I look forward to parent-teacher conferences about as much as I do to periodontal surgery. The night before conference day, I usually have one of those dreams in which I'm in fifth grade playing dodge ball--naked. At my kid's school, we parents wait our turn in the hallway, drinking decaf and trying to hide our anxiety behind our briefcases. When I'm ushered into the classroom, I wedge myself into a Lilliputian desk. Mrs. Widget smiles down with practiced patience. She begins. Nine minutes later, it's all over, and we're shaking hands. By the time I make it to the car, I...
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