EARLIER this week my wife and I went to visit my eldest boy's form teacher to talk about the results of his recent mid-year Primary 2 exams.

Imagine my surprise when the teacher punched me in the stomach, then gave me a sidewalk slam, crushing my spine against the concrete floor!

Oh, sorry, that's not exactly how it went down.

What actually happened was she informed us that our son's ranking plummeted a devastating eight points since last year - it only FELT like a gut-wrenching, bone-crushing physical assault.

We had every expectation that the lad's performance was set to improve this term. However, according to his teacher, the same teacher he had for Primary 1, he'd been even less attentive and more mischievous than he was before.

We had noticed earlier, when we first walked into the classroom, that his desk was at the very front, in the very centre, traditionally the spot reserved for the most unruly student.

His teacher informed us that once she finally manages to stop him from talking to his classmates, he'll start talking to HER.

My sons are bright boys - perhaps too bright for their own good - but they find it almost impossible to sit down and shut up, even when vigorously encouraged to do so.

Steppes of Mongolia

I can't help but think that they would have been better suited to a time when boys could really be boys, like out on the steppes of Mongolia, perhaps, riding around with Genghis Khan.

Or the Conan the Barbarian era - "To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." That kind of stuff.

It seems so unnatural for children this age to be desk-bound. I almost feel as if I'm stealing something precious from them - their very youth.

Unfortunately, in our advanced culture, in this particular century, children must be trained from a young age to focus narrowly, to work diligently, to follow orders unquestioningly.

They must be broken, like horses.

In the wake of the devastating news from his teacher, we've already had a couple of very serious talks with our wayward primary schooler, informing him that he is far from meeting our expectations.

We told him we're ashamed, and that he should feel ashamed as well. He said he does.

We told him that his playtime will be severely curtailed, that he will be forced to do even more homework. He said okay.

We told him that if his work does not improve, he is headed down a very hard road, that he will never get to do the sort of things he wants to do, like be a marine biologist.

He said he understands.

He's a wonderful, kind-hearted, energetic, sociable kid - indeed, one nice bit of feedback we got from his teacher is that he's very popular in class - but unfortunately, such qualities don't register on a report card.

Do we really have to turn him into a miserable, myopic, misanthropic little snot in order for him to succeed?

That's probably the idea.

Parenting is just one bloody sidewalk slam after another.

This article was first published in The New Paper.