You know what? I’m becoming adversarial in my old age. I find that lately my tolerance for other people’s abuse, nonsense, negativity, bullshit, chicanery, shenanigans, or mischief is nil. Except my kids, I suppose. I tolerate them all right.
Normally, I’m a more submissive type of person, in that I will do whatever I can to avoid conflict – even not speaking up for myself when anyone else with a brain ought to. I can never figure out why that is.
This school thing has tipped me over some edge. I’m not sure if this will stick and become a permanent part of my fundamental psychological makeup, but it’s here now. Just ask my husband. I’ve verbally bitch-slapped him plenty over the past week. Nothing major. It’s just comments that would usually roll off my back are instead sticking in my backside, pissing me off, and are being dealt with. And no. It’s not that time of month.
I’m angry. I’m angry at Stella’s teacher. She’s a bitch. How a kindergarten teacher can be a bitch I cannot say, but this person has managed it. She’s got the warmth of a bipedal great white shark. Kindergarten teachers are supposed to be perky and kind, not jaws in a denim jumper.
We’re trying. We really are. The behavior charts, the discussions about behavior and expectations. The guidance counselor mentioned that perhaps we could sign a privacy waiver so that they could speak directly with Stella’s physicians. Oh. Hell. No. Particularly when we can’t get a “dot” every day. I’ve done the math. 6 out of 13 days we’ve had no “dot.” In other words, we have no idea if it was a good or bad day. That’s 46% of the time. And we’re supposed to allow these people into medical records?
If it were justified, maybe so. But the worst complaint we’ve had since the first full week of school was that Stella talked a lot or wouldn’t sit and complete work. A 4 year old in a brand-new uber-structured environment ran her mouth and didn’t want to participate in bullshit remedial worksheets. I’m shocked. Truly. Too bad they don’t have seasoned veteran teachers to help with that. Oh wait…
But you know what? My venom and bile aside, I’m careful not to speak or otherwise react in front of my daughter. I don’t want to color her opinions or experience. I’m selling their damn candy (and popcorn and cookie dough, dammit). And I’m documenting, documenting, documenting. Next parent-teacher conference? Bring it.