Minding My Business

A couple of days ago I was waiting outside Jake's school at pick up when I ran into Sam's third-grade teacher, a teacher I really liked. She had two boys of her own, and I always thought she had that slightly weary look that a lot of moms of boys have. A resigned exhaustion I could relate to. Ever since he was her student she has referred to him as 'sweet Sam.'

And that's how the conversation started this week. "How's that sweet Sam?"

So I told her. Sweet Sam, these days, would be better described as Sour Sam. Homework is his enemy, his dad and I don't want him to have any fun, his teachers are out to get him. I'm getting a glimpse of the gloomy teenager that will be living with us soon.

About that time Jake came out and I left, without really thinking about our conversation. Later that night I told Sam I'd talked to her and she and I commiserated about our boys and our diminishing status in their lives.

Yesterday when Sam got home from school Jake handed him a note, folded, written on notebook paper. It was a note from his teacher. I really wanted to read that note. I followed Sam around and insisted he show it to me. And then I stopped. It was none of my business. Backing off was the best thing I could do. I can imagine what it said. I can hope it was something encouraging and sympathetic and maybe even kind about me. The only ones who will ever know are the teacher and my 'sweet' Sam.