Mean teacher

My 7 year-old daughters have entered a stage where they bicker and fight almost all of the time. They disagree over nearly everything. Which show to watch on TV, who gets to use the computer first and even what to wear. (I expected arguments over clothes to wait until they were at least 12 years old.)

However, my girls are in strong agreement on one thing: Miss Donna is mean.

The girls are in an after school program where they can do homework, play games and have gym time before I pick them up after work. The program is run by a woman who is soft spoken, but extremely firm. She runs a tight ship – and she has to. She’s responsible for nearly a dozen kids ranging from first to fifth graders.

Miss Donna expects the kids in her care to speak with hushed voices, sit still when instructed to do so and engage in quiet activities such as drawing, reading or playing board games.

Personally, I don’t think these are unreasonable expectations, so when my girls started coming home complaining that Miss Donna was mean, I assumed they were overreacting.

My girls are typical 7 year-olds. They’re talkative and bubbly, and would rather dance and twirl than sit still for too long. So naturally, I figured they were just getting scolded for giggling too much or being too chatty. I told the girls to follow Miss Donna’s directions and they shouldn’t have any problems.

And we didn’t have any problems – for a while.

One evening, as I picked up the girls, Miss Donna approached with a solemn face and told me there was something she needed to discuss with me. We stepped to the side, slightly out of earshot from the kids. My girls sat and stared at us, knowing Miss Donna was delivering a bad report. They looked frightened.

To be honest, the stern look on Miss Donna’s face scared the hell out of me. Her voice was low and serious; indicating that one of my girls had done something awful – shocking even. Did she steal something? Did she hurt someone? I braced myself for the worst.

“Today, your daughter said a bad word,” she began. “She said a very bad word.”

Before I continue, I need to confess something: I have a very bad mouth. Though never in front of the kids, I tend to pepper my language with what I like to call, “sentence enhancers”.

I’ve always loved the English language and am a self-described ‘Word Nerd’. And as such, I’m simply fascinated by the versatility of the F-word. It’s the perfect word. It’s a noun, a verb, an adverb – it’s incredible.

I love the F-word and like to use it. However, I use it sparingly because I know that not everyone is as fond of it as I am. I never use it at work, in the company of my mother, or in front of my children. I know better than that.

Miss Donna’s expression indicated that my daughter had said something terrible – and I could only guess that it was pretty effing bad.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, preparing to say the word herself. She leaned in and whispered, “She said…the D-word.”

I stood there, stumped for a few seconds. The D-word? What the heck is that? D? Which one starts with D?

“Oh! You mean, ‘damn’,” I volunteered, a little too loudly and causing some of the kids to look our way.

“Yes,” she said in a hush, “and obviously that kind of language is not allowed.”

I assured Miss Donna that words like the “D-word” were not permitted in my home either. Frankly I was a little relieved that the hubbub was only about swearing. She hadn’t done anything dangerous or defiant. She’d only said one little bad word – and not even one of the really bad ones at that.

I told Miss Donna that I’d speak to my daughter about it and motioned for the girls to get their things together. Miss Donna stared me down and didn’t budge. Her demeanor suggested she expected something more from me. I felt a little like a kid at the principal’s office. At her nonverbal prompting, I added,

“And there will be consequences for her behavior here today,”

This seemed to satisfy Miss Donna. I realized that during our brief exchange, the woman had somehow cornered me against a wall. I edged my way past her, waiving my kids over to the door. They quickly grabbed their coats and backpacks and scooted through the doorway. We all were relieved to step outside.

Without a word, we piled into my van. My daughter, the one that said the offending word, sat with her eyes cast downward, afraid of whatever punishment I was about to bestow. The other one knew better than to act up, so she sat quietly, watching me in the rear-view mirror, awaiting my reaction.

I could now see how my girls thought Miss Donna was mean. She definitely put me on the spot. But despite the fact I felt she had overacted to what in my mind was a minor infraction, I needed to support her.

It’s important that parents support their children’s teachers and caregivers. I have friends who teach and tell me that it’s common for parents to side with their children on disciplinary issues. They question the teacher’s authority and don’t support their classroom decisions, which is wrong.

When parents teach their kids that they don’t have to listen to authority figures, they’re setting them up to fail as adults. What’s that kid going to do when he’s got a boss who’s demanding? Call his mommy? Life is full of difficult people. Learning how to deal with them is probably one of the most important life skills a parent can teach their children.

I needed to put my own impression of Miss Donna aside and support her. I don’t know what it’s like to wrangle all of those kids for 3 hours every day. She’s got to do what she’s got to do to keep things running smoothly – and that means squashing even the smallest infractions. I couldn’t undermine Miss Donna’s authority.

I turned the key in the ignition and announced the punishment. My daughter cried when she learned she wouldn’t be allowed to play on the computer that night. I asked if she knew it was a bad word (she did) and if she knew bad words weren’t allowed (she did). I explained that she had to be punished for doing something she knew wasn’t allowed. It was that simple. She seemed to understand.

That night, watching TV, I saw a 22-year-old girl perform in a singing competition. She was awful. While she looked like a hip, pop star, her singing was off-key and sounded terrible. Anyone with ears could tell this girl was a bad singer.

The judges delivered the bad news. “Sorry sweetie, but your voice isn’t strong enough to be a professional singer.” Instead of accepting the bad news with any kind of grace or dignity, she blew up.

The girl accused the judges (each a music-industry expert) of not recognizing good talent. She went on a tirade, cursing and carrying on. Finally, she flipped the judges the bird and left. The cameraman followed her out into the lobby, where her mother was waiting with open arms.

“Oh honey,” her mama said. “They’re crazy – you’re great!” The girl sobbed into her mother’s bosom. “You’re going to be a star someday, really, you will,” her mama said, stroking her florescent pink hair.

The show put the whole situation into perspective. We can’t shield our kids from so-called, mean teachers – and we shouldn’t even if we could.

One little bad word today could lead to a televised tantrum tomorrow.