In my son Clyde’s kindergarten class, his teachers convey the “essence” of each child’s day via the different colored faces they draw in their agendas: A green smiley face means they had a “good day”,a yellow face with a straight line for a mouth means they had a “troubled day”, and a frowning red face means they had a “bad day–and we need to talk.” Since this was the exact same system that was in place when my daughter, Clementine, went to kindergarten four years ago I wasn’t too worried about it; after all, when Clementine was in kindergarten opening her agenda and putting my initials next to the sea of green smiley faces was one of the highlights of my day; it was, for me, a time to mentally pat myself on the back and say, “Good job, Mother–clearly you’re a genius at this parenting thing.”
Then came Clyde.
The first week of kindergarten was business as usual: As smiley face after smiley face dotted the page I began to congratulate myself once more for my obviously superb parenting skills. Maybe I should teach a class, I thought to myself. Or a series of classes. I know: A seminar. Then came the first yellow face, which was quickly followed by another–and another–until finally, I turned to Clyde and, in my most un-superb, non-seminar giving voice asked him:
“Do you know how many yellow faces Clementine got when she was in kindergarten? None! And here it is, only the second week of school, and already you…” I stopped myself in mid-harangue, suddenly overcome with visions of a 42 year-old Clyde huddled in the corner of his therapist’s couch, sobbing about how he could never, ever, compete with his “perfect” older sister. I needn’t have worried: The expression on Clyde’s face was not so much the chastened despair that I’d feared, but rather pure, unadulterated disinterest. It was as if I had just spent the last five minutes speaking in tongues. In fact, the look on his face clearly said: “What are you talking about? You’re comparing me to that one over there? The one who’d rather be good than have fun? Whatever.”
My fears of long-lasting psychological damage were further assuaged the next week, when after receiving yet another yellow face his teachers reported that his reaction had been a rather exasperated, “I told my parents it would be impossible for me to get all green faces.” He repeated this sentiment again when we got home, going on to add that, anyway, it wasn’t his fault that kindergarten was filled with all sorts of impossible rules like keeping your shoes on all the time, and never, ever slugging the fellow next to you–even when he calls you a dork.
Sensing that this was going to be harder than I had anticipated, I took the easy way out: I bribed him. From now on, I told him, four green smiley faces in one week would equal a pizza night at home, while five would equal a trip to Peter Piper Pizza. At first my only fear was that Clementine, AKA Lord High Supreme Judge of Fairness and Equal Portions (symbol of power: a golden caliper for measuring cake slices) would hear about the deal and complain bitterly (and justifiably) about how she “never got nothing” for all the green faces she got in kindergarten.
But then, as the green faces started to appear with more frequency, I started to worry that I’d actually have to pay up. Finally, after Clyde brought home his fourth green smiley face in a row, and the specter of Peter Piper Pizza loomed ominously before me, I hit upon the perfect solution. As he walked into his classroom that Friday I bent down and whispered into his ear: “I think that little boy over there just called you a dork.”