We are under pressure to fill the last few spots that haven't been taken up yet. We have two openings, and three of the parents have not responded yet. Too bad. So sad. Time to move on. But no, the administration pressures us to fill all of the spots, so we do.
We fill the last two spots with kiddos whose grades are really good. We haul these people out of work, out of fun, out of important errands, to tell them that their son or daughter is doing so well that we wish we could repay in kisses. I guess that's a good thing, but seriously. I mean, we all love to hear about our kids' achievements, but perhaps an email or a card would be better than a black mark on employee records as one who "left work early on a Friday afternoon for some school thing."By conference number thirteen I am yawning my head off. By conference number eighteen I am toast. I don't even know who I am anymore. I could be saying such crazy shit as, "Your rutabaga hand-knits Majorcan lumberjack beards," and it wouldn't be any more meaningful than the words spilling out of my mouth.
I watch the clock. So close, so close.
I'm sorry, parents. I'm so very sorry if you're one of the last few conferences. We really do have brains and we truly could string a sentence together a few days ago, even a few hours ago, but right now there isn't a cohesive brain cell between the entire team of teachers stuck inside this room after three days.
Here are my final thoughts: Your kid is great; you're great; the sun is shining; the school year is half over; and, just in case we didn't already say so, your kid is great. Can I go home and crawl into bed now? I need to sleep for about thirty hours.
