Yesterday evening saw us make the journey to school for parents evening while good friends babysat the children.
Parents evenings are a strange experience for us. We have always known about the developmental problems our children would face - partly due to the circumstances of their early years, and party due to the huge changes that have taken place in their young lives so far.
We made it to the school with seconds to spare, and were immediately shepherded to our youngest’s teacher. I’m not sure if there is some kind of mould that first school teachers come out of, but I’m pretty sure she came out of it. She’s young, pretty, friendly, warm, optimistic… in our house she is already a legend. In the eyes of our four year old, she can do no wrong - and quite right too. First teachers are supposed to be placed on revered pedestals by young children, and recalled fondly in years to come.
Apparently one of the Mums flat out asked her how old she was. This has been quite a topic of conversation at the school gate.
Our next stop was Little Miss 6’s teacher. There’s a subtle difference between “first teachers”, and “next teachers”, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. This teacher is a little older, perhaps a little wiser, and gives the distinct impression that she’s good at telling people off. Given the knowledge that she’s teaching our little megaphone, I can quite understand the need to strike fear into the children without any outward signs of menace.
We left having been praised by both teachers on the children’s progress - which is almost entirely down to the efforts of my better half. One of the penalties of being “the one who goes to work” is that I miss out on 99% of our children’s school life. I typically arrive home as dinner hits the table, and following that there is very little time left before bedtime.
My job seems to be that of “cheerer upper”, or “teller offer”. By turns I always seem to be either sweeping somebody up for a “pick up”, or rebuking somebody for doing something they should not (or not doing something they should).
It’s funny - we are often asked to talk to prospective adopters, and the chief question is always the same; “how do you cope?”. There’s a simple answer that all parents will recognise; we don’t. We just get on with it.