A.P. Childhood

This morning I schlepped T and Johnny over to the preschool for Parent Teacher Conference. That’s right. Parent Teacher Conferences (actually now they’re called Student Educator Parent Conferences) for a class of three-year-olds.

T’s progress is heartening. His official report verifies he can name at least six colors. He can identify at least three shapes. He cannot, however, tear a piece of paper in two. We’re going to get right on it.

Mind you this is a low-pressure preschool where the self-proclaimed objectives are for the children to play together and enjoy learning. It is not the kind that promises your children can be made smarter and more beautiful in direct proportion to the cost of tuition. But even so, T’s getting aptitude tests three times a year, and his “social-emotional skills” are rated on a 5-point scale.

Why do three-year-olds have to be overachievers? Why are we more interested in manufacturing premature readers than we are in safeguarding childhood’s creativity?

Despite these huffy rhetorical questions, I’m not exempt from wanting my kids to be special. When Scotty got a letter requesting permission for “gifted” testing, I signed it with zeal. Daily I comb through his backpack for the results, craving certification of the light that has always been in Scotty’s eyes.

The truth is, possibly the first test any of my children have taken that actually mattered happened on Tuesday, to Johnny. He came in just below normal, and I was thrilled.

We’ve been worried about Johnny’s hearing. A few months ago he started losing words, and what was a growing vocabulary whittled down to “dit” (Pip, the dog) and “uh-oh.” A check of his ears revealed a mysterious uninfected fluid buildup. We didn’t know much about the duration or the damage.

So on Tuesday when Johnny sat on my lap in the smiling audiologist’s darkened sound-proof booth and turned his head at a duck’s quack and a lamb’s baa, when an examination of his eardrum revealed rebounding elasticity, when the ENT said we could wait 6 more weeks and the worst-case scenario would be ear tubes, “average” meant miraculous.

And who needs a test to tell us our children have been miraculous all along?

P.S. For the record, Johnny's vocabulary is rebounding. He can now say "shoes," "Old Bear," "Grandma," "truck," "apple," "hair," and "eyes." Also, he has an awesome tiger growl. Future genius.