scribblechic

Yesterday report cards came home from my daughter’s elementary school. Normally I mark the date with a simple reminder, an understated annotation on the calendar that prompts me to shake off traces of my childhood anxieties so that I will not accidentally infuse the language of my children’s learning with a legacy of my father’s impossible expectations. Unhurried and collectively, as a family, we gauge these measures of mastery for markers of growth and areas of concern as opportunities for improvement; assigning value and extracting meaning.

I want both my children to seek room to grow with the same ease they enjoy success; to never tire of learning with a natural, self-driven curiosity for knowledge; to question and claim the process of learning as their own. It is an imperfect, ongoing dialogue.

To my daughter,

You came home yesterday eager to rush through your report card. I had forgotten the day and so you retrieved your papers without waiting for your father or me to accompany you. Scanning the rows of neatly typed standards I watched your smile slip from your face, while darker emotions simmered quietly beneath a steady gaze.

You contested subpar grades with a determined confidence that argued your accomplishment as passionately as you disclaimed success that had come too easily. Raking through the form you couldn’t find the image of self that you sought. 

I moved aside, patiently cautious not to coddle your frustration or ease the sting of disappointment. Your body curled against your pride until you were bent in to a tight ball of defensiveness. You wondered when you might be “enough” and I stepped gently into your fears offering light.

Bright girl, this is the first year since Kindergarten that you have not been pulled from classroom work for a supplemental path. You are working among your peers after years of chasing after your place. I want you to stop here and absorb what this means, breathe in the strength of your resolve.

The arc of your progress is a breathtaking measure of persistence.  Don’t allow your heart or head to be so closely bound to a shorthand for success that you lose sight of your worth. You were never less than enough.

Love, Mom

Tagged: Daughter, Musings