The Tard Blog


12/8: More parents stories

A sixth grader of mine, named Peter has come along way since last year. His behavior has improved (he used to do things like pull the fire alarm, not go in when the recess bell rang, chase girls and touch them inappropriately), his academic work is completed on time and with worthy effort. He is a good athlete, has a good sense of humor, and is an all-around great kid. He has no problems physically--he is just dumb as shit.

Conferences were the week before Thanksgiving, and his mother had a 4:00 conference scheduled with me. I was really looking forward to it, as I would FINALLY have something positive to say that was true. I had gathered some of his best writing, art projects, math tests, etc.

Four oíclock rolls around, and she is not there. I wait for her, thinking she is running late. A half an hour passes, and my next conference is scheduled to start (that parent didnít show, either).

I re-file all the shit I had gathered to show the mother.

I had only seen the mother twice before. Once at a meeting that she HAD to attend in order to keep Peter from being expelled for strangling a girl in the library. I remember sitting there staring at her. It was the principal, the guidance counselor, his fifth grade teacher, two cops from the local police force, Peter and myself. She was definitely fucked in the head. She just sat there, staring into space. Every once in a while she would shake her head, or utter "damnit boy."

The next time I would see this woman, it became quite clear that she was for sure a fucking crack whore.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, Peter comes up to me and asks if his mom had come to the conference. I tell him no, and that it is a shame too because I had some really good things to tell her.

He looks at me in disbelief. He then tells me that on the day of the scheduled conference, his mom had gotten dressed up nice, and was putting on her coat. He asked her where she was going, and she told him that she was going to his conference.

Well, she lied. My guess is that she was heading down to stand outside Cinergy field to prostitute herself, as I had seen her there last May when I was going to a baseball game. She was dressed real trashy, with horrible make-up on, tons of gel in her hair, this little slut-like, sequined purse. And she didnít have Redís tickets. She fucking looks at me and turns away. She walks over to the Kettle Korn guy, and gets a popcorn sample. She then proceeds to walk across the street, and parks her big ass in front of The Ale House. She attempts to chat with every guy that was coming out of the beer garden. None of the guys really seemed to say shit to her. At this point, I need to go in, get two beers and garlic fries, as the game is about to start.

Seventh inning stretch time and the Reds are kicking fucking ass. The beer is cheaper outside the stadium, so I suggest to my friend that we continue getting wasted at the Ale House.

We walk outside, and stand at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to cross, when this old ass rusted car with primer all over it rolls up. The car was so hideous and smoky and loud (ever seen Uncle Buck?). Anyway, it stops, and out of the passengers side jumps the mother. Her hair is messed up, make-up gone. There is a big hole in her nylons.

I was too drunk to talk to her, and I really didnít want to anyway. That was the last time I have seen her. She doesnít attend any functions for her son. Not even plays and shit that he is in.

I had, for the most part, forgotten about seeing her that night, until the conference issue arose. I even called their house to try and re-schedule a conference with her and she never called me back.

I send home weekly progress reports that a parent has to sign. They serve as the only means of communication I have with some of the parents. I donít have to do this, but I truly do want my retards to be as successful as possible.

This past Tuesday, attached to Peterís (unsigned) progress report is a note from her. The note says, "Please do not send these green sheets home for me to sign anymore. I already know what Peter does and what he needs to work on."

All I can think is, "Right, kinda like how you came to his conference."

With a mother like this, Peter doesnít have a chance. It is sad when you think about it. But then it's funny immediately following that.




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