I was Ms. Goody-two-shoes as a child and adolescent. Rebellion was sacrilege, rules were absolute. My teachers gushed about me to my parents during PTA meets and my relatives held me as the standard with which all kids in the family, of all generations, would be measured for eternity. Needless to mention, I was a prick of gargantuan proportions.
My daughter tells me today that her Tamil teacher wants to meet me to complain about her*. I surprised myself by being ecstatic. My daughter is disobedient. Rebellious. Anarchist. Renegade.
Most importantly, my daughter is real. Alive. Active. Herself.
I am pretty sure that the teacher was just kidding*, but if she really did call me to talk to me about how completely indisciplined my kid is or whatever, I hope I don’t grin like the Cheshire Cat through the meeting.
* The complaint was that she is “awkward”. So I am assuming that the teacher was joking. About complaining to me, that is, not about the kid being awkward. My kid is the queen of awkwardness. A trait inherited from the Grand Queen of awkward land, me.