Beach Home Devastated by Skittle

Fourth graders at my son’s elementary school conduct their own progress report conferences. They prepare for weeks and it would appear that they are getting graded on how convincing they are at being a CEO, judging by how take charge Vincent was. I did the very best Mature Mom I could muster. I didn’t want to embarrass him. He is silly at home, but when he is out he is all business. I have learned that about him and work very hard at playing along. Although, sometimes, like at this conference, I slip up.

When it was time to get dressed for the conference I asked Vincent, “Does this look okay?” I was wearing a dress shirt, a pair of my husband’s old jeans with a big hole where his keys in the thigh pocket burrowed through the denim, a baseball cap that matched my blouse, and brown high-top sneakers.

With your second kid, you’re done dressing up for these things. You just want to be yourself. You’ve done your time as the perfect parent with the first one. Who needs to put on any false pretenses with the second?

“No, Mom. Those jeans have a big hole.”

“I know! I’m going for a look.”

“Not that look.”

“Ooookaaaaay.” I put on a pair of brown cords that match the blouse.

“How’s this?”

“Lose the hat.”

“I can’t. It goes with the shirt. Plus….my hair….” I point to my head. It needs no explanation.

He nods, aims the remote at the TV, turns off his pre-recorded Nova, and we get in the car.

The meeting is in Vincent’s classroom. He has a folder in front of him. I’m feeling unprepared. All I have in front of me is my handmade purse. Mature moms carry purses. It has nothing in it but Skittles from last summer at the pool.

The teacher has his report card in front of her. He has his folder. I have nothing. I fish around in the sticky Skittles to see if I can at least find a pen. I feel I need a prop of some sort.

Meanwhile, Vincent begins. He is very serious.

“Welcome!” he says.

“Thank you!” I reply.

Then he checks off “Welcome your parent to the student led conference”.

He proceeds down the list, checking things off as he goes along. He pauses to ask if I have any questions or comments. I have never seen him like this before. While I’m listening intently, I’m also watching the profile of my son go from a nine-year old boy to the president of a company. Visions are floating through my head of upscale assisted living, views of the beach, delicious blackened fish and shrimp for dinner. Perhaps, I’d spend my sunset years on a balcony overlooking the sun setting behind the Gulf of Mexico.

He shows me how he scored himself on his “Work Habits and Personal Growth”. Then he takes out his goals for the next grading period and explains them, and why he chose to work on them.

I had my mom game on. I asked all the right questions. “How do you want to work on your division at home?”

“With flashcards,” he said, thinking of the flashcards that sit in my desk drawer, still in cellophane.

“So, when you’re at the computer in the middle of a game, how is this going to work? I ask you ‘Hey, Vincent, in 15 minutes we’re going to do flashcards?’”

“Yes,” he said, committing himself to the plan convincingly.

Then he pulls out his favorite piece of work and explains why it’s his favorite. It’s a math worksheet and the manipulatives were Skittles. He liked them because he could eat the Skittles when he was done.

I misinterpreted this as the perfect time to pull a Skittle out of my purse. I fished around, pulled out a green Skittle and placed it on the table between us. It was misshapen and not shiny and perfect and bright, but rather dulled by lint, and a stray thread from inside the homemade purse.

He looked at the Skittle, then at the teacher and back at his folder, and said, “Well, that was random.” When he makes the check mark on his list, next to “Favorite Piece of Work”, his pencil lead snaps.

Oh, no. Oh, no! I embarrassed him. I was doing really well and then I blew it. I quickly threw the Skittle in the garbage, with the same remorse as discovering that I’d just allocated funds into a sinking account.

There goes my old lady home on the beach.

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