Three times a year -- in the fall, in the spring, and at the end of the school year -- a large, sealed manila envelope comes home in each of my kids' backpacks: report cards.
It is the only time I remember to look through their backpack. In fact, I rip that sucker open as fast as I can, ignoring the paper cuts I get in the process. I skim the first two pages, tossing them aside until I get to the information I want.
On the back page, there is a comment section where the teacher provides a personal assessment of the child. This is the information I want. I read these paragraphs slowly and deliberately, combing through it for information about how my sons behave in class, how they treat their classmates, whether they are respectful to their teachers.
I don’t care about the letter grades my kids have earned. I care about the people they are becoming.