Grading systems of élite high school teachers

A: What grade should M. get?

Z: Is it his birthday?

Good question

A.: Z, can I introduce you to your taco? (pitched high, voicing taco) "Hi Z.! Please eat me!"

Z.: (addressing taco) Why do you want to die so soon?

Didactic moment

So A. and I have a lesbian-feminist tendency to interrogate the whole happily-ever-after-hetero thing when we read fairy tales to Z., because they are so poisonous. And I'm embarrassed to say it's become reflexive, but I got my comeuppance a few weeks ago. I keep meaning to blog it, so here goes. Remember, Z. is FOUR:

In the car, driving around Eakins Oval, the Beatles are on.

Mama: Z., do you think that's really true, that all you need is love?
Z.: No!
Mama: So what else do you think you need?
Z., hesitant: Vulnerability?

The benefits of a religious education

S.: Z., the Miriam who's your pretend friend, is she the same Miriam who's in the Bible?

Z.: No, she's a DIFFerent Miriam. And her brother Moses is a DIFFerent Moses. Not dah Moses who's in da Bible who supposes his toses are roses.

S.: Not that Moses?

Z.: No, not dat one. A different one.

Smear

When she went out of town last weekend, A. brought Z. back some Chapstick as a "surprise." It's cherry.

The first night Z. had it, I came into the room to do my part of the goodnight ritual and found her sitting up in bed, the room filled with the smell of candy, red candy.

"Z., what are you doing?"

"I'm lip-bumming myself!"

(Happy Valentine's Day, all!)

Dilemma

Z.: What's more important, sleeping or being loved?

Tough audience

Z.: Say somethsing dat I thzink is funny, and den I'll write it down.

A.: The pressure! The pressure!

Z.: Dat's not funny.


(I wonder where she gets that from...I wonder....)

Snow day

(photo courtesy of A. Z. is on the left, Impish Neighbor Girl on the right.)

Family picture

I had my first-ever parent conference yesterday. I've been ignoring them for three years because I imagined they would go like this:

Year 1:

Z.'s First Teacher: Z. is great. She's your first baby and I've had three and been running this class for a million years, so let me tell you, you're doing everything wrong.
Me: (cries)

Year 2:

Z.'s First Teacher: Z. is great. I am dying of cancer and I'm here on time every day. What excuse do you have for being too depressed to get her to school on time?
Me: (cries)

Year 3:

Z.'s Third Teacher: Z. is great. We sure wish she didn't miss play time every single day.
Me: (hems and haws. Manages not to cry until returning home.)

None of these scenarios happened, you understand, *because* I imagined them, and that gave me the foresight to avoid them. I never even signed up for a conference before this year. Also, until this year, all the times were in the morning, and in the winter I don't do so well with mornings.

This year, though, I signed up. Valiantly, I persisted in signing up, time and again! I missed the first two, because they were in the morning (see winter mornings and me, above), and then I asked if I took an afternoon appointment (they were right there on the schedule) whether Z. would have coverage. Z.'s current teacher said fine, so yesterday I showed up and Z. went to after care for a bit, and everything zipped along. It helped that Current Teacher had written up a two-page, single-spaced evaluation of Z.: it was organized by category like "Social Development" and "Cognitive Development," and she gave it to me in advance and I loved it! It was like getting to spy on my kid in school, and what mom doesn't long for that chance?

The conference was parent catnip, I tell you. Z. is a knockout, an artist, a dancer, a performer, a compassionate friend, a champion of memory feats, full of Yiddishkeit. What could be better?

Well. Her teacher had put aside a picture Z. made of her family. In it, all of her grownups are color-coded. A. is blue, Uncle Donor is red, my father is yellow, etc. In it, my mother, Z., and I are all purple. And I'm vast. I take up a third of the page, and Z. has herself nestled up against me, and we are looking at each other, and everyone else looks into the center, the constellation of her family revolving around us. Z.'s a little too little to make faces that smile, but the lines that represent our mouths are clearly doting ones.

I know I will become more and more peripheral to her. I know that process will be painful to me in lots of ways. But oh, oh, oh. This week my Doodle filled my heart to overflowing.

Two from last night

S.: [relating a Dave Chappelle skit posted on Ta-Nehisi Coates's blog, edited on the fly because of nearby big ears. Go on, watch! Okay, now you can keep reading.]
Z.: (poking Mommy) Hey white person. White person! You look like a white person.
A.: Yes, I am a white person. I knew this was gonna happen.
S.: (laughing)
Z.: Are you a white person?
A.: Sometimes I'm kind of an off-white person.
Z.: (turns to Mama) Are you a black person?
S.: (gasping with laughter, tugs at the dark brown sweater she's wearing, nods. A looks perplexed. S. points at A.'s white shirt. Understanding dawns.)
S.: Z., are you a pink person?
Z.: (checks out color of her dress) Yes! I AM a pink person!
A.: And what is Hunter Dog?
Z.: A FUR person!

* * * * *

Z.: Why can't I sit up with my tushy off my seat?
S.: Because it's a precursor to mayhem.
Z.: Hamalama. (turns to Mommy) What she means is, what she's saying to me is "I don't like you."

Z.: For prwetend, we'yeuh not vegetawians.

S.: (Filling dishwasher.) Oh, we're not? What are we then?

Z.: Well we'yeuh Jewish, but we'yeuh not vegetawians.

S.: (Still filling dishwasher.) How very meat-eating of us.

Z.: We'yeuh not vegetawians, for prwetend, so I have dis dog on a stick for us.

S.: (Turns and sees realistic-looking Folkmanis black lab puppy hoist on cardboard-tube "sword." Dissolves into fits of giggles. Heads to the computer to record every word.)

Z.: We can eat it!