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I stood at the dining room table with my son’s school take-home folder, trying to breathe naturally and make sense of the tiny numbers on the piece of paper I held in my hand. It was his results for the state’s standardized tests.
To a mother, one who wants it all for my son and never scored below the 97% percentile on these same tests, the numbers appeared to say my son was not smart, not even close.
I sighed, remembering the end of the year assembly that took place in his school gym. Each year, the children that tested with at least a 98% percentile in some area were asked to stand up and be recognized.
Even though my son had only now completed the test, all the previous years he would hang his head in disappointment when his name was not called. Based on the numbers I held in my hand, I knew that yet another year held disappointed and likely, many more years would as well.