Speaking of grades for parents, as we did here earlier in the week, Jody Becker would sometimes love a real report card. Instead, she grades herself, and some days those grades are higher than others. Lisa Belkin, Parentlode
At most schools, this week marks the first parent-teacher conferences of the year-- a chance for an official review your child's progress and performance.
For parents it's tough to get reliable feedback whether or not ours is a job well done.
The main clients in this enterprise are mercurial, immature people who act like babies...and then, like children...because...they are.
So mostly, we assess ourselves as parents. That seems like an odd performance review system for rookies with a big job and no boss. But most of us casually measure performance by checking out how we are doing by comparing ourselves to our peers and our kids' peers.
Then, sometimes you get a cosmic "How'm I doin'?" reality check.
Mine came Saturday.
For about a year now, I have been living with the stringy, hangin'-defiantly-in-my-face hairstyle perfected by my little six-year old aspiring teenager, affectionately known as Client B. Her hair looks terrible, but, I rarely mention it.
As the veteran of raging hair wars that defined my own childhood, I try very hard not to focus too much on hair issues with my two girls. Hairstyle - in my book--is a basic human right.
But...then, I saw an opening to make some improvements that was just too good to pass up.
Client B is deeply engaged in a relentless campaign to achieve guinea pig ownership. Her strategy is solid. She checks out lots of library books on guinea pig care, frequently drafts lists of possible names, and involves her eight-year-old sister in many conversations about habitat options.
She's even pushing an re-use/eco-angle: the forgotten wooden blocks she and her sister once played with- refining their toddler motor skills- can be re-purposed as chewing cubes...to keep the guinea pig's teeth trimmed. How beautiful!
My basic attitude toward getting a guinea pig: why not? As long as the dog doesn't eat it.
In other words, I'm game.
Then last weekend, I had a minor epiphany while overhearing sisterly conversation number 7,914 about the hypothetical guinea pig unfold.
I'm in the camp that generally opposes bribes as a parenting tool. I also recognize opportunities for exceptions. Here the stakes seemed so well-matched, I couldn't resist laying out the terms: cut your hair, get the guinea pig.
I'd give myself a C- for that move; weak, could be construed as an abuse of power, but...
She went for it!
Quick! Before she changes her mind...action is essential! But...how?
Saturday evening...Supercuts: closed. No problem. We three gather cozily 'round the glowing laptop and watch dozens of people cut their own bangs, their children's bangs...Yes, many, many, many of our fellow Americans have posted videos of how to cut bangs on YouTube.
Feeling emboldened and armed with technique, I hustle Client B down to the kitchen table, grab the scissors, and do the deed.
We all gasp with excitement as about four inches of hair fall.
My handiwork is....alarmingly bad. The bangs are crooked, and waaaaay too short.
I am horrified, but I smile. Haircutting: D-.
I lean in, trying not to alarm my client. "I didn't do a great job, sweetheart, I'm sorry."
She runs to the bathroom, looks in the mirror, and comes back with a huge smile on her face.
"It's okay, Mommy," she says.
I'm incredulous. She does not melt or rant or even pout.
She made a deal, and she's fine with it.
Looking at her crazy haircut and giant smile, I have this weird moment of feeling like I actually accomplished....something. Major.
She's a good sport.
It's just a progress report, and it's not all about me, but I'll take it.