Hey! Teachers! Leave Them Kids Alone...

I've been meaning to do a Deirdre/school related post for a while, and now that today's mail has brought me something to bitch about, this seems as good a time, as any.

Today, a poorly-sealed envelope from the local school board office brings me news that Deirdre may have a vision problem, and a request that we have her tested, professionally. Which does make me wonder why they bother giving specific results of their own testing, to begin with, if theirs is not "professional."

At any rate, from the messily filled out form enclosed, it would appear that she scored as having 20/40 myopic vision, or, the vision needed to pass a driver's test, just a hair below normal for adults, and a common result for distracted kindergarteners being given eye tests by school officials. Luckily for me, I possess both the skills to read chicken scratch, and the experience to understand vision testing...God knows how upset the average parent would be, reading such vagaries as supplied by this notice.

We'll get her checked out; that's no problem. Mildly disappointing, as I had hoped that fully breastfeeding her might give her the normal vision I never had, but as her father and I both are nearsighted - he, mildly, and myself, GRANDLY - it's no big surprise, if she has vision troubles, as well. She's never shown any sign of a problem, at home, and has, in fact, shown just the opposite - Deirdre can spot a gnat on the ceiling, and tell you what he's wearing - but who knows? I, myself, was cross-eyed and in bifocals, at her age, so she's still beating the pants off me.

What DOES piss me off, is that this little form also tells me her vision has been checked, twice (a week ago), and her hearing, as well (over a week ago). And of course...we never heard a word about it, until now. This, coming just a day after finding out that she is no longer being considered in need of speech therapy, not from the school, but from her teacher, and I'm beginning to take offense.
What the HELL? We live within walking distance of the school. They have our address, our phone number, our cell phone number, and my email address. I'm an active, involved parent.
Let me know what's going on with my kid, numbnuts.

Yeah, I know; it's no big deal. But it rubs me all the wrong way, that the school can't be bothered sending home a simple notice, to let me know when they will be testing my child. What if she's sick (and she is, actually)? What if she has a big plug of wax in her ear, we're trying to get out? What if her brother sprayed hairspray in her eyes, the day before (he didn't, but it's just the sort of thing he WOULD do)? It just strikes me as retarded, this sneak-attack testing. More grievously, in my book, it strikes me as Rude As All Hell.

The speech therapy bit really did piss us off. Right after she started school, we heard second-hand, that she was being considered for speech therapy. That was fine; Deirdre does talk funny, and though it's a minor problem that we suspected more peer exposure would correct, we were all for speech therapy. I myself had visions of perfectly enunciated speech, and was eager for her to get started. So, we waited to hear some *official* notice.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, weeks later, we received a letter telling us that yes, she had been recommended for speech therapy. Actually, it was not so much a "letter." It was a copy of a recommendation form that her teacher had turned in - our names were not even on it. Shoved in an envelope and sent to us, with no explanation. Again...glad we're bright people, because I cannot imagine how confused and worried an undereducated parent might feel, receiving something like that.

So, believing she would surely soon start this needed tutoring, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.

Yesterday was the end of the first six weeks, and Parent-Teacher Conference day, so at the meeting with her teacher, I asked about it. I think I detected a little embarrassment, on her part, when she told us that actually, Deirdre's speech issues had been reconsidered and pronounced "age-appropriate," some time ago, so she would not be receiving therapy. Which, obviously, no one had felt the need to tell us.

Deirdre has a GREAT teacher, and I'm so grateful that she's hung around long enough to teach at least one of my kids (just TWO more years, and you get LUCIEN!). And really, the school isn't too bad, but still...I'm starting to get more than a taste of the kind of problems we're going to have.
Obviously, I'm going to have to step up Deirdre's reconnaissance training, so we'll have a Spy on the Inside, to take the place of normal communication.

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On the brighter side, school seems to be going well, from D's point of view. Here's her proof:

We took her with us, to talk to her teacher and pick up her report card, as it reinforces that special concept of "Mommy and Daddy talk to your teacher; Mommy and Daddy KNOW all, SEE all, HEAR all." And establishing paranoia is fundamental, in parenting.
Also, taking her with us was an excuse to totally piss on the school dress code. Hey...I have a legacy, where that sort of thing is concerned, and that must not be taken lightly. When school's in session, the best I can do is refuse to let Deirdre wear gold (and really...WHY would ANYONE wear gold?), and eagerly await winter, when I can send her off in her Pimp Coat (a fabulous rock star-worthy rainbow-colored velvet patchwork thing, complete with shaggy black fur).
Because Fashion is Fundamental, and Dress Codes are for Loserz.

But look...there are Brains in there, too! Observe:

This one is HUGE, so if you click on it, you can see her actual grades. She still isn't clear on what a report card is, but was thrilled, nonetheless, when I told her "S"s are a good thing.
Better than I did, in kindergarten. I started school already knowing how to read, and having begun making my way through both the Encyclopedia Brittanica, a bit of Shakespeare, and Bram Stoker's Dracula. I had counting down, as well as simple addition and subtraction. My vocabulary was massive, and I was learning to write in cursive.
And I was a NIGHTMARE. I wish to God I'd kept this - while I was in kindergarten, my parents received a letter informing them that I may need special counseling, as "Tiffani seems unable to tell the difference between right and wrong; she does not understand normal social or moral boundaries." Awesome! I would totally frame that, had my parents kept up with it. As it was, I just got yelled at for not having a conscience, and my teacher gave up trying, heh.
I squirted ketchup into the carefully done up hair of a little black girl, my first day of school, and made her cry. I refused to color the "right" way. I stammered when spoken to, and lied compulsively. I hung out with much older boys on the playground, and encouraged my friends to do the same. I cut off my best friend's pigtails. I ran around the playground, screaming like a panther and chasing other kids. I stole crayons, and never slept at naptime. I began an interracial romance, when I started spooning during naps with a little black boy, and then convinced him to show me his penis (and then ratted him out, when the teacher walked in, heh). I joined an all-black girl gang, who found my bifocals and incredibly pale skin mesmerizing. I made my teacher hold her head and sigh a lot; I was Bad, Bad, Bad and Still More Bad.

Yeah. I did not get quite so many "S"s.

But for now, at least, I am the blessed parent of a child who is Mostly Good, and Occasionally Amusingly Bad. Deirdre has finally learned to sleep, at naptime, and so her biggest problem remains being Overtly Bouncy. She is speaking more clearly, and if she does need glasses, we can probably trust her to keep up with them. And she's even begun remembering to say "yes, Ma'am." HA. For all the criticism I've gotten from family, over the years, the score now reads Their Parenting: zero; My Parenting: eleventy-million.

Meanwhile, she's still enjoying school immensely, and adapting better than any kid I've seen. We never did preschool, and she only played with other kids her age occasionally, so over the years, I've gotten an earful of assurances that Deirdre would surely be stunted, anti-social and possibly retarded - much of that from my father. It's heartening, now, to see a little girl overjoyed at learning, and eager to make new friends.
From what I am told, her best friend is and has been "Libya," which I think is not actually the North African country, but rather, a little blonde girl named "Olivia." Olivia is, apparently, a wonderful little girl, less outgoing than our own child, who does not get in trouble, knows how to color, has very attractive stuffed animals, and allows Deirdre to boss her around. Except of course, for her Ultimate Betrayal, a week or so ago, when Libya refused to play on the jungle gym, and wanted to instead play on the swings with The Boy Who Always Cries. Deirdre was heartbroken, pronounced her "mean," and informed me she was now friends with a girl who had pretty black hair and brown skin. Being that Deirdre and Libya are the only white girls in their class, that does not narrow it down much, so the identity of Girl With Pretty Black Hair And Brown Skin remains a mystery. But at any rate, after I advised her that perhaps a single Betrayal was not grounds for Excommunication, Deirdre cheerfully forgave Libya her sins, a day or two later.

As for The Boy Who Always Cries, his name is known (by us, at least, if not our child), but will be kept secret, to protect his privacy. He has been a continual source of Amazement, for Deirdre, as he apparently cries, every day, at least once a day. Peyton and I saw him, early on, when we were still taking Deirdre to and from school, and I immediately started nudging Deirdre to be his friend, especially since I know his mother, and thus, am quite certain he is not Defective, and will likely get over the profound amount of tears. Deirdre's first stab at friendship was not all that successful, as it was my child's Fine Idea to approach Boy of Tears and tell him "Don't cry; boys do not be crying. Only babies CRY."
*winces*
I suggested to her that perhaps that was not the best way to make him feel safe and happy at school, and once she changed her tactic to "Don't cry; it's okay. School is FUN and I will be your friend," she now claims that he's a nice boy, and a good friend...except when he sides with Libya and refuses to play on the jungle gym. Gotta love those Kindergarten Politics.

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We were surprised, recently, to discover that this school actually has a program to encourage parental involvement. Notice how I did not say "PTA." According to the national and state PTA websites, no school in our parish has a PTA program (and WAY TO GO, SCHOOLS!), so I never expected ours to have one.
I should note here, for those who've never read previous posts on this subject - Deirdre's school has a LEGACY of suck. It wasn't great, when I went there, and got much, much worse, as the years went by, until hitting rock bottom, not too long ago. Since then, there's been impressive effort from faculty and administration, to get back on track, and the school has now risen to a rating of "Exemplerary Academic Growth," from the state. So, still with the crappy test scores, but decidedly less crappy, and moving up.

So, needless to say, I didn't expect much, in the way of parent programs. But as it turns out, they do have something - a Parent Teacher Student Organization, or PTSO. We were thrilled when they announced the first meeting, as not only would we sincerely like to be involved, but HEY...SOMETHING TO SNICKER AT! What can I say? We're Bad People.

The meeting was a couple weeks ago, and BOY, did it ever surpass our expectations!
On the serious side: we were happy to see ANYTHING being done, by the school; every little effort counts. And there were a surprising number of parents there - tired, bored looking parents, but at least they came. One of the teachers has been coordinating the group, and is obviously putting a lot of work into it, despite her unfortunate predilection for speaking to adults of any age, as if they were fourth graders. And a couple of parents who were very much Not Me, Not a Chance volunteered as President and Vice-President, which was totally awesome, as I had promised myself I'd give in and volunteer, only if no one else would.

On the non-serious side...
OMFG, Peyton is now the official Drunk Parent of the PTSO. He'd been dealing with an awesome sinus infection(?) that day, and the pressure and swelling seemed to be trashing some nerve in his face, as he was in MONSTER pain. He'd taken some ibuprofen and a decongestant, which didn't help at all, but was still determined to show up for the meeting. So there he was, near crazy from pain, and having real trouble staying upright. While we were all sitting down, it wasn't so bad - he looked drowsy and out of it, and would occasionally make a pained grimace and hold his head, or just bury his face in his hands, but it wasn't too noticeable.
Until the meeting ended, and we were all milling around. I tried to get him out of there fast; I really did, but we needed to go sign up and pay our dues (a big $1, each) for the PTSO, as well as pick up the raffle tickets we were all supposed to hawk, and check with the aforementioned teacher/sponsor, to find out about volunteering for next month's Fall Festival. So, we COULDN'T just leave.
This meant that, as I hurried about, taking care of business, Peyton was left to wander around the room, staggering and banging into walls, tables and anything that crossed his path, while randomly staring sadly at his keys or wallet, as if they held the answer to his plight. He looked for all the world like Dad, the Pitiful Yet Admirably Involved Drunk, and, Horrible Person that I am, it was all I could do not to encourage this impression, by walking over and loudly saying "Okay, let's get you some coffee; what have I told you about going out in public like this?"
For some reason, Peyton does not find this story half as amusing, as I do.

Out of it as he may have been, that did not stop Peyton from staring pointedly at me and calling altogether too much attention to us, when nominations for officers began, which pretty much signed his death warrant, as far as I'm concerned. I'm happy to help out, but leading up an organization that's barely in its infancy, is beyond what I have time for, right now. Next year, sure. But THIS year? No way. And there's nothing like being That Mouthy Girl who is currently trying to duck down and remain unnoticed during a call for volunteers, while her husband insists on STARING AT HER WITH THE BIG "AHEM" EYES AND KICKING HER UNDER THE TABLE, then snickering when she tries to employ the Marital Death Glare, to make his big fat stupid head explode, to make one feel like a Hypocrite.
Dood. Just 'cause I have Opinions, that does not mean I have Time.

At least the teachers certainly seemed Involved, especially when it came time to earn prizes for having lassoed the most parents into the meeting. Deirdre's teacher was temporarily crippled, so she was forced to restrain herself, but another kindergarten teacher actually lept up and ran outside, to retrieve a missing Dad who'd wandered off, while others argued over who would get to claim the hapless parents from a class whose teacher had failed to show up.
It does make one wonder, just what was in those little gift bags. I'm going to guess "an eight-ball of cocaine," because that's a much more fun idea than say, "pencils." And really, don't teachers deserve a little help, with all they do?

So, we totally bailed, on the PTSO, aside from taking home raffle tickets that will likely only be sold to ourselves, Deirdre's bio-father, and Peyton's dad, and paying our whopping total of $2 in dues (these people obviously have no idea what a real PTA charges). BUT, we have volunteered for the Fall Festival or, as I like to think of it, the "Pretend This Isn't a Halloween Carnival" carnival. Or more specifically, the Haunted House portion of the event, run by of all people, the kindergarten teachers.
Peyton will be taking a turn as Dracula, which should amuse those of you who know him, to no end, and I am trying to rustle him up "proper" accoutrements, in the form of custom fangs and prosthetic pieces - I can GUARANTEE that this particular haunted house will have never seen a Dracula, like Peyton's Dracula.
Me, I'll be working the door, and am still a Mystery, though I will say, I am looking at some very interesting latex appliances, for myself.
While we are totally the RIGHT people to do something like this, as we live for Horror and Grossness, I am not sure the administration will see it the same way. Deirdre's teacher has assured me that "anything goes" and we shouldn't worry about limits, but I'm still thinking of bringing some googley-eye glasses or something, to cover up some of the Horrible, around the very youngest of guests.

What I REALLY want to do, is get pictures and names of the whole kindergarten, and greet each child by name, swearing that I am what lives in their closet, and knows where they sleep. But I am reminded by my dear husband that this sort of behavior is generally considered psychological assault, and frowned upon.

I think that's all I'm allowed to say, about the Haunted House, upon threat of flogging by our daughter's teacher, but trust me - you local guys will want to swing by, on October 13th; I guarantee a good show, for kids and immature grown-ups, alike.

Meanwhile, we're also planning on donating quite a bit of candy, and anything else I can dig up, as last year's carnival was just sad - by the time we got there (which wasn't even very late), they had totally run out of candy. Bad enough that there was nothing free to do (especially in a low-income area like ours), but if you're going to charge multiple tickets to play lame little games, the least you can do is provide decent prizes - apparently, last year, they had been passing out candy as the "prizes," until running out of even that. Lame-O.

So, there's your Educational Update, for anyone who's made it this far. Oh, and I would be remiss if I did not now embarrass Deirdre's teacher -

She may well freak out and yell at me, when she sees I've posted this, as I did not announce "Hey, I'm gonna post you on tha Intarwebs!" when I asked her to pose for a picture with Deirdre. But then again, I would think it goes without saying, that when you see me with a camera, you are probably About To Be Blogged.
And anyway...the woman has totally stopped aging (likely some pact with Satan), and is one of the hottest grandmas I know (not counting my friend April, who has managed to become a Default Grandma at the ridiculous age of 27 , and should rightly be shunned as the Cheating Heretic she is), so she has nothing to complain about.

At any rate...this is the woman responsible for our daughter becoming Teddy Bear Obsessed, learning to take naps, and falling under the thrall of Rampant, Shameless Sticker Bribery.

Ooh, ooh! And here's this:

Three Shades of Goober.

I'm not thrilled with 'em, but it could have been a LOT worse. Please remember, this was taken on the day when I ruined my daughter's hair. All the same, though you may not be able to tell from the scanned version (click to enlarge), the color is sort of off, in the standard color proof, leaving the poor child looking just a tiny bit cyanotic, and the lighting's pretty shit. So this will serve as my total Non-Endorsement of LifeTouch School Portraits, being that even I can do better than this, with a $300 camera and no training.

And that, folks, ends yer Rant O' the Day.