P-T

I always work it in.

These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled with their certificates, that vague, "You're not, but I am." So my claim is some reverse psychology playing field leveler; it's likely all in my head, but I don't care. It can't hurt.

Tonight, meaningless mission accomplished, I immediately turned parent as I listened to the trio who spend near as much time with the girl as I. I smiled as I digested the praises that were sung by the Comm Arts teacher who really does seem to appreciate her. And then I laughed-- though not in disagreement-- at the former cheerleader who proclaimed the girl, "an eccentric young woman" (quirky had already been taken). "What a nice way to put it," I said, meaning, "is that the best you can do?" as I pictured what opinion I'd be putting a front on if I trotted that phrase out to a parent. It's an experience, being on the other side.

As I left I was satisfied that these strangers know my child well enough and will do all right by her; in my mind, it's mostly up to her. Of course, a glowing academic report makes it easier to assume that they'll do no harm and might help her. Flattery works even on skeptical me.