Last week, as I was getting the troops ready for bed, one of my son’s teachers called to check in with me. “He is doing well,” she told me. “His reading is great. Socially, he’s got a great group of friends. He has a wonderful attitude. My only concern is that his receptive language skills are weak. If it’s okay with you, we’re going to take him and a few other kids and give them extra help in one area of the curriculum that we think will best address this weakness.”

I was thrilled: His receptive language is weak.

“Should I say anything to him?” I asked.

“Definitely not,” she said. “When it comes time for this part of the lesson, we’re going to break the kids up into a number of small groups and they won’t think much of it.”

I put down the phone and went back to convincing everyone of the importance of brushing his or her teeth. To keep from making anyone wonder why I had just holed myself in the kitchen for five minutes — and because I thought the gang had heard me say, “Hello, Mrs. X,” and because two of my children have teachers named Mrs. X — I thought I’d preemptively address the issue.

“That was Mrs. X, Josh,” I said in as matter-of-fact a tone of voice as possible. “She called to check in with me and says you’re doing great. You’re reading well. You have nice friends. And she loves your attitude.”

Josh, 7, who is in the second grade, looked at me blankly, and I wondered if maybe at bedtime, his receptive language skills are especially weak. But Jacob, 9, two years older and wiser, took it all in.

“You know, Josh,” Jacob began in a condescending tone of voice, “from my experience, when Mommy says something like that, it’s totally not true. It’s probably the opposite. What it really means is that Mrs. X called with some problem and wanted to discuss it with Mommy. You’re probably not doing well in school at all.”

I thought I was going to reach out and strangle him. Of course I was busted — and of course my husband overheard the entire exchange and was struggling nearby not to laugh aloud.

I made a swift decision to stick with my story.

“Actually, Jacob,” I said in the same matter-of-fact tone, “Mrs. X called to say Josh was doing great, but I can’t wait for your teacher to call me. I’m sure she’ll have lots of good news.”

I guess this serves as my official wake-up call to the fact that I am now the proud parent of a preadolescent with sophisticated ears.

When my firstborn was a few months old, I remember leaving him in the middle of the bed while I took a shower or got dressed. One day, I realized that the baby wasn’t going to give the warning sign, “Today, I’m going to roll over.” I stopped leaving him in the middle of the bed. (Although I must admit, rather guiltily, that I can still remember each of my children rolling off the bed.)

Parents are charged with a difficult task: to mentally stay a step ahead of their children, but in reality to stay a step behind them. It is especially tricky with our firstborns: We have such a hard time accepting the speedy rate of their growth. But conversely, with the children that follow, we seem to overestimate their maturity.

When is the right time to discuss how babies are made? When do they need extra help with their schoolwork? When are they ready to walk to school on their own? When are they going to be offered their first cigarette? When should you have the drugs and alcohol conversation? The sex and responsibility conversation? You don’t want to introduce the subjects too early — or too late.

My good news, at least for now, is that clearly only one of my children has reached this level of maturity. Josh came home from school last Monday with a big smile on his face. “Mrs. X broke us into groups today,” he said. “And I’m in the highest one.”

sarasberman@aol.com