Parent Teacher Conferences

“Who do I talk to about having my daughter tested for a Learning Disability?”

            I looked up as a beautifully dressed woman sat down at my table.  A Michael Kors handbag was slung over her shoulder.  She looked like a walking jewelry store as she held out her hand.  On her wrist was an oversize Michael Kors watch.

“Hello," she said.  "Casandra’s math teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, said I should talk to you about Learning Disabilities.”

            My mind tumbled as I reached out and shook her decorated hand.  Casandra Talbot was on my caseload, and I had a scheduled conference with her mother today.

            “Uh, Casandra has been tested for a Learning Disability,” I carefully replied.

            Mrs. Talbot glanced around, leaned towards me, and whispered, “I think she has a math disability.” Her eyes widened. “It’s called decalculated.”

            “Dyscalculia,” I said helpfully.

            “Yes.  The math disability.  I think Casandra has it.”

            I slowly nodded my head.  “Casandra has an IEP.”

            Mrs. Talbot leaned in even closer.  “I think she has a Learning Disability too.”

            Now I leaned in and pulled in a long breath through my nose.  No alcohol.

            I slowly replied, “Mrs. Talbot, Casandra has been tested for a Learning Disability.  She has a disability in math, and she receives special education help in her math class.”

            Mrs. Talbot straightened back up and furrowed her brow. “If she can’t do math,” she tilted her head forward and raised her eyebrows, “Should she be taking a math class at all? That just doesn’t seem right.”

            Hmmm.

            I leaned back in my chair and frowned.  I squinted my eyes, tilted my head, and stared up left concentrating.  The solution circled, then landed.

“No,” I said firmly.  “Casandra probably shouldn’t take math.”

           

            Mrs. Talbot began nodding and smiled.  “So we can have her drop Mrs. Jenkins’ Algebra class?”

           

            I stared back counting to five.  “Sure.  I’ll send the registrar an email tonight.”

           

            Mrs. Talbot stood and smiled.  She held out her bejeweled hand.  “Thank you so much. These conferences are really helpful.”

           

            Yes they are!

           

            (I made up the last part.)  

Worries

            “I’m really worried about Ramon’s math grade.  He has a C-.”

            I was one of 16 teachers sitting at 16 tables in the cafeteria at 8 p.m. There were 24 additional teachers at 24 tables in the gym.  I had been at school since 7 a.m.  Welcome to Fall Parent Teacher Conferences.

           

            “There’s only two grades in the book for the second quarter,” I said.  “You should wait until there’s at least five grades before you get excited.”  I smiled.  But no one smiled back.

            “I don’t want him to have any bad grades.”

            OK.  The humor didn’t work.

            “Well let’s see where the C- came from.”

            I flipped open my laptop and opened up the grading program.  All of Ramon’s classes came up, and I quickly scanned the list.  There it was – Math, 70%, C-.  I clicked on the grade and the teacher’s complete grade book opened up.

            “OK.  Ramon got three out of five on his last warm-up and four out of five on his group activity.  That’s only a total of ten points so far for this quarter.  He got a B+ for the first quarter in math, so I really don’t think you should be worrying at this point.”

            Why do teachers put stinky grades in just before parent teacher conferences?

            I knew the real purpose of the fall conference was to discuss the first quarter grades, but the second quarter had started, so most teachers did have a few grades entered.  Ramon was doing a great job in his classes, and I wasn’t worried at all about his grades.

            “It bothers me to see Ramon dropping the ball on any assignments.  He has to stay on top of things,” Ramon’s mother explained. “He forgets things, and I have to help him keep up with all his grades.”

            Ramon is the oldest of three children.  Tonight was the first middle school conference his mother had ever attended.  I knew she was rattled not having specific appointment times, and having to track down eight different teachers.  Her daily emails at the beginning of the year had dwindled down to one email per week.  I thought things had calmed down, but tonight’s conferences had stirred things up again.

            I wished I could tell her that three-fourths of the students had a C or lower in math this quarter.  It was by design.  It was the math teacher’s philosophy to start the second quarter grading really tough, so the kids would put in a good effort before the holiday crash began.

            I wished I could tell her that Ramon is just eleven years old and he’s allowed a bad grade every so often.  The world wouldn’t end if he got three out of five every now and then.

            I wished I could convince her that the 25 year old young man Ramon would grow into would bear no resemblance whatsoever to the forgetful little eleven year old she was fretting over.

            But instead I said, “I’ll stay close during warm-ups next week to make sure he’s more careful while he’s doing them.”

            “Thank you Mrs. Jones.  I just worry so much about him.”

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