Tis The Daughters parents evening next week! Not her first, that was last year in Reception. And that one was a proper rush, thanks to me being the last one of the night. Teach' had obviously got a casserole in the oven or was gagging to get back in time for Emmerdale, because after a "She's doing great - wish I had more of her in my class, any questions?" she was picking up her handbag and ushering me out of the room. I was just relieved that she'd not told me she'd been taking a poop in the cloakrooms or punching people (Jenny, not the teacher) to be honest, and safe in the knowledge that darling daughter was neither a total thickie or a hooligan I rushed home for Emmerdale.
In Jenny's first week in Year One, her teacher called me over, and without a word of a lie, had me in tears. I know my daughter better than anyone; I'm under no illusions that she can be a proper moo at times, but when it comes to school we've never had any problems with her behaviour. So when Teach' made her out to be quite possibly the worst child she'd ever had the misfortune to encounter I wondered what the dillydickens she could have done! Had she killed the headteacher and been caught trying to bury the body in 'the Peaceful garden' (which is a paradox - how can anywhere be peaceful when it's got kids in it?)? Had she put a whoopie cushion covered in glue on to the Teachers seat and then led the class out in a riot through the village? No. Her heinous crime was that she'd not been sitting on her chair properly. After crying out some angry tears (in the privacy of my own home of course) I spoke to The Daughter, fully expecting her to say she hated school and didn't want to go ever again. But no, she didn't give a rats ass and liked the Teacher, much to my confusion and relief.
So as parents evening fast approaches, I wonder what delights await. The Daughter is very much like Mummy; enjoys and is good at English but just about copes with anything numerical. And loves to talk. My school reports were usually really good, but my parents came to accept and expect the phrase "Kirsty has much to say..". Which basically means 'will not stop bloody talking!' I remember to this day being so engrossed in my conversation with a friend about Bros that when the deputy headmaster came up beside me in class and said "Kirsty?", I responded crossly with "What, dad?!" Strangely, he didn't find it half as funny as my classmates did. So if The Daughter follows in my footsteps, I won't be too disappointed - I didn't turn out too badly despite the verbal diaorrhea. And you know what? I still don't stop talking!