Number 1 friend and I are discussing her son 1 and my daughter 3″s parents’ evenings, that both took place last night. He’s actually doing really well, she said with complete amazement. Apparently he’s really bright, works hard and is a pleasure to teach. I can’t understand it, she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
Daughter 2 asked daughter 3 how parents’ evening had gone – brilliantly, she said, without a hint of irony. I butted in, erm what about the bit about you being constantly distracted, talking too much and that you could push yourself more, I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
Daughter 2 is incredulous that daughter 3 is allowed to drop all languages at GCSE, whilst her school won’t allow it. I’m even more dyslexic in French, she moans.
She asks me to read the blog to her. No, I say, you read it to me, it’s good for you. She reads a couple of sentences and that is enough. My artistic integrity is compromised, subtleties are lost, words are left out. I can’t bear it any longer. Pass it over here, I say.
I recount the incident, guiltily, to number 1 friend, who was in complete sympathy. I do the same, she said, it just becomes unbearable listening to them. We look at each other and laugh. All things considered, I think our kids are doing pretty well.