Can it really be 130?

In the fall of 1990, feeling early-pregnancy nauseous, I sat in a tiny, kindergarten chair across a tiny, kindergarten table from a tiny, kindergarten teacher with short, dark hair named Ms. Lee. It was my first ever parent-teacher conference. I would hear all about my smart, spunky, five-year-old Luke, who could already read and do simple math but couldn't hold a pair of scissors correctly to save his life. "Maybe you could work at home on his fine motor skills." Sure! Cuz I definitely have time to do that with five-year-old Luke, four-year-old Shulamith, and a growing baby Isaiah inside.

That was 27 years ago.

Last night I walked the halls of Hillcrest High School and visited with six of Seth's teachers. It was my last ever parent-teacher conference. I thought about how many conferences I've attended in my life. With five kids moving through the public K-12 school system and two conferences each academic year for each of them, I suppose this was around my 130th.

One hundred thirty parent-teacher conferences, and last night, my very last. It was so sad. I walked slowly. I hoped for crowds, so there would be lines outside the teachers' rooms, but I hardly had to wait for anyone. It went way too fast.

As parents, we have little to do with how our children turn out. Sorry, if you are under the misguided impression that you do. Their lovely spirits have lived a very long time, and they come to us, well, the way they come. We do our best to influence and guide, but in the end, we can only stand back and watch. Even so, and I'm not even sure why, there is barely anything more emotionally gratifying than hearing ardent praise about one's child, dripping forth from the mouth of pretty much anyone, but teachers especially.

Which is why I love parent-teacher conferences.

Ms. Lee did ask me to help Luke with cutting, but not before telling me that along with his curious, precocious mind, she had never met a happier, more well-adjusted kid. The following year, we had moved from Oregon to California. Shulamith's kindergarten teacher became ill early in the fall, but not before the first parent-teacher conference. Oh how she loved Shulamith. Apparently, my little socialite daughter had convinced all the girls at her table that they, too, could read. She could read. And she told them they could too. So they did!

By the time Isaiah and Eli were in school, we had moved to what I'll always refer to as "home," a little town an hour north of Seattle, called Mt. Vernon. The middle boys had many of the same teachers, including a 3rd grade teacher named Ms. White. In my first parent-teacher conference with her, she asked me if I thought we could convince our introvert Isaiah to play Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, which she produces in her class each Christmas: "I think he's the only boy I have this year who could learn the part." We convinced him, and he did an outstanding job.

Two years later, Eli also had Ms. White. I walked into the fall parent-teacher conference, so happy to greet a familiar teacher whom I already knew and liked. She approached me with a hug, followed by the "Eli gushing" I would come to expect from pretty much every teacher, coach, or church leader Eli would encounter through his growing up years: "Terrianne, you know how much I loved Isaiah," she said. "And I really did. But this child. This child has stolen my heart."

Can you see why I love parent-teacher conferences? Why I was so sad last night as another parenting landmark came crashing to an end all around me?

The evening was every bit as gratifying as the other 129 have been. We are not a family that worships the "Almighty A," and all my children have earned their share of Bs through the years. But for some reason, Seth decided to end his high school career with a 4.0 GPA his senior year. I walked from one classroom to another, first hearing about his current "A," but more importantly, how much his teachers like and respect him. He is kind, they told me. Yes, he is.

As I always do now that we live in Utah, I ended my conference night by walking across the parking lot to the seminary building, where Seth spends one period every other day studying church doctrine. His cute, young seminary teacher, Sister Brown, wanted to know all about his post-graduation plans. Her excitement began when I told her Seth was already accepted to Utah State University, her Alma mater. It grew more intense when I told her he plans to defer his enrollment two years in order to serve a mission. She also wanted to know if he is going to prom and who he's taking. :-)

I picked up my paper cup filled with M&Ms and pretzels (seminary always gives out treats on parent-teacher conference nights), and headed to my car. I want you to know that I didn't ugly cry or anything; a couple tears may have escaped my eyes, but only a couple.

So those of you who are still in the game, enjoy those parent-teacher conferences, all 130 of them. They will be over before you know it.