The boys had their parent teacher conferences last week and my wife attended both conferences without me because she’s a librarian at the boys’ school and worries I might embarrass her by asking inappropriate questions.
Whenever someone asks if I have any questions, whether it’s a doctor, a teacher, or the police, I fight the urge to blurt out something bizarre. The following questions would race through my head as soon as the teacher asked me, “Do you have any questions?”
What grade is my kid in?
I’ve heard so many great things about you. Not from the kids, but from the dads. What are you doing after this?
Is that how you spell my son’s name? I guess I’ve never seen it written before.
Where can we buy that paste he likes to eat?
You know that kid who’s been bullying my son? Do you know if he has any weaknesses, like a peanut allergy?
I’m a little troubled by this seating chart. How come my son isn’t sitting next to any of the children of rich fathers? Those friendships are going to be a bigger part of his future career success than anything he learns in class.
Maybe he doesn’t read on a 5th grade level but he knows how to party on a 7th grade level, if you know what I mean? High-five! Come on, get me up top! Don’t leave me hangin’. Alright, fine, we’ll work on his reading.
Why do I need to learn this? When am I ever going to need to know about my kid in the real world?