How To Help Your Kid Kick Ass. At EVERYTHING.

Get psyched -- I'm about to lay some big-time awesome parenting advice on you. It'll seriously blow your mind, despite the fact that every parent of a kid six years or older has probably learned this lesson already. Except me. I'm the last guy to catch on. But seriously, I'm about to rock your world. Even if your kid is a baby, or a zygote, or just an idea in your brain. Ready to get the lid of your brain blown off? Here it is:

Want your kid to kick ass at everything in life? Then leave them alone. More than that: Be absent.

Here's how I know this.

One of Mini-P's big challenges for the last several years has been swimming. She's had a serious, intense fear of putting her head underwater. Not even her head: her face. Not even her whole face: just the part below eyebrow level.

Over the past few years I'd tried every possible tactic to help her overcome this, but decided to kick it into high gear this Spring. She was eight, I said to myself, we live in a coastal town, it's time to work past this fear. So a couple months ago, she and I started going down to our local YMCA pool every Sunday morning for what I loosely called Swim Practice. We played around in the shallow end, did a little back floating, experimented with various forms of doggy paddling, and played a lot of pretend games to increase her comfort level in the water. (Mini-P's favorite game was pretending that I was Aquaman and she was my famous daughter Aquagirl who, due to a recent injury fighting underwater evil, had to temporarily ride around on her superhero father's back instead of swimming on her own.)

But no head dunking. I tried to help her define and isolate what was specifically scary about it. I tried saying that I too had harbored that same fear when I was younger, thinking we could connect on some common ground, and move forward together.

Nada.

Our work did pay off, to an extent. She developed an adequate doggy paddle, although not one that would save her life if she fell off a capsized boat and needed to outswim Megashark. She became adept at swimming on her back, which was good. Yet she steadfastly refused to let a drop of water touch her face. And as long as that was the case, she was never going to really become a swimmer, a Kid Who Swims. I was imagining yet another summer of beach and pool parties slipping by, hours of wacky water fun that my daughter would have to enjoy from within the humiliating confines of an inflatable floaty.

At one point, I got desperate. I tried bribery. "If you put your head underwater for two seconds, I'll buy you ice cream."

That was a low point. I'm not proud of it. Plus, it didn't work.

Through it all, I kept thinking that my presence was a comfort to her, that by being there to support her and cheer her on, I'd be infusing her with confidence and bravery.

Yea, now I know. Pirate idiot.

Turns out, all I was doing is holding her back.

Mini-P's school is a Physical Education magnet. As part of this program, all the kids get three weeks of swimming lessons at a nearby pool in April and May. It's really cool, but last year, Mini-P emerged from her lessons feeling sheepish and embarrassed. She told me she was the only kid in her class who was afraid to go underwater, and that even the teacher made fun of her for it. I suppressed my urge to bolt out of the house and hunt the rotten swim teacher down, instead calmly telling Mini-P that we could work on it together over that summer. Which we did. To no avail.

And this Spring, our three months of practice at the Y weren't yielding results either. So when the school-sponsored swimming lessons came around again, I didn't know what to expect.

Mini-P was nervous on the first day. She didn't want to go to school. She suggested I call in and say she was too sick to go. Or maybe just say she was healthy enough for regular school, but should probably sit out the swimming part due to some sort of strange aquatic pneumonia. I said no; she would go. I watched her drag her backpack and swim bag behind her into school that morning. My heart cracked a little for this kid, doleful and scared, who saw this whole thing as an Everest-sized obstacle in her life.

I thought about her all day, hoping she'd be ok. I cursed any kid or adult who might tease her for being timid in the water. And then in the afternoon, I drove over to pick her up.

"Well?" I asked. "How'd we do today?"

"Fine," she said idly, strolling (sauntering? was that a saunter?) beside me out to the car.

"How'd we do with the water?" I asked.

"The what?"

"The water? Your head? In the water?"

"Oh, that." She gave me Casual and Nonchalant, but I saw that gleam in her eye. And suddenly she whirled around, unable to fake it anymore, threw herself into my arms and shouted with excitement, telling me that she'd dunked her head not once, not twice but three times, all the way under, no lie. She'd even gone down to touch the bottom of the pool with her fingertips.

"How'd you do that?" I asked, amazed and impressed. "What made you decide to go for it?"

She shrugged, back to playing it cool. "I don't know, I just decided to try."

WhatHowHuhWhat???

We celebrated with frozen yogurt, many high fives, and an hour of Mario Kart.

As if that wasn't enough, four days later she went swimming with her grandfather. I was nowhere near. When I arrived to pick her up, Mini-P jubilantly described further triumphs: jumping in and letting the water go over her head, swimming half the pool length completely underwater, and engaging in various synchronized swimming acrobatics with my dad. The two of them have decided they'll be trying out for the American Olympic team. (London 2012!)

All my cheering, cajoling, heart-to-heart connecting, and bribery accomplished nothing. All that stuff was not only unhelpful, but quite possibly a hindrance. And now that I think about it, this has happened before. My kid has shown that she gets exponentially braver the second I leave her presence. This is just the latest evidence.

I'm not quite sure what to do with this discovery. Will she accomplish more of her goals if I move away? Should I observe her life from behind a really big tree?

I'm proud of her. I'm a little sad to discover that I need to be gone in order for her to kick ass, but I get it. One more lesson for me.

Summer Vacation: Day 2

Her: (from downstairs) Daddy.

Me: (from upstairs) I'm working.

Her: DADDY!

Me: I'm busy.

Her: DADDDEEE!!!! CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Me: (coming downstairs) What what what what what what? Good Lord, child. Is there an emergency? Is your arm broken? Did you drink poison?

Her: I'm bored.

Me: (blinking back incredulity) That's impossible.

Her: No it's not.

Me: Sweetheart Head, you've been out of school less than 24 hours. The other day you were saying you couldn't wait for school to be over so you could "finally relax."

Her: I know.

Me: When I asked you to describe third grade in one word, you said "exhausting."

Her: It was very tiring.

Me: So how can you already be bored? We've been to the pool this morning. You just finished lunch. You have a roomful of toys and books. Come on, Kid. You can find something to do for an hour. Ok? One hour?

Her: An hour is like eternity.

Me: You can't say that until you've worked in Sales.

Her: What?

Me: Nothing. Listen. Boredom is good for you. Use your imagination and come up with something fun to do. You have a brain, right? How about a craft?

Her: No.

Me: How about read one of the books in your room you haven't read?

Her: Read them all.

Me: Let's make a deal. If you can occupy yourself for an hour, then we can do something together after that. Ok?

Her: (big sigh) Ok, Daddy.

Me: Ok. (Heading back upstairs to continue working.)

(Five minutes later)

Her: Daddy?

Me: Yes?

Her: I'm BOOOOOOOOORRRED.

Me: Get a job.

What My Daughter Learned from BP: Featured on DadCentric

Hi, everyone. Some extra pirate goodness this week: I'm guest posting over at DadCentric today as part of the site's "30 Days of Dads." It's a great site, run by some very cool guys. Check it out, won't you? Run, don't walk!

What My Daughter Learned from BP

I think my eight-year-old daughter has been watching congressional hearings on CNN behind my back. It’s just this sense I have.

I came into the living room yesterday afternoon to discover a couch full of crumbs. Pop Tart crumbs. Very telling. We have regulations here in the house, prohibiting the unsupervised consumption of Pop Tarts. Yes, they are acknowledged by all parties to be hearty and delicious. They are, however, the crumbliest, messiest food in the mass-produced, toastable pastry milieu. It is impossible to take a bite of one and not spray bits everywhere.

For this reason, my wife decided that our daughter can only eat Pop Tarts at the table. Over a placemat. With newspaper spread out on the floor beneath her chair. (Seriously – I don’t know what the hell my kid does with them. I don’t even see how any of the frosted goodness ends up in her mouth. For years, I thought she just enjoyed the feeling of squooshing Pop Tarts between her fingers, and letting the crumbs rain down onto the floor.)

When I saw the crumb-covered couch, I called my daughter downstairs, for I am the Enforcer.

Click over to DadCentric to read the rest.

Proficiency Rocks.

I wasn't going to post today, because I have one coming up this week on DadCentric that I'll be directing you guys to -- but I may need to be talked off a ledge here. I'm mightily pissed off, even though I'm not completely convinced I have the right to be. Perhaps some guidance from you will help.

We just finished third grade. Today. And when I say we, I mean the Mini-Pirate. Not me. I actually completed third grade a while ago and I'm proud to report that I passed with flying colors. For the most part.

I picked my girl up right when the bell rang today, ready to celebrate with her. There was her teacher, Ms. W*****, holding the door open for all the kids as they piled out, rabid and manic, clawing their way to freedom. It was like a prison break scene. Ms. W***** looked tired. I don't blame her.

As Mini-P ambled out, I exchanged a polite smile with Ms. W*****, and thanked her for the year. I don't know her well. She's nice, but as I mentioned in an earlier post, she never seemed to engage with the kids in her class. During Parent/Teacher Conferences a while back, she had nothing much to say about Mini-P other than, "she's very bright," and "she needs to chat with her table mates less." That was it. That's ok, though. I'm in no position to judge Ms. W*****.

In the car, Mini-P announced that she had her report card. I asked her to hand it up to me, and I gave it a look. I should explain here that the report cards teachers fill out are a form established by our unified school district. Academics are grouped into the predictable categories: Literary Achievement (in reading, writing and speaking), Mathematics (numerical operations, basic algebraic functions, measurements, etc), Social Studies, Arts, and Sciences. (These latter three areas are, of course, horribly underserved in the public school system, but I'll save that rant for another day.)

Ok. Here's the what: I know every parent thinks their kid is brilliant, talented and funny. I also know that the sheer odds of that being true for everyone is impossible. And I don't like parents that go on and on and on and on and on and on and on about their child's many gifts. ("We're so proud of our little Brittany. Why, just the other day, she recreated Picasso's 'Guernica' in macaroni on posterboard! And she's only two!") I try not to be That Dad when I'm around other adults.

But I'll say this, and I'm just going to let it out: my kid is Scary Smart. She's been reading well above her grade level for the past couple years. With the exception of her serial-killer handwriting style (a lefty, like her dad), she's a great writer. Her paragraphs contain clear, focused ideas, her sentences are eloquent, and she's good at spelling complicated words. Math-wise, the kid's brain soaked up multiplication and division this year faster than I ever could've predicted. She showed that she knows how to read a word problem (the absolute bane of my existence when I was a kid) and translate it into the appropriate math steps.

I could go on. I won't because, again, I don't want to be That Dad, and the above paragraph demonstrates how easy it would be for me to become him, if I don't rein myself in.

My daughter made amazing steps this year. I have to believe it's true. I don't know what the evaluation criteria is for third grade, but every thread of instinct I've got running through me says that she's quick-minded and questioning.

And how was she assessed virtually across the board, in all of the above subjects and their sub-categories? One word did it:

"Proficient."

That's it. Whatever my daughter accomplished in third grade this year, that word is the sum of everything, all the challenges she faced down and fulfilled. Proficient. Nothing more. Kids get one of three grades in this district: Advanced, Proficient, and Basic. There's a tiny box on the back of report card for additional comments, but Mini-Ps' was blank.

"Proficient."

I wasn't in my daughter's classroom everyday. I don't know what the evaluation scale is, or the context -- maybe while my daughter was devouring books about planets, her peers were reading Kierkegaard. Maybe while she was slicing and simplifying fractions with the ease of a Ninja Top Chef, the other kids were doing Calculus. Maybe my girl is truly average, and I'm too close to see it. Maybe I should trust that Ms. W***** knows what she's doing when she deems my daughter Proficient.

And maybe I'm sitting here caring too much about the idea of grades. Maybe I'm falling into a trap here, making too much of academics. I don't want Mini-P to grow up feeling like her worth is defined by her grades, that's for sure. I don't want her to pull out her hair and starve herself if she doesn't get straight A's as she grows older. I don't want to do that to her. Certainly not.

Maybe I'm just being sensitive. Maybe I just want all of her teachers to see her as the most brilliant fucking kid ever to grace their classrooms. (There's That Dad surfacing again. Down, boy.) That's not ok.

Or maybe I'm just feeling stung because the word "Proficient" denies all the amazingness that's woven into my kid. I shouldn't expect others to see it, particularly teachers who have to wrangle 25 kids or more during any given school year. I'm being a pissy idiot, right?

I'll be past this soon, I'm sure. But right now... I just hate that damn word.

Proficient.

The Key to Male Bonding (or: Goonies Never Say Die)

Male bonding. It’s a tricky business.

I have some male buddies that I consider to be close friends. But for the most part, they’re guys I’ve known for at least a decade, since before I became a dad myself; which means I’ve forged almost no new, long-lasting buddyships within the last nine years. When my daughter was born, I had high hopes that I’d become friends with other new fathers: after all, there were Mommy Groups all over this damn town, for Chrissakes. Hell, Saucy belonged to three before we got home from the hospital. She had a ton of new mommy friends out of the gate. They stroller-jogged together, formed a birthday party network, commiserated about sore nipples and colic and New Parent Isolation, all of it. But I just couldn't bring myself to join a Daddy group, even though there were a couple local ones on Craigslist. The thing is, they were described as opportunities for men to meet up and “share honest feelings about new fatherhood, and form a lasting support network.”

Couldn’t do it.

I never even made an attempt. Lame of me, I know. I’m sure it was because of that outdated, total bullshit notion that men should all be like Gork, Son of Fire, Independent Caveman Without Feelings of Vulnerability Or Weakness. It’s doubly stupid for me, considering I’m hardly a Muy Macho type guy to begin with. (I’m not saying I cried at Titanic or anything – but only because you weren’t there, so you can't prove anything.)

I do know some dads with kids around my age. They’re good guys, and I definitely call them friends; just not close ones. It’s one of those deals where we’re mainly friends because our wives are friends. It's true that blogging has helped me connect with other dads -- and in a sense, we do bond and support and share, over the Interwebtubes. It's easier to bond with guys who aren't in the room with you.

But those guys aside: when you do meet someone with whom you feel you have something in common, something that runs deeper than the shared territory of surface interests (Sports? Beer? Internet pics of Padma Lakshmi?) it’s important that you follow up, right? You can’t afford to squander those opportunities.

One of those rare opportunities surfaced today. It happened out of the blue. It happened… at Target.

More specifically, the Target parking lot.

I went to buy some laundry detergent (See? Muy Macho, indeed). I parked, got out of my car, and saw this license plate, on this car, right in front of mine:

I froze. When touchdowns, girl parts, and frosty lagers fall away, you still have The Goonies.

I did exactly what you would do. I ran into Target, frantically looking around for someone about my age, maybe with a scraggly goatee, possibly a comfortable paunch, ideally wearing a T-shirt with Chunk on it.

No one emerged right away, and I started to get nervous, worried that I’d miss meeting my new best friend. I called out: “HEYYYYY YOU GUYYYYSSSS!!!!”

No one answered with a hearty “Goonies never say die!!” I really thought my new future best friend would. He was in here somewhere, I knew it. I started to panic. What if I missed him? My Dude-Buddy-Platonical-Soulmate? Speaking of Titanic – this was mine! I was on that raft, and my new Best Buddy Forever was clinging to the side, about to slip into the depths if I didn't grab him.

I wish this story had a happy ending. It does not. I tried explaining the situation to Target security as they dragged me out of the building, suggesting that if they could just give me a couple minutes on the store’s PA system...

It didn’t happen. No male bonding. No new bestest friendship, forged by the truest possible bond. The Goony Bond.

It’s ok. I’m not giving up. I’m pretty sure we'll both be at Comic-Con. We'll bond then.

Where I've Lived

I’ve been thinking about the concept of Home a lot lately. I left my first real home in Colorado at age 18 when I went to college in California. Until then, my nest was always the house where my parents lived. The idea of calling any other place home, even for the duration of a school year, was weird.

I’ve had a handful of homes since then. SaucyWench likes to point out that every place I lived before shacking up with her was a shitbox. She’s mostly right. Most of my pre-Saucy homes were holes. But I have this thing about reminiscing – I’m adept at turning hard times into good times in retrospect, which means I look back on all of my past homes with particular fondness, even the shitboxes. Here’s just a few of them. I promise I’m going somewhere with this.

1988-89: First Dorm Room, University of Redlands.

One room, filled with two beds, dressers, desk and chairs. Concrete walls, painted dull, grimy white. You walked in and could basically smell the Herpes. My roommate: a full-time stoner who had a penchant for Hendrix posters and handcrafted bongs from around the world. This was at a college in the San Bernardino valley, no place for a Colorado boy, but I turned it into home with the help of a mini-fridge, a hot air popcorn popper and a girlfriend. The place was gross, but it embodied the sense of faux independence I felt my first year away from my parents, and I was sad to say goodbye to that home in May.

1991-92: Rental House, Senior Year of College.

A modest, Brady Bunch-esque house near campus which I shared with three roommates. Clean, and only slightly dilapidated. I remember a lot of formica and green shag carpeting. Weedy backyard we never used. Big living room, which was good for parties. My roommates and I were probably the owners’ worse nightmares, but it was their fault for renting to us in the first place. And by today’s partying standards, we were actually pretty tame. (I think Tequila was the most lethal substance that crossed the threshold that year, so how hardcore could it have been?) We drank a lot because we were in denial about the future, about finding a plan, and generally getting a post-graduation clue. Saying goodbye to that home after graduation meant saying goodbye to college, to friends, and to my deeply-rooted Peter Pan Syndrome.

1992-93: First Solo Pad, Crack Den Court Apartments.

HOLY SHMOLEY, you guys, you’ve never seen a grosser place than this. Beige, barren, in a shitty complex with no security. My car was stolen during my first week there. Not kidding. I didn’t put anything up on the walls. My living room had furniture, but it was stuff that my parents had donated, the old couch and easy chair from back when I was kid. The result was disorienting: it was my own grown-up person’s apartment, where I was King of Everything -- but I watched TV on the same couch I’d jumped off of with a cape at age 8 when I’d tried to be Superman. The same couch I’d made out with girls on in high school. It made the place seem a little extra pathetic and sad.

But I loved it because: no roommates for the first time. Just me. That's what made it home, despite the fact that it was truly, yes Saucy, say it with me, A SHITBOX. I paid the rent, I stocked the fridge, I decided how long I’d live there. In all its beigeness, I remember it so fondly. It was sad to leave, but since I was departing to start grad school in San Diego, excitement trumped attachment.

1993-95: Second Apartment: Rancho de Los Sad Bachelores, San Diego, CA.

I moved to SD and had saved up enough money to keep living alone. This was another beige shitbox, but in a much cooler city. The best thing about this place was that it was in a huge complex where all the windows faced inward, towards a lush courtyard with a pool and hot tub situation. Most of the other residents fit one of two categories: undergraduate college girls, or older divorced guys. It was a sad mecca for those older dudes, but watching them attempt to interact with the co-eds was awesome entertainment.

I decorated – meaning, I put a couple old movie posters up on the walls, and killed a couple plants out on the balcony. This was where I lived when I started the San Diego Adventure that would later morph into my San Diego Life.

(Interlude.)

SaucyWench: “See, I was right – these places were all shitboxes.”

“Yes, Honey, every place I lived before you was a shitbox.”

“Alright then.”

After that, there were a couple other apartments and rental houses around town. One was a house with a roommate who was way more of a grown-up than me -- he had a full-time job, a dog, and a couch that was his own purchase(!!!), not from his parents. I was living there when I met Saucy. The idea of Home was about to change in a major way.

1998-2002: Pirate and SaucyWench’s First Rental House.

A funky craftsman bungalow on an incredibly noisy, busy, wonderful street in one of San Diego’s greatest urban neighborhoods. This was the house Saucy and I chose for shacking up. It was great. It was charming. It had built-ins. Plus, it had Saucy in it. We loved it there. We walked to thai restaurants and funky movies at the Hillcrest Cinema. We slept late and read the paper in bed on Sunday mornings. We got married while living here (after two fake-out non-proposals, thanks to Pirate Idiot. You can read that story here.)

We were also living here for the first nine months of the Mini-Pirate’s life.

I have memories of she and I stacking big foam blocks on the floor. Of her bouncing in a baby swing we’d secured in the kitchen doorway. Of walking through the house at night on tiptoes, with her in my arms, trying to avoid squeaky floorboards that might wake her. Sitting on the front porch in the afternoons, her in my lap, as we sang songs to the tempo of the street traffic. Home, in a major way, but we knew that as Mini-P grew, we'd need to take a big step.

2003-2010: Our House Now.

We've lived here for six years, the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I moved out of my parent’s house at 18. It’s the first (and only) house Saucy and I bought, and then had to be responsible for. Mini-P was three when we moved in. She’s almost nine now.

Every room has a packet of memories to sift through. This is the living room that had the perfect corner for a luminous Christmas tree. This is my daughter’s room, where the walls are decorated with the silvery silhouettes of butterflies, courtesy of Saucy, who wanted our daughter to be surrounded by magic. This is the backyard where my Mini-P ran, deliriously, from the porch to the back fence, trying to fly her kite, which usually trailed behind her in the grass.

We sold it last week. It happened fast. We're moving in about six weeks. We’ve decided to rent for a while, which will be fine. Wherever we live next, we’ll find a way to make it home. Saucy’s real good at that. (I only specialize in shitboxes, as the evidence shows.)

It’s a good thing, as long as we keep thinking about the Big Picture. We don’t regret the decision. I’ve said goodbye to a lot of homes, and soon I'll say goodbye to this one.

But I honestly don’t know how.

What Has Two Thumbs, Is About to Turn 40, and Kicks Ass?? THIS GUY!!!

I have no tattoos, but I've always wanted to get one. Because of how I'm such a freakin' bad ass and stuff. Ask anyone. The only obstacles that have kept me from getting inked up are: 1) I could never make a decision on exactly what image or symbol would be worth getting branded on my skin forever, and 2) the ouchy pain factor. But I'm turning 40 next month, and I'm newly motivated to get something. I say it's time.

But what to choose, what to choose.

If I want to go small and subtle, I could get a nice, classy armband tat, something in a barbed wire or untranslatable celtic deal. Am I celtic? Hells no! Does that matter? HELLS no! Does it matter that I only see those armbands on dudes in their late 30s who got them ten years ago on an impulsive drunken stumble down the boardwalk? Hells no again !!! Get me in the chair!

Maybe I could get one of those funky, overgrown tribal thorn patches that cover your whole shoulder. Now THAT'S the current shit. All the cool white boys are going tribal right now. Just ask any 20-year-old frat dude walking around and he'll tell you -- you want to be an individual? Get your ass to an inker and get some of THIS action!

Maybe a nice pic of a mudflap-porn-star that covers my left pec!! Or that one that looks like claws are literally RIPPING OUT THROUGH A DUDE'S ARM!!! That one fools me everytime!!! Or something in Chinese that scrolls down my back! I don't know any Chinese people! And if I ever meet any, they'll be too intimidated to tell me that while I think my tattoo says "I Will Eat Your Babies, Bitch!" it actually says, "Sorry I just farted cheese"!!!!!

Or! Why get just a single tattoo?! Why not go freaking Iverson!!! Just get inked all the hell up, neck to nuts!!!! "Only The Strong Survive!" Fuck YEAA!!! People will shove each other out of the way just to clear a path for me when I walk around!!!!! Or if I really want to go full-on old school scary bad-ass, I could set myself up with the De Niro special, from Cape Fear! When I take my shirt off at the beach, women and children will run away in fear!!!!!

My tattoos will say: What has two thumbs and kicks ass???? THIS GUY, RIGHT HERE!!!!!!!!!!

Or maybe, I'll just get a permanent version of the totally HARD CORE KICK ASS tattoo my daughter gave me yesterday from her temporary tattoo book!!!!!! A tattoo that says, "Hey, you -- get the fuck out of my way!!!!!!!!!"

HELL YEA!!!!!

End of Semester Evaluations - Best Teacher Ever!!!!

I just got my Spring student evaluations back from my department. Our eval process is pretty good -- if nothing else, it's better than what you get from RateMyProfessor.com, where students go mainly to vent about whoever pissed them off during the year.

Actually, I say that, but students always assure me that's not what happens on the site. They claim students don't just log on and bitch about the teachers who gave them low grades, which is what I've always assumed. It's what I would've done, if they'd had the Interwebs back in my college days. But my students swear that most of the reviews they read online are accurate, and helpful when "shopping" (sweet!) for a good teacher later.

I make it a point never to look myself up on RateMyProfessor (and if you ever look me up, DON'T TELL ME WHAT IT SAYS ABOUT ME BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW). But I do know that, according to the site, all teachers can be accurately and fully assessed with three questions: 1) Is the teacher nice? 2) Is the teacher easy? 3) Is the teacher hot?

That's... great. Thanks for that. Reeeeeaaaaally puts education in perspective.

My department's official questionnaire is more in-depth, luckily. Students respond to questions about the teacher's knowledge, in-class abilities, clarity, accessibility and fairness. They rate us on a scale of 1 (You Suck) to 5 (You Rock) in several areas, and then there's space where they can write out some more qualitative feedback after that. Nowhere on our evaluations is hotness a factor. Thank God.

My numbers are usually fine, typically nestled in the average-to-slightly-above average range. I get positive responses to questions about my commitment, overall subject knowledge and my enthusiasm. I get, erm, slightly less positive responses about the value of the reading materials I assign and actual writing tasks I make them fulfill. Fair enough.

Still, it's hard to rely on your students' assessment to get a sense of how you're doing sometimes. On the one hand, they're the ones who sat in front of you for a semester, so they should be the ones to evaluate how you did.

On the other hand.

Here's a quick overview of the responses I received this semester on the qualitative part of the eval form, sampled from the 124 students I taught across four sections.

• One student said I was the best teacher he ever had, and that I helped him feel more confident about his writing. Another student said I was the worst teacher in the history of teaching and should be taken out behind the school for a beating.

• One student expressed gratitude for the specific and thorough feedback I provided on her written work. Another student in the same class complained that she never received any helpful or constructive comments from me, and accused me of giving her grades based on a process involving a dartboard and heavy drinking.

• One student felt I would look more professional if I started wearing ties in the classroom. ("No offense.")

• One student thanked me for being the most "insperational" writing teacher he ever had. Sigh.

• One student felt our class readings which explored various contemporary church vs. state issues were interesting, relevant, and great to explore in subsequent writing assignments. Another student said it was stupid to have readings in a writing class at all. "First of all," he wrote, "I know how to read already. And second of all, reading about people's church vs. state problems is pointless, since most Americans have the same religion anyway."

• One student said the one class session we spent addressing issues of grammar and mechanics was "the single most wasted day ever spent while alive."

• One student thanked me for helping her understand the importance of knowing how rhetoric shapes her perceptions. Another student in the same class said I should stop talking just because I love the sound of my own voice, because "no one in class gives a crap." (Wow. Also, ouch.)

• One student said I shouldn't change a thing about my class because strong writing skills can benefit anyone, in any major or profession. Another said he'd never taken a more useless class in his life, since he knows writing will not be relevant in his chosen career as a professional sports agent.

So! Ok then! Let's call it a job well done, people! I guess! Have a great summer!

Third Grade Wrap-Up: What She Learned

Last night was our elementary school’s Open House/Art Gala. Oh, and it was a gala, make no mistake. Think limos, red carpet, paparazzi. Plus a Nachos-and-Fruit-Punch stand. The evening is basically about strolling around the multi-purpose room where artwork from every grade and class is displayed: animals made of tin foil, sugar cube models of the White House, shoebox dioramas depicting Great Moments in Justin Bieber History, you know. In addition to the art appreciation, you also get to visit your kid’s classroom to see some of the work they’ve done over the course of the year. Basically, it should be called Annual Oooh Aaah Night.

I have to admit I get a little weary at these school events (Bad Dad), but we go every year, because the Mini-Pirate gets excited to show off her accomplishments. So Saucy and I let her pull us by the knuckles, and we share the occasional wink and nod as we take in all the evidence proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that our daughter is The Most Brilliantest Child in the Empire.

As is every kid. This is the era of the Self-Esteem Team, Generation Me, where every child gets a trophy, a medal, and a Gold Star just for participating. I have no problem with that. It helps them all develop healthy, healthy egos. Sure, it may make things tough for these kids when they grow up and are forced to realize that they’re only as special as the person standing to their immediate left, but still. I get it. Affirmation is important. I could’ve used a few more Gold Stars when I was a kid, frankly. In fact, I wouldn’t mind receiving some now. I’m thinking of buying a roll of gold star stickers and giving them to Saucy, tactfully suggesting that perhaps she might like to give me one the next time I do something noteworthy at home. (Exemplary dish washing, hospital-corner sheet folding, competent lovemaking, whatever. Just a thought.)

We have a couple weeks of school left, but as of last night, we’re officially starting to wrap up third grade. Call this baby done. Stick a fork in it. Say Goodnight, Gracie. And all in all I have to say that third grade was…

…pretty meh, to be honest.

Mini-P’s teacher was fine, albeit not particularly enthusiastic. I never got the sense that she was particularly inspired (or inspiring) in the classroom. Then again, it’s not like I was there every day watching, so it’s probably not fair for me to go all, well, Didactic on her.

Not to say that Mini-P didn’t learn a lot this year. She did. She aced every spelling/writing/reading task set before her. She learned about fractions. She figured out latitude and longitude. She watched seeds become plants. She learned that each paragraph should contain one idea at a time. She learned that Helena is the capital of Montana. She learned that you have to go really slow when you write cursive. All good, all valuable.

Here’s some other stuff my daughter learned:

* Samuel F. Morse is very important because he invented the telegraph, but is pretty much a boring subject to write about otherwise.

* If you want to get your first choice for the biography assignment (Walt Disney) and not get stuck with Samuel F. Morse, don’t daydream when the list is being passed around in class.

* The key to kicking ass at Tetherball is in maintaining momentum once you get a few wraps around the pole.

* When boys lose at Tetherball to a girl, they act like big babies.

* Even if you finish your math test before your classmates, you’re not allowed to draw, read, or work ahead. You get your behavior card turned from green to yellow for that.

* Some girls that used to be nice in 2^nd grade, turn into mean little bitches in 3^rd. And being friends with those girls isn’t worth it.

* Secret clubs are only fun if you’re in on the secret.

* Some teachers will like the fact that you have a lot of opinions in class, but others will not. Playing the game from now on will mean knowing how to tell the difference.

I guess we all learned some new stuff this year.

P.S. In Mini-P’s classroom, each kid created a sign to put at their seat next to their Writing Portfolio, to direct parents to the right station. Here was hers:

I just wish the kid would develop a little self-esteem.