report card

The black lines curve over, around and down until they form letters that are carried up to my searching eyes and into my heart. My son's Grade One report card sits on the table and I sit, hands clenched tight.

I read letters strung together into words, broken apart by paragraphs in an unfamiliar succession as I decode a stranger's assessment of my first born. I earnestly search for proof that she sees the same little boy I love, that she gets to nurture all day in my place, and watch him grow in mind and body. She sees pieces of him, fragments of who I know he is, and provides comments that warm my heart and stretch my readiness to grow as a parent.

It is such a strange thing that each weekday, I hand my child over to the care of others. I so desperately want to remain the focus of his world, but in the absence of me, I yearn that others see the essence of who my little boy is while in their world.

Do they see his heart? Do they understand his frustrations? Do they take time to talk with him, instead of rushing through him? Do they see his willingness and forgive his sloppiness? I think often of creating a heart translator that he may carry around so others may see and understand the intent of a six-year old doesn't always carry over to actions.

Restless legs, a chattering mouth and inquiring personality frequently carry him beyond the orderliness of his assigned seat. He seeks to explore questions of his world, while I seek to implore wisdom of the people within it.

Together, mother and son are both assessed on growth, willingness to learn and application of lessons. And while I'm certain there will always be room for improvement, there must also be grace that allows us to honour our truest selves along the way.