Our lives are fairly crazy even in the best of times. But, last week was certifiably insane.
My teenage daughter celebrated becoming a senior the morning after the class ahead of hers graduated. But, despite the associated public celebration, she still had to get through something. Something big.
Finals.
(Cue the theme from Jaws here.)
A couple of the teachers from a couple of her classes — namely AP U.S. History and AP English Composition — didn't actually schedule actual exams during their assigned exam times. (After subjecting the students to the AP test itself about a month and a half prior, they probably assumed, rightly, that the kids were all tested out.) However, this didn't mean my daughter was off the hook.
For "APUSH," she had a 12-15 page research paper and a presentation. With less nudging than usual from her feminist mother, she chose "Why the ERA Didn't Pass."
Let's pause here so I can compose myself. (Sniff, sniff. I'm so proud.)
For AP English, she had to give a presentation as if she were an admissions counselor from an assigned college. (She wore a blazer and a vintage pin of the school's mascot which I happened to find in a junk (Or should I say "junque?") jewelry box.) Then she had to review essays from three prospective students and write three responses to them: an acceptance, a rejection and a waitlist. Meanwhile, she herself was "applying" to three of the schools presented by her classmates. It was all a little complicated ... and a lot of work.
Her other courses had final exams: Physics, Pre-Calculus, Psychology and French. One was a "gimme." Two required some, but not an inordinate amount of, study. But, the fourth and final final was clearly created in the ninth and inner circle of hell.
Her question: "Will you still love me if I fail it?"
My answer: "I will love you no matter what until I die. BUT DON'T FAIL YOUR FINAL!"
My husband was in New York on business, taking my sister out for drinks at the Algonquin, while I stayed up late each night to proofread. (Um, what's wrong with this picture?) Meanwhile, my daughter, always working an angle, convinced her Psych teacher to let her timeshift the test so she'd be done a day early.
If my daughter wasn't already planning an equestrian career, she'd make a marvelous lawyer.
After a flurry of activity and more than a modicum of stress (we were both holding our breaths at the end there), she went in for her last test. And, suddenly ...
It was over.
I thought back on the celebrations we used to plan to mark the successful end of a school year. There were trips to the Boston Aquarium, dinners in the North End or at a favorite Chinese restaurant. So, in keeping with our family tradition, I asked what her preference was.
She was diplomatic, but explained that she and her friends had plans. Someone had the bright idea of bringing all their work to a local beach and having a bonfire.
(Great, I thought, you survive finals and you get arrested.)
The fire didn't pan out (phew!), but other parties did. Off she went, a senior officially now. I sat down with leftovers and the first season of Downton Abbey on Amazon Prime.
And, I think we both exhaled.
Finally.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Remember report cards? Not our kids' report cards, ours.
My earliest memory of a report card was from first or second grade. It was a few pages long and included rankings (Excellent, Good, Fair, Needs Improvement) on all kinds of academic and developmental achievements. From elementary math and reading skills to listening, punctuality and playing well with others.
My father was so proud of it, he brought it in to work.
From then on, I was determined to get great report cards. And by and large I did (we'll just skip right over "Advanced Math Theory and Analysis" in twelfth grade and "Technical Theatre" my second year in college).
The thing with report cards back then is that there was an element of surprise. The process (for better or worse; I can actually see it both ways) included some subjectivity on the part of the teachers. The envelope arrived in the mail and there was a definitive "ta-da" (or "uh-oh") moment. The few days between the end of school and the release of the report card was a time of anticipation. Or anxiety. Or both.
My teenage daughter's report card was released while we were on vacation. It didn't matter though. Thanks to our school district's investment in a "gradebook portal," we have access to her marks in real-time. Real-time, like, all the time.
Essentially, this system is used by the school's teachers throughout the school year. They post assignments, as well as test scores and grades on papers and projects, homework and class participation.
The tagline of the technology provider is "inspire student learning."
Unfortunately, the only thing I've seen it inspire is a compulsion to check grades and to look at schoolwork as a purely quantitative — rather than qualitative — experience.
For me, as a parent, it's supposed to be "a great tool to stay active in your child's education and extracurricular activities." With it, I can track my child's "academic progress and assignments, attendance, group membership, schedule, conduct incidents, emergency contacts, and health information."
Better living through science, right? I have to disagree.
Suddenly every class is a math problem. My daughter (like all her peers) can tell you at any given time her exact grade for any given subject. When I say "exact," I mean to the hundredth of a percentage point. It's no longer enough to think you have an A- average. Now, once you've logged in and provided your password, you can definitively say that you have a 91.42. It can be particularly frustrating when you're on the cusp. For example, a B becomes a B+ at 86.51. What if you have an 86.49? Two one-hundredths of a point, people! In the past (the olden days when yours truly was a student), a kindly teacher might have bumped you up for effort. Not anymore. The numbers don't lie and they don't mess around with any of that sentimental nonsense either.
In the never-ending quest for automation, even the teachers' comments have been made soulless. Next to the numerical grade for each class, a comments area includes a one-line summation, such as "A pleasure to have in class" or "Outstanding effort" or "Needs to focus on homework assignments." These, however, are chosen from a finite list of potential comments that correspond to a two-digit code that the teacher fills in. (Apparently, my daughter is "a pleasure to have in class" in pretty much every class. I guess that's better than the alternative, but I'd love a little more detail.)
The immediacy (and lack of relativity) about the system can also be disheartening if not downright disturbing. One failed quiz or mediocre paper can take on disproportionate importance for a period of time (a period of nail-biting, sleepless-night time). For example, my daughter's French teacher rarely collected homework, but happened to one day when the entire class was confused about the assignment. Until the next test, otherwise solid students (and their worried moms) had to see grades in the 30s and 40s on the portal.
The flipside, of course, is that there are still some teachers who are resisting the transition to digital grading. The woman in charge of one of my daughter's electives didn't ever put a grade into the system until the very end. "Don't worry, Mom," my daughter assured me, "I know I'm getting an A." This would have been perfectly acceptable in the past, but like every other mother in our school district, I've been conditioned to expect real-time updates.
I'm all for using technology. I'm all for things that make our overworked (and underpaid) teachers' lives easier. I'm certainly all for systems that keep parents informed. But, I think the portal is a little too impersonal. I think it adds to the stress we all feel already when it comes to grades and takes the focus off of learning. We've traded effective learning for efficiency.
And it isn't always that efficient either.
Our portal, in addition to posting grades, publishes each student's schedule for the next year. This saves paper and postage. In theory, since the whole thing is being done by a computer, there should be fewer schedule issues. Right? In fact, with such perfect technology, the school has mandated that we NOT (under any circumstance) request changes.
So, once we took a look at my daughter's online report card (she was, btw, " a pleasure to have in class"), we checked out her schedule. She got all the classes she wanted and more study halls than expected. Probably because her AP U.S. History and her CP1 Physics are in the same block three days and CP1 Physics and Honors French 4 are in the same block two.
Better living through technology?
Better make that "Better living through cloning."
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The other day, I caught up with an old colleague. We compared notes about the latest marketing trends and quickly moved into more personal territory. The last time we shared an office, our children (three total, his two and my one) were very little. Today, mine is wrapping up her second year of high school and his oldest has just finished college.
Like every conversation I have with parents these days, we were soon bemoaning the pressure we're all under (moms, dads and offspring alike). His take was a little different from mine. He seemed to put a lot of the blame on mothers.
Say what?!
That's right. Today's moms (he specifically said "moms") are helicopter parents. We enable our kids; we don't want them to feel any pain. Because of us, they are not resilient enough.
I see his point, but I don't think it's just moms. In certain socioeconomic groups (upper middle class), I think it's all parents. He may just notice it more with moms because, by and large, moms still do most of the hands-on childrearing.
Of course, this discussion led me to some soul-searching. Am I one of those moms? After this past weekend, I'm afraid I qualify as such.
In a big way.
To my daughter's credit, she has had a lot on her plate lately. The fourth and final (Wahoo!) quarter of sophomore year is wrapping up. So, there have been projects and essays, debates and quizzes, last minute reading assignments and ... of course ... finals. Her first test (a tough one), as well as a portfolio presentation for her photography elective, took place Friday.
She had also offered to help her riding instructor by making a slideshow about the stable for a fundraiser. The woman needed it Saturday, and — whether by necessity or not; we'll have to agree to disagree — my daughter started it Friday night. She pulled still photos and video clips together and edited the project in iMovie. Then, she finally (it was quite late) went to bed while the file "exported."
Rousing my overtired teen Saturday morning is never easy or particularly pleasant. It turned into a downright disaster when she realized that the file had crashed overnight and she needed to start over.
Here's a little math for you. She had to leave for the stable (she works there on the weekends) in twenty minutes. But, rebuilding the iMovie file would take about two hours. The solution to this equation? Drama and despair!
"Why did you wait until the last minute?" I asked her.
"It's not my fault!" she protested.
"Well, it's certainly not mine!" I protested back.
Wrong. Apparently it was indeed my fault (as so very much is) because her computer isn't good enough and who gave her the computer? Me. After much ranting and raving (and raging), I took things under control and declared that we would leave ... NOW ... for the stable and her job. Then, I would return home (no Zumba this morning, I guess), build the slideshow, and then drive it to the stable. She pouted most of the way there and left the car without much of a "good-bye." As planned, I drove back home and spent about an hour or so, building a new slideshow in iPhoto as well as locating, saving and exporting the one she had done in iMovie, as well as creating a separate file of photo jpegs, so that the instructor could create something herself if the other two solutions didn't work on her system.
After twenty-plus years giving presentations at conferences, I'm all about audio-visual redundancy and plan Bs.
I loaded the files onto a CD and drove it to my daughter's instructor's house; she had it in plenty of time for her event. I was the hero of the day (in my eyes at least). But, I know (and knew then too) that I had missed a teachable moment.
Or what I think of as a mom-ent of truth.
In hindsight, what I should have done is this. I should have given her a simple choice. She could (a) call the stable owner, explain that her slideshow project for the instructor was delayed and that she would be a couple of hours late for work. Or she could (b) call the instructor, explain that she had overcommitted and that she wouldn't be able to deliver as promised. In either case, she could say she was sorry (she truly was). She made a mistake (she really did). And she would think twice the next time.
I should've done that. But, I didn't. And consequently, if the current wave of critics is correct, my daughter will not grow up to be independent or responsible. I have made her life too easy.
But wait a minute, please. That's not why I did it.
I did it, quite simply, because I could. There were commitments made and tasks to perform, and given the deadlines and available resources, it made sense for me to do exactly what I did. This was not so much the work of an overindulgent mother, as that of a skilled project manager.
When I see things that need to get done, I get them done. That's who I am. That's what I do. And whether I spoil my daughter or not (I do), and whether I missed an opportunity to teach her an important life lesson (I did), I like to think that I'm also setting a really good example.
There are worse things she could grow up to be than a person who follows through.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
