Open house 2008

Open house night at school is one of my favorite nights of the year. Sure I love to see just how creative Carson can get with a paper plate and some dried macaroni, but that's not the real reason. The real reason is that once a year, a teacher sits me down and tells me just how great a kid Carson is. And any mother can tell you, when some one compliments your child, they are really complimenting you. When a teacher says, "Carson is so well-behaved", what she really means is, "Mrs. Kosub your disciplinary techniques are revolutionary". When a teacher says, "Carson is one of the smartest kids in his class" what she really means is, "He is actually the smartest kid in the class, but I could never say that out loud with all these other parents around."

Thursday night was open house at our school and for the first time in four years, I decided to skip it. I will explain. On Monday, Carson brought home a less than stellar report card for the 5th six weeks. I wrote the teacher a note asking if I should be concerned and if so, what could I do to help him. I completely expected her to say that his grades were a bizarre anomaly and I should not be the least bit worried. I didn't hear back from her, so I caught her Thursday morning as she was walking around looking at open house projects. Bracing myself for my yearly praise-fest, I was stunned when she said that Carson is struggling with reading and that his grades reflect that. She said Carson is on "on level" in reading, but that he definitely needs some sort of tutoring this summer or he won't be ready for the rigors of 2nd grade reading. Needless to say, I was taken aback.

Summer school???? My mind conjured up images of juvenile delinquents slumped at their desks, throwing spit balls at my baby's head. Summer school is for kids on behavioral meds, not Carson. He made one tiny little 81 in phonics. I realize that this particular grade has been in steady decline since the first of the year, but come on, summer school?

As I stood there and listened, I wanted to slap, I mean, remind her that he is the youngest one in the class and that maybe, that is at the root of the problem. Of course, the only solution to him being the youngest in the class would be to hold him back and I simply can't do that to him. His teacher also cautioned against that because he is a math genius and he would be totally bored if he had to do 1st grade again. That won her back some goodwill points and I remembered why I love her so much. She is a good teacher and she is only trying to help him succeed. Once I digested the bad news, I decided to find him a tutor.

So, Carson is scheduled for an assessment at Sylvan next Saturday. And believe me when I say, making that call was not easy. Even as I made the appointment, I found myself incoherently babbling (to a perfect stranger no less) about how Carson really doesn't need alot of help, just a booster of sorts, because he is not failing for heaven's sake, just struggling with the basics you know, and we are in no way required to take summer school, we are simply looking at a way to supplement his education blah, blah, blah. I mean I went on and on like a complete idiot.

Later, as I thought about my conversation with that poor receptionist, I realized what I was doing. I wasn't making excuses for Carson; I was really making excuses for myself. Because in the end, when a mom hears that her child is failing, what she really hears is that she is failing her child. I hate that Carson gets the last of what I have to give each day. I hate that everything we do, has to get done between 6:00 and 9:00 because that is all the time we have. And I really hate feeling guilty for working. Because I love my job and I love that Dobie is there too and I love that I am good at what I do.

So what's a mom to do? Well, number one, she gets herself a housekeeper. Ours started yesterday. That way the weekends do not consist of me cleaning all day and barking at anyone who dares to walk through the fresh vacuum lines. And family time re-emerges as a weekend pastime. Number two, she accepts the fact that her child may be slightly imperfect and that this is not the end of the world (slightly harder to accomplish than Number one). And number three, she realizes that "working mom" is not the equivalent of "crappy mom". This, I am sure will be an on-going battle, especially when Emerson starts school too. But, I'm working on it.