On Friday, the kindergarten teacher sent home my 5-year-old daughter’s first report card, and I ripped open the sealed envelope with a tingly mix of anxiety and sorrow. The first report card marks a rite of passage in a child’s life, the start of many official judgments. The winter breeze blowing through the schoolyard now carries faint whiffs of assessments yet to come: Regents exams, SAT scores, and a disheartening performance review written by some idiot corporate middle manager.

Her report card contained some surprises, few of which had anything to do with my daughter’s abilities. Her teacher’s opinion pretty much confirms my own: My child does well in some areas but needs to work harder in others. The comments were a mix of praise and constructive feedback. All fine.

But I was surprised by how precisely the report card charted my kid’s specific strengths and needs. The old A, B, C grades are history, and New York’s 1 through 4 levels haven’t yet arrived. Instead, kindergartners at my daughter’s school are judged on whether they meet certain social benchmarks “Consistently,” “Usually,” “Sometimes” or “Rarely.” And the checklist can be oddly specific. For example, my kid earned high marks for “Fits into group without needing excessive attention,” which is more than can be said for Paris Hilton. In areas such as “Able to stay on topic” and “Able to elaborate ideas,” my little girl scores better than I do.<!--more-->

In academic categories such as reading and arithmetic, the grades (if you call them that) are one of three descriptions: “Meets/Exceeds expectations,” “Making progress” or “Area of concern.” This beats the obsolete A ("Excellent"), S ("Satisfactory") or N ("Needs improvement") that I received in elementary school. My daughter’s rating system suggests the classroom expectations are high, therefore meeting them merits the top grade. “Making progress” assumes progress will be made, particularly now that parents are in the loop. As for “Area of concern” … well, a cover letter noted that parent-teacher conferences take place in March.

The cover letter also informed me kindergarten report cards are private communication between teachers and parents “and are not placed in your child’s permanent record.” That was news. I assumed the “permanent record” was fiction, a schoolyard myth concocted in the 1950s as an unseen threat to prevent kids from smoking, wearing dungarees, or rocking out to Buddy Holly, but in fact it is the subject of a Chancellor's Regulation.

This week I will sign off on my daughter’s report card, add a few comments to prove I read it, then send it back to school. Welcome to the world of educational assessment, kid. You’re doing well so far. But watch out: There’s a permanent record lurking in some file cabinet that will follow you everywhere.