This is with Rockstar’s Teacher Whom I Didn’t Like, let’s call her Ms N. I avoid conversations with Ms N because I don’t want to open mouth insert foot when my son will be in her class for a few more months. He’s starting at ESF in September anyway.
A little background history: my son was in love. Her name was Audrey. She had Suri Cruise’s bobbed haircut, only in a dark blonde shade, and enormous eyes fringed with thick lashes. But that wasn’t why for weeks any little girl or princess in his bedtime stories was by default “Audreee.” My son was sweet on Audreee because when he was the new toddler in school, she was the first to approach him.
Then it was time to start upgrading to an older class. Audreee and her twin brother George are 3 months younger, but they were upgraded markedly earlier than Rockstar was. In fact, they were the only ones – everyone else was kept back in the baby class without a word to their mums (hence my displeasure, mixed with my own guilt at thinking I had been distracted by a bumblebee, thereby failing to switch Rockstar’s class on time when he reached the right age.)
Another mum, who attended the baby class with her daughter every day, wrote a long complaint email at not being informed her daughter was held back, whereas yours truly initially thought she was supposed to do the upgrading herself and quickly booked Rockstar into a more advanced class (the person in charge of scheduling did the upgrade without comment, thereby perpetuating this belief) before then bumping into emailing mum and learning it was Ms N who did the upgrading when the toddler was deemed “ready”. Ok, so maybe this has a teeny tiny bit to do with why GlaMum doesn’t want to meet Ms N.
Ah, well. And I couldn’t get Rockstar into Audreee’s class either, poor excuse for a GlaMum that I am. I don’t even want to Go There, That Place where I observe Audreee and George were the only Caucasians of around the same age in our class, (save for Ms N who is a tad older) – they were after all twins attending the same class and may have thus picked up much faster, having each other to lean on throughout.
I type this having just finished with Ms N. Kings and I sat side by side and across from her, having read How to Prepare for Parent-Teacher Conferences before showing up. We were 5 minutes late. She was waiting for us at the main entrance. Oops.
“He didn’t say much in the baby class, and then after he upgraded, my goodness, there were all these words,” she exclaims. Peering cautiously at her, I wonder if Rockstar has been cussing in her class – the one “grownup” phrase I never managed to exorcise from my vocabulary around him was “Oh, shit,” a knee-jerk when I drop something. Sometimes he deliberately drops things so he can use the phrase. Not GlaMum’s most shining moment, I know.
“Some children just do better in the more advanced classes when they realize they have to fend for themselves. Suddenly I find he’s got so many words,” she’s almost apologetic. Oh. As I say it is when I realize it myself, “I quit my job around the time I switched him to the more advanced class. We spend every morning together, usually on walks to the parks or playgrounds.” Wow, she looks relieved.
I should be absolutely delighted by the time I get to posting this. But right now all I can feel is a little unnerved – what if I hadn’t quit my job?
“Oh, and we shifted things around – Audrey and George are now in his class.” Yay.
