Granted, this was always going to be a trying term for our daughter. I surmised that when the curtains fell on third term, her grades would tell the story of our lives.
Just before Pudd’ng begun her end-of-year exams, I told my wife that, as we worked out our issues, it was best for baby girl to stay with me.
I would try to put the “pa” in perfect; work my already overworking fingers to the bone. Sleep late; extremely late. Wake up two minutes later (that’s how it feels). Multitask.
Burn fingers – and chow – on the cooker. Get housemaid’s knees. Do anything. Me? As long as my daughter gets the best, I’m down for whatever.
Thank goodness. On this issue, Tenderoni and I read from the same script. The sweet little thing always feels me, and for me. Many times, concerned, she comes to the kitchen offering: “Dah-dee? Can I help you cook?”
At Pudd’ng’s school, each end of year, the top three pupils in each class are rewarded with exercise books. That’s something to make any pupil work harder.
Last year, Pudd’ng happily returned home with a bunch of exercise books. What’s more, the books have come in handy — not to mention saving me pretty pennies — when Pudd’ng comes home and announces, in her own words: “My class work book is finished”.
In Pudd’ng’s school, the MO is the day after pupils close school; parents go to school to collect their child’s file. During such meetings, teachers and parents exchange notes.
Pudd’ng is her teacher’s pet. On several occasions, she has requested us to give her a snack to take to her teacher.
And not so long ago, she surprised me by telling me that, for her teacher’s birthday, she wanted to surprise her with a dress. That’s just the kind of stunt to get a brother in serious trouble with his wallet … and wife.
End of this term, Tenderoni went to collect Pudd’ng’s file. And, to my wife’s consternation, the class teacher gave her the low-down that our daughter had offloaded on her.
Whenever Pudd’ng is rewarded or made to feel important, she shouts it from the rooftops. But when it is something not so good, such as un-Pudd’ng-like grades, I have to read the news updates in her demeanour, deafening silence or both. Sometimes, I have to coax the news out of her.
Sometime this year, baby girl came home gushing to us that she had been chosen class prefect for a “second term”. Her first bite at the prefect cherry was replete with excitement.
The “vow of silence” — until we coaxed the truth out of her — followed her heave-ho. Ditto the end of her second stint.
When this term she did not talk about the usual exercise books rewards, I smelt something burning. Something like a smouldering little pride.
“Her class teacher told me that our daughter was downcast, and when asked, she said her parents were not on good terms,” Tenderoni told me, after returning from collecting Pudd’ng’s file.
The obviously-affected little girl even went as far as telling her teacher that her parents were not living together. Only God knows what other weight she let off her little chest.
Pudd’ng’s file literally told the story of our lives. We were the reason she wasn’t among the top three; why, her teachers were so concerned about her performance, a couple even ordered a recount of her tally; why she was distracted, getting several sums wrong, yet she normally aces these without as much as doing a manual calc.
“The top three pupils were rewarded yesterday,” Pudd’ng grudgingly let on, after coaxing. Then, from her pitiful look, I wished I hadn’t kicked the dearie when she was down.
That was a telling meeting. It confirmed what I suspected. That, though Pudd’ng is virtually voiceless in this doggone drama, it’s weighing down on her. Heavily.
Bottom line? Kids have to make great grades, but parents have to make it work.
PSST! It’s Monday, November 17. Tomorrow’s my daughter’s birthday. Since November first, she has been stuck on a countdown. This morning – mid-morning, to be exact – she wakes up in high spirits.
“Dah-dee?” she twitters. “It’s almost my birthday. Tell me, “happy almost birthday”.
“Happy almost birthday … and a very good morning to you, too.”
I know what this almost business is about. It’s a reminder to me that if I forget her big day, I should also forget, for seven l-o-n-g seconds, her constant, “I love you, daddy” reminders.
