There’s something about a parent-teacher meeting that makes you feel like a schoolchild again hopeful, nervous, and oddly self-conscious. You walk in bracing for feedback, armed with mental checklists and questions, convinced you’re either doing too much or not enough. And yet, every once in a while, that little meeting with a teacher becomes a quiet mirror and the reflection it gives you isn’t of your child, but of yourself.

My son is six. A lively, curious, imaginative six. He recently started writing in lined books gone are the blank pages that allowed for sprawling letters and liberal margins. We’re now in the era of precision. Or so I thought.

At the meeting, I asked his teacher how he was doing. Her answer? “He’s one of only three learners in the class who achieved all sevens on his report.” My heart did a little somersault. Relief, pride, and a warm dose of maternal disbelief rolled in like a tide. I knew he was doing okay but that well? It made me wonder if I needed to ease up a little, trust his way of learning more. He clearly had it in hand.

Still, I couldn’t help but bring up the one thing that had been quietly gnawing at me: his letter “o.” Yes, that letter. You see, while he writes it neatly, it doesn’t always touch the line perfectly. Sometimes it’s slightly smaller but it’s still within the lines. He’s been taught that “o” is a tortoise letter, and his does, in fact, curl up gently in the correct space.

“I sometimes make him erase it until it touches the line,” I admitted to the teacher, bracing for either validation or subtle judgement.

She paused, then said gently, “You’re not wrong for wanting neatness. But he’s also not wrong because his letter still ends up exactly where it needs to be.”

And that’s when it hit me. I was chasing perfection in a space that already had the essence of it. His effort, his placement, his consistency was already right. Not perfect in a mechanical sense, but perfect in the organic way that learning is meant to unfold.

I walked away from that meeting feeling proud, but also slightly ashamed. I had asked my son to erase something that wasn’t wrong—because it didn’t match an ideal I had in my head. I realised that sometimes, in the pursuit of perfection, we erase the beauty of the process itself.

Children don’t need us to push them toward flawlessness; they need us to celebrate their progress. To see the “almost” and say, that’s enough for today. Because maybe the point of learning isn’t to do it all perfectly but to show up, try, and get a little closer every time.

I’m learning that imperfection is not the opposite of excellence, it’s part of it. That a slightly off “o” can still be a win. And that sometimes, the real growth isn’t theirs, it’s ours.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus 

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