Parent-Teacher Confrontation and Why Eskimos Don’t Have Sex

Bienvenue a hiver!  The weekend brought with it a rare visit from old man winter and more than just a dusting of snow.  So much more, in fact, that school has been cancelled and the wife is returning home with the children after a failed attempt at our usual morning commute.  Our home is proving to be more igloo than tropical hut as the temperatures plummet below the sub-freezing mark.  Getting oneself ready for bed and experiencing daily life in a frontier manner is an eye opener.  I have always been fascinated by programming about polar expeditions in which scientists spend months at a time in the polar extremes of our planet.  I have a new appreciation for what life must be like in such a climate.  Tucking myself into my bed in sweatpants, sweatshirt, mittens and hat seems out of the ordinary to me, but we are slowly adjusting.  We have sealed off the back half of the house and live in essentially the kitchen and living room only.  We are in our bedrooms at night, but aside from that, we are never too far from the fire.  It all sort of screams “The Day After Tomorrow”.  We aren’t burning books yet, but it seems only a matter of time.  I say this with tongue in cheek, but the age of our home (with all of its romantic charm) comes at a certain price when personal comfort is at stake.  The cold quickly reminds us that we have chosen to live in a 13^th Century horse stable, and the escalating price of propane has us praying for an early Spring.

I know what you are thinking . . . this seems like an aweful lot of complaining coming from a hearty Eastern Kansas kid.  We are, afterall, used to fairly cold winters.  All of this may well be true, however, what we aren’t used to is having nowhere to retreat from said cold.  The relentless nature of the exposure has my bathroom breaks and daily showers held to a minimum.  The insult of exposing my delicate man bits to inevitable frost bite is more than my equally delicate psyche can take.  It then begs the question, how do Eskimos procreate?  I don’t care how well bestowed an Inuit woman might be with womanly gifts, there wouldn’t be a chance in hell of me getting nekkid in an igloo.  I would not remove my bearskin pantalonies and expose my gentleman parts for any reason that wasn’t essential for daily survival.  That being said, this cold snap has given us the opportunity to test out our recently acquired ski pants and I am pleased to say that they seem to work quite nicely.  We spent a good portion of Sunday outside, since the temperature differential between the exterior and interior of our home seems negligible at best.

The snow also provided an opportunity for me to injure myself as is often the case when I find myself trying to keep up with the younger crowd.  My eldest has found great joy in using a sled that was left behind by a prior tenant in both fair and foul weather.  Riding down a dirt hill next to our home has ravaged the bottom of his little blue toboggan, but it still seems to serve its purpose now that the ground has turned white.  The folly was easily resisted when the weather was warmer and the payoff for the ride was a dirty pair of pants.  Now that the snow is upon us, however, the impulse to relive my glory days was too much to resist.  Teetering at the top of the hill, I began to question my sanity.  No time for second guessing.  “Give me a push son” was the last thing I remembered when I regained consciousness at the bottom of the hill.  The ride was a blur and the shot of pain through my left ass cheek quickly brought me back to my senses.  The run is quite short and ends abruptly at a ditch, which those with a slighter stature seem to skip over like a stone.  Not so for those with a more sizable build.  The trusty blue sled nosed into the ditch with a great deal of force and sent me hurdling onto my face and eventually into a broken heap at the bottom of said ravine.  There is a pictorial sequence that proves this story, but my bruised ego is unlikely to allow it to see the light of day.  The photo taken at mid-journey is priceless, though I don’t remember the scream I let out which was thoughtfully captured in the snapshot taken by my wife.  Nursing a fairly bruised left cheek, I feel a fair bit of trepidation over our upcoming ski trip.  I will be sure to have my wife pass along the information for the hospital I will be staying at.  I would appreciate some flowers and balloons to lighten my mood.

The snowy weekend somewhat overshadowed an eventful Thursday, the end of which had us scheduled for parent-teacher conferences with both of the boys’ teachers.  Thinking ahead, we brought an interpreter.  This feels like an insulting crutch given the time we have spent here in France, but is still a necessity as our Freshman year French skills aren’t strong enough for an argument.  I call them parent-teacher confrontations rather than conferences, as I usually lose my cool at some point in the proceedings and begin to question the educators qualifications and credentials.  An ugly habit, but one I can’t seem to shake.  Don’t get me wrong, I know my kids are far from perfect, but I have a very low tolerance for mindless criticism when their grades reflect stellar performance.  I will worry about their inability to stay quiet or follow the “rules” when their grades start to suffer.  As I am sure I have noted in prior posts, I rather prefer my lads to be a bit out of the ordinary and do not want them turned into khaki panted drones.  I won’t get on my soapbox today as there is really is no need.  The “conferences” were pleasant enough and nothing came out in the open that I found particularly surprising.  The eldest is flourishing and working ahead of the expected pace.  His intelligence is inspiring and despite the language gap, his mathematics are at the top in the class.  No surprises here.  The youngest’s report wasn’t filled with twists and turns either.  He is well behind the rest of the class, though I don’t believe he deserves a dunce cap.  The language barrier is more formidable for him and being a product of the American educational process means that he had not yet been exposed to organized education until we moved to France.  Most of the kids in his class have been in “school” for the better part of two years and it shows.  At a very young age, the French educational system kicks the shit out of its American counterpart, and as such my poor youngest has some catching up to do.  Luckily, the better part of the educational process at this young age is in the arts and that is something  I am well adept at assisting with.  And so, we draw and draw and draw, honing his artistic talents and building his vocabulary with daily lessons and reinforcement from home.

This is, sadly, the biggest hurdle that my two kids will have to cross.  With two immigrant parents at home, there is very little reinforcement given for language skills learned throughout the course of the day.  All things being equal, I would say they are both prospering and will certainly be way ahead of the curve when they return to the US.  That is about all I have for today and it is about time to tend the fire once more.  So, for now, I bid you a frozen farewell and wish you a warm and brief finish to your winter, wherever you may live.  R.