Yes, folks, it's that time of year again. The end of the first marking period approaches and reports cards will be prepared.
I hate report cards. Maybe if they had all smiley faces or a consistant string of straight A scores, I'd pay them about as much attention as my parents once did, which means barely a cursory glance with a vague "good job" to boot. Instead, I get to count down the days until I have to explain once again what anything less than a C means for my oldest boy's future. This may sound a tad bit pessimistic, but you should know it's experience speaking here. This happens every marking period.
And I hate it.
Just once I'd like a report card with his name on it that doesn't have DOOM written all over it in invisible ink. I'd love to give hugs and kisses and extoll praise. I'd even gladly clean out my wallet if I thought bribery would help (it doesn't).
On the upside, I feel pretty confident the little guy's scores will be just fine. More than fine, actually. Not that we make a big deal out of it because over-the-top praise for one seems cruel when the oldest tries so much harder than the younger one who just naturually picks up on things. Yes, that's right. The child who puts hours and hours into his homework almost always is on the verge of failing, whereas the child who breezes through everything in ten minutes gets good grades.
Life is not fair. It's a lesson my oldest boy is well schooled in.