he *is* different. You do realize that, right?'
*sigh*
Yes. Yes I get that. But I also hate labels and don't want to stick any on my child. Why do that anyway? He does really well in school, is kept plenty busy by some enrichment she throws at him when he's bored (and it's in his IEP along with the hearing loss, so every teacher from here on out is legally required to provide said enrichment anyway), he has no social issues, loves school and is truly thriving in every respect. How is calling him 'gifted' going to do anything for him? I think it could hurt him at this point more than anything.
Maybe I'm overreacting a bit. Ok, I know I am. Is this at all surprising to anyone who knows me or reads my frenzied blog posts? Proabably not.
Yesterday, Jobthingy posted about cheerleaders, or more specifically, social status in school (sorry boys - not that kind of post). I was a tremendous loser all throughout school. I was smart, friendly, cute in my own right (until the mess that was puberty. Ick.), certainly wouldn't hurt a fly and had a large 'DOORMAT - PLACE FOOT HERE' tatooed across my forehead. School was a terrible place, for while I scored A's in virtually all subjects, I was teased more than the bangs of an 80's metal singer. There was no icky g-word floating through our school system at the time, but if there was I probably would have had it stamped just above my other forehead tatoo. I have no doubt social homicide would have soon followed.
I realize things have changed between then and now. Geeks are in and nobody's sharing a pair of boots with their brother so they can walk uphill both ways through ten feet of snow to get to their one room schoolhouse. Those were the days.
Still, I guess I'm of the philosphy that if something isn't broken then there's no need to fix it. Thus, there is no need to place labels on a child who's happy and doing well. I think the term itself is unecessary. Let's use 'quirky' or something. Heck, I didn't mind her and the french teacher saying 'He's a very neat kid'. I agree! Let's stick with 'neat', shall we? Nobody gets beat up or made to feel different because they're 'neat'.
Intrepid had to write out his own report card as if he were a teacher evaluating him. Here's what he put down under 'This describes me as a student':
Can you see why a label would be bad for this child? He already thinks quite highly of himself. His teacher calls it 'confidence'. That's a nice way of putting it. I like people who can turn anything into a quality.
No idea where he gets that ego from. No idea at all.
Around noon I showered, dressed, put on some make-up on and threw some de-frizzer in my locks before heading out the door to Intrepid's parent-teacher interview. Spawnling came with, of course, and slept the entire time because he loves being all snuggly warm in his snowsuit. When Spawnling and I were waiting outside the classroom we were bombarded with teachers who came by to say hello. I was told I look 'too beautiful to be a new mother.'
... Um, how, exactly? What makes me look great? Is it the grey hair protruding from my months-old highlight job? Or perhaps my double chin matches Spawnlings just perfectly? Teachers are loco, man. Apparently all you have to do is slap some lipstick on to look 'beautiful' or 'radiant' after a child. I'm going to write a book about it and make millions. I might even get to go on Oprah, which is every stay-at-home-mom's dream, right? I hear she has free bon-bons in the green room.
Anyway, back to the parent-teacher lovefest. The very best way to tell if your child is doing well in school prior to the meeting is to check the time slot. If it's a 15 minute time slot, you're fine. If it's 30 minutes, you have problems. Intrepid's kindergarten and grade 1 conferences were 30 minutes in length. By grade 1 I was sweating more than a middle-aged man at an Eagles concert.
Then the magic happened: Grade 2, the hearing loss diagnosis and the first full year with hearing aids. I was beyond thrilled to receive our time slot of 2:30-2:45pm. Fifteen minutes! All good news, no bad news and happy Maven walked out with a huge grin on her face. Grade 3 was more of the same.
The lovefest this time went well, too. He has the same teacher as last year and she happens to adore him. However, she used the awful g-word on three separate occasions. I don't know if my wincing was apparent, but she did talk to me about IQ tests ('I'd love to see how high he would score') and when I said I try to teach Intrepid that everyone is smart in their own way and he's no different than anyone else in that respect, she said 'But he *is* different. You do realize that, right?'
*sigh*
Yes. Yes I get that. But I also hate labels and don't want to stick any on my child. Why do that anyway? He does really well in school, is kept plenty busy by some enrichment she throws at him when he's bored (and it's in his IEP along with the hearing loss, so every teacher from here on out is legally required to provide said enrichment anyway), he has no social issues, loves school and is truly thriving in every respect. How is calling him 'gifted' going to do anything for him? I think it could hurt him at this point more than anything.
Maybe I'm overreacting a bit. Ok, I know I am. Is this at all surprising to anyone who knows me or reads my frenzied blog posts? Proabably not.
Yesterday, Jobthingy posted about cheerleaders, or more specifically, social status in school (sorry boys - not that kind of post). I was a tremendous loser all throughout school. I was smart, friendly, cute in my own right (until the mess that was puberty. Ick.), certainly wouldn't hurt a fly and had a large 'DOORMAT - PLACE FOOT HERE' tatooed across my forehead. School was a terrible place, for while I scored A's in virtually all subjects, I was teased more than the bangs of an 80's metal singer. There was no icky g-word floating through our school system at the time, but if there was I probably would have had it stamped just above my other forehead tatoo. I have no doubt social homicide would have soon followed.
I realize things have changed between then and now. Geeks are in and nobody's sharing a pair of boots with their brother so they can walk uphill both ways through ten feet of snow to get to their one room schoolhouse. Those were the days.
Still, I guess I'm of the philosphy that if something isn't broken then there's no need to fix it. Thus, there is no need to place labels on a child who's happy and doing well. I think the term itself is unecessary. Let's use 'quirky' or something. Heck, I didn't mind her and the french teacher saying 'He's a very neat kid'. I agree! Let's stick with 'neat', shall we? Nobody gets beat up or made to feel different because they're 'neat'.
Intrepid had to write out his own report card as if he were a teacher evaluating him. Here's what he put down under 'This describes me as a student':
I am Intrepid, a good student and who's work is pretty well done for a grade 4. I do all my work when I need to but sometimes I slack off or day-dream But I always learn something new at school.
I have a natural talent for writing, reading and math; my I.Q. is a small amount higher than average and I know almost any equation.
Example: (gives multiplication and answer, which is incidentally wrong).
Can you see why a label would be bad for this child? He already thinks quite highly of himself. His teacher calls it 'confidence'. That's a nice way of putting it. I like people who can turn anything into a quality.
No idea where he gets that ego from. No idea at all.