The Smokin' Pirate's Rendezvous

It's that time of year when my palms get sweaty and my heart starts racing.  It's time once again for the Smokin' Pirate's rendezvous.  I wish I were talking about an encounter with a lightly bearded Orlando Bloom look-a-like on a tropical island . . . but I'm not.  The Smokin' Pirate?  He's my son.  And the rendezvous?  That's what most of you would call a parent/teacher conference.  My renaming is a futile attempt to inject a bit of humor into a somewhat painful process.  I'm sure there are parents who salivate at the mere mention of this meeting and who eagerly look forward to hearing just how wonderfully little Susie is blossoming in the classroom.  But for me?  Well, let's just say the meeting usually presents a challenge.

My son attends a fairly traditional, small catholic school.  Last year, when the school held its annual curriculum night, I waltzed into his second grade classroom hoping that somehow he had learned to blend in.  The teacher had prepared the classroom for the night and had carefully hung a row of self-portraits over the blackboard at the back of the room.  There was an unusually large number of girls in the class, so most of the portraits featured pigtails and brightly colored rainbows.  All of the girls were smiling in their pictures and they occasionally threw in some flowers or a fanciful unicorn.  As my eyes meandered down this line of genial portraits, I eventually came to a bandanna clad figure with jagged teeth and beady little eyes.  I instinctively started my internal pleading:  "Oh please God, no.  It isn't . . . ."  But, oh yes . . . it was.  The portrait of a pirate was my own child's handiwork.  And there was more.  As I examined the rough looking figure that my son had drawn, I couldn't help but notice the slender rolled tube that was protruding from the pirate's mouth.  Green smoke billowed up from the tube and encircled the pirate's head at the top of the page.  Sure enough . . . for his second grade self-portrait . . . my son had created a smokin' pirate.

Please don't think that I'm suggesting that my third grader is already a prepubescent juvenile delinquent.  He's not . . . yet . . . and I still harbor hope that he never will be.  What is undebatable however, is the fact that he is certainly not your average 8 year old.  On the same night that I cringed at the Smokin' Pirate's portrait, I was asked to peruse a book that the class had put together for the special night.  The book was called "A House Is a Home."  The students were supposed to create statements that were analogous to "a house is a home for a family."  As I started flipping through the book, I once again was treated to a plethora of unicorns and rainbows.  One of the girls drew a picture of a doghouse with a peppy looking puppy and the neatly printed words:  "A doghouse is a home for my puppy."  One drew a picture of a friendly horse with the immaculately written caption:  "A barn is a home for a horse."  Another student drew a picture of a cuddly tiger-stripped cat and wrote that "a pet carrier is a home for my kitty."  As I flipped further through the brightly colored pages, I eventually came to a picture of a clock that was drawn entirely in pencil.  Scrawled across the page, in what amounted to no more than chicken scratches, were the words:  "A clock is a house for time."  Yup, you guessed it; it was penned by none other than the Smokin' Pirate.  I thought to myself . . . okay, that is fairly profound; I guess there's hope.

So this week when I meet with the Smokin' Pirate's teacher, I am clinging to the belief that creativity will triumph in the end.  At least I can guarantee that the conference won't be boring.