Making the Grade

Yesterday marked the first parent-teacher conference of the school year. My last child, Maya (eight years old, in third grade) is proving to be my most intriguing one when it comes to schoolwork. I did have a taste of things to come with my second daughter, but nothing like this. (She ended up turning into a straight-A student, just like her other two siblings.)

But not Maya.

Here is a child who has memorized her times tables up to 11 just for fun, but has trouble with one-digit addition and subtraction. (I guess multiplication is more glamorous.)

She can navigate you to our farm 100 miles away with all the twists and turns involved but can't find the hospital on a cartoon map of a generic city.

She can spell any word she's seen once, but refuses to "circle the spelling word in the following sentence" and such.

So, as you may have guessed, her grades are not too hot. The teacher (who is no fool after a quarter century of dealing with this demographic) knows that Maya knows her stuff, but recommends that she slow down and take care and review her work and go for extra points when available. All great advice. There's only one problem.

Maya doesn't care about her grades.

This morning as she cuddled up in bed with me, I asked her about her track record so far in school.

"So, Maya, what do you think about your grades?"

"I don't care. Grades are just stupid numbers."

After 20 years of teaching, myself, I had come to the same conclusion, so I really had nothing to say to her. I just laughed and gave her a big hug and hoped that, someday, she will care about what she produces. I'm pretty sure she will.

It just won't be grades.