Can I Change My Answer?

Diane Rene of My Mind’s Ramblings is back. This time with a story of foot-in-mouth disease.

I think every state has standardized testing in their public school systems. I know in many homes these results are not regarded with any importance, especially in the older years where the kids use the time to draw pictures with the bubbles on their scantron sheets instead of actually reading and answering questions, but in my home I use them as a guide so that I can get a feel for where they are at and where they might struggle.

To the point — my middle daughter’s test scores came in the mail this week. I immediately dropped what I was doing so that I could tear them open and check them out. Last year she scored 100% in 3 areas — two areas of English and one in Mathematics, scoring well into the advanced areas of both subjects.  She has always scored above proficient and it gets me a little giddy reading them.

I look at the summary sheet — advanced in English and Language Arts, but not by much, and only proficient in Mathematics. Granted, she was bordering on advanced/proficient, but I just thought. . . wow! It dropped!

I was reading the results out loud in the car to my daughter sitting behind me.

So I turned around in the car and said, something along the lines of, “I am so glad your middle school has this summer math program online, it looks like you’re going to be needing the extra help.”

Her face fell. . . my heart stopped. . . and immediately I felt like the shittiest person in the entire world.

“That online math program is stupid,” she says and immediately I have confirmed she is hurt. This child doesn’t use words like “stupid” unless she is pissed off. . . or hurt. Score 1 for Mom.

I try to rephrase my words, I backpedal and say things like, “You’re still at the borderline though.” “And look! You scored 100% in one area of English!” “Don’t worry about it, it’s just a test” . . . okay, now she knows I’m just trying to make her feel better. She is getting defensive, and I am scrambling for the right words to make this all go away.

Finally, I shut up. I start the car, and we make a run to the market where I can’t even remember what the heck I was there for.

My daughter is walking around with her arms folded over her chest. Another sign that I have stabbed her in the heart.

I look at her, “I fucked up and I’m sorry.”

She didn’t smile at my dropping the F-bomb in the market. . . I’m screwed.

“I didn’t mean to upset you with my comments on your test scores. I just want to be ahead of the game if there are any problems. Your older brother and sister both required extra tutoring during the Intermediate School years, and I just don’t want you to struggle when I could have stopped it. Does that make sense?”

She nodded, but wouldn’t look at me.

“But that doesn’t make your mother less of an ass and I am sorry. Let’s go beat her up!”

Rolling eyes! SUCCESS!! Well, sorta. At least her arms fell to her sides before pushing her sister from behind with a, “Move it shorty.”

Note to self: nothing in the mail is so important it can’t wait till I can look at it alone. . . with time to process. . . before opening my big, unfiltered mouth to my kid.