Dear Elli,
Yesterday, you received your very first report card of your first grade career. This is the first year you get actual letter grades, which makes you an official big kid.
You received a "B" in every subject. Straight B's.
I'm sure lots of parents would be proud of that report card. They might take you out to dinner or to a movie to celebrate. After all, a "B" means "above average", and that's good.
I've often felt the realization that you are a small version of me in many ways. And I earned a whole lot of "B" grades growing up. With very little effort. Just like your "B" average was earned. With very little effort.
You are a smart kid. Scary smart sometimes. And there is not a single doubt in my mind that every one of your "B" grades could quite easily be "A" grades if you chose to apply your intelligence to your work instead of finding ways to remain in a mild state of trouble throughout your school day.
I get it. I was the queen of mild trouble making, while still achieving pretty impressive grades. I thoroughly enjoyed baffling my teachers with an insightfully written essay, and then immediately lighting up a cigarette on the school bus on the way home.
That was great fun to me. Playing both sides of the fence. Good and bad. Overachiever and underachiever. Student athlete and punk. Honor Roll and regular attendee of detention.
I loved it. And so do you.
You're not a bad kid. And neither was I. You're a kid who balks at the idea of always doing what you're told. Of conforming to expectations. Of fitting any mold created by someone else.
I get it. I never lost my desire to drop a bomb on society's ridiculous set of standards for what "good" or "successful" look like. My desire to never fit that mold has resulted in both my greatest successes, and also some miserable failures. But I wouldn't change that part of me for anything, and I couldn't be more proud that you have it, too.
So I've got to admit that I'm only a little bit irritated by your report card. As long as you learn what you're supposed to learn, and learn it well, I can handle your refusal to be perfect.
I love you, even though you are in a mild state of trouble most of the time. It's okay. I am, too.
Mom
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