High Stakes

Several years ago, I complained to a coworker about a particularly late night I had spent helping a particular daughter with a particular science project.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because she wouldn't have gotten it done otherwise."

"So?"

"So, she would have failed."

"So, let her fail."

This left me speechless. It was a completely unacceptable concept for me (and absolute proof that the aforementioned coworker was not a parent).

In hindsight, maybe, I should have let her fail. The stakes in third grade weren't so high. Today? Oy vey. It feels like any little hiccup on any quarter's report card will mean the difference between attending a respectable university and becoming a productive member of society. Or wearing a batik skirt, Birkenstocks and hitchhiking cross-country following the Grateful Dead.

Except these days, she would wear something from Urban Outfitters and follow Imagine Dragons or Walk the Moon or, her personal favorite, Magic Man.

I can't begin to tell you how tired I am of the never-ending mantras of my fellow terrified parents ...

"Junior year: this is the year that really counts."

"It's harder to get into college now than when we went."

"Your son/daughter simply has to take the SATs twice plus ACTs (and three subject matter SATs and at least two APs)."

To say the stakes are high — or, at least, that we perceive them to be — is the understatement of the year. And, if I've learned anything so far about this whole college application process, it's that there is no room for understatement. Your child must be the best, the brightest, the biggest thing since sliced bread. A scholar, a leader, an athlete, an active and compassionate volunteer.

And, failure, is absolutely not an option.

After years of micromanaging my daughter's homework, I've stepped back. (My new and improved attitude coincided with many "I'm not a kid anymore!" protests.) Now, we have an agreement. It's a quid pro quo thing.

The quid includes riding her horse every day, competing in equestrian events (many of which involve long distances and heavy entry fees), going to concerts, and watching her favorite TV shows: Pretty Little Liars, New Girl and Dance Moms.

The quo is a little simpler. She has to keep her grades up. 

My daughter would argue that I have unreasonable expectations where grades are concerned. But, I honestly don't. I want her to continue to make the honor roll, but if that means excelling in some classes and coming in around average in another, that's ok. As long as the net net is good, I'm good.

Sometimes I worry that I've run out of steam right when I need to push her the hardest. But, she needs to do some of her own pushing now. I can't email her teacher or call her guidance counselor every time I think she's received an unfair grade on a paper. My daughter has to advocate for herself. Stay after class, have those awkward conversations. She's seventeen; these aren't things I can do for her anymore.

Besides, she'd kill me if I tried. 

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

No Answer

As my now seventeen-year-old daughter moved from childhood into her tweens and teens, I attended a handful of parenting workshops. These were offered, free of charge, by her elementary, middle and high schools. The PTO would invite a speaker and all the concerned moms (and a couple of dads) would dutifully attend "How to Raise a Resilient Child." Or "Helping Your Student Handle Middle School Stress." Or "Don't Panic, It's Just Puberty."

One thing we heard over and over was that we were — in essence — heading back into the "Terrible Twos." Becoming a teen and becoming a toddler had much in common. So we were advised to lock dangerous substances away, teen-proof the house as we once child-proofed it. And, most important, set firm rules and stand our ground.

The problem was — and has been — that I'm not very good at it.

When my daughter was about eighteen months old, her wonderful pediatrician explained what was in store.

"First of all," he told me, "The 'Terrible Twos' is a misnomer. It lasts longer than a year. It's more like the 'Terrible One-and-a-Half to Threes.' She'll be testing her boundaries all the time." His advice? "Only say 'No' when you mean it. If that means that you say 'Yes' 99% of the time, that's okay. Just make sure that when you do say 'No,' you follow through."

That's what I've done. As advised, I've followed through on the "No's," but they've been few and far between. In my defense, it's been very easy to say "Yes." My daughter was a remarkably well-behaved little girl. She was good-natured and compliant. There was really never any reason for so-called "Tough Love." She rarely asked for anything inappropriate and I simply said "Yes."

Sadly, what was a successful strategy for my toddler has proven to be an enormous stressor where my teen is concerned.

These days, my daughter tends to make announcements rather than asking for permission. Eight months into her driver's license (Lord help me!), she's mobile and independent. I was never really big on curfews anyway. We agreed that I'd stop micromanaging her homework and studies this year. And, like most kids in suburban America, she's wired and connected pretty much 24/7.

You can understand her utter shock, her sheer incomprehension, when she can't do what she wants with whom she wants, where and when she wants.

But, sometimes I have to say "No."

OMG!

Before you call Social Services, let me assure you (and myself) that in the grand scheme of teenage things, my daughter is a very good girl. She doesn't drink or do drugs or endanger herself in other ways. I do think she drives a bit too fast, but she (and my husband) claim that I drive too slow.

I should be grateful — and, truly, I am — that we haven't fought over the really big stuff. Still this year has been difficult. The push-me/pull-you of her growing independence (and her age-related incomprehension of the concept of consequences) has been really tough.

What she doesn't (or won't) understand is that as her mother, I do have to step in sometimes. Its my job. And it's no fun for me, let me tell you. This includes making her go to bed when she's overtired or catching a cold. It includes at least a semblance of moderating the use of electronics. It includes assuring that her grades stay at the excellent level they've always been.

Would it be nicer to take the easy road, never say "no," never disagree?

Hell, yes!

That's not my job. My job is to help her succeed and become the best possible version of herself. Really.

Sometimes my job sucks. Really.

Right now, I'm being punished for the one percent of the time that I actually say and mean "No." Someday, maybe, I'll get credit for the other 99%.

For a Christmas surprise, my daughter wrapped her PSAT scores and placed them under our tree for me. She achieved absolutely respectable scores across the board, but one of her lowest marks was part of the Critical Reading section, specifically "Determining the meaning of words." 

Apparently they must have asked her to define the word "No." 

You see, we're having some trouble with that one.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

9th Grade's 9th Inning

Typically, my daughter and I see eye-to-eye on ... well ... nothing. (If this is a surprise, gentle reader, you haven't been paying attention over the last two years.) But today, we are in perfect agreement. We are simpatico. We are like-mother-like-daughter.

Right now, we feel the same way. We cannot wait — I mean, cannot wait — for school to end.

What a roller coaster it's been! Everyone warned us that the transition to high school would have its ups and downs (more downs than ups from where I was standing). Some of it was natural, some couldn't be avoided. But, some of the trauma did seem a little unnecessary. I believe there's a difference between being a tough teacher and being a jerk. 

Students are encouraged to self-advocate, but then they can't find the faculty member they need to talk to. Or, said faculty member has to leave and can only spend thirty seconds reviewing the paper that it took the student thirty hours to write. Or, a serious, legitimate, external situation makes a student two minutes late for practice and the instructor (exhausted no doubt from years of half-assed excuses) won't even listen to an explanation? C'mon.

In fairness, most of my daughter's teachers — this year and every year we've lived in this town — seem tremendously dedicated to their work. And, I'm a huge fan (always have been) of educators in general. That's one reason that running into such unreasonable expectations — and unnecessary drama — disturbs me so much. I want my daughter to respect and admire and, whenever possible, genuinely like her teachers. It's hard when Mr. XYZ assigns forty-five pages of epic poetry reading and an essay on the same night that Mrs. ABC expects her to memorize the names and dates of every Chinese dynasty. Or when forgetting to bring in a textbook takes 10 points off a good grade that was hard-won over multiple months.

And, guess which experiences will be remembered and become synonymous with freshman year? Not ones with the majority of teachers who were fair and reasonable but those with the minority who made things difficult.

In today's high-pressure high schools, it doesn't take much to throw things off balance. And, I'm not just talking about academics. Athletics and other after school programs can be just as bad. It's as though every teacher, every coach believes that their subject or sport or instrument is the only thing that matters.

Ten months is a long time for a fifteen year old to try his or her best — especially when it feels like there are odds against them. No wonder all our freshmen (and their parents) are exhausted.

"I'm so over it," my daughter announces at dinner.

I want to say, "Oy vey, can I relate!" But no, immediately I have to become big bad mom cop. "You can't be over it yet," I remind her. "You still have papers, you still have projects, and all of your finals. You don't want to undo all your hard work, do you?" This makes me a very popular mother. Not.

Nevertheless, we are pushing through. For the next three weeks, we have some new rules around here:

1. Unlimited snacks and soda ... as long as they are being used as study aids.

2. Bed-making and clothes-picking-upping have been temporarily suspended.

And, most important ...

3. Everyone on the team is expected to pitch in. Printing, proofreading, quizzing from notes or index cards. (Anything short of actual ghostwriting and plagiarism are encouraged.)

Yes, we are in the home stretch now and I don't know which one of us will be happier to see that last day of school. It would be a lively debate.

But, one that can definitely wait until July.

Those Were the Days, My Friend

When I hear the mother of a much younger child — like a baby or toddler — complain about their stress and fatigue, I can't help but smile. 

"Sister," I think to myself, "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

Not that I've forgotten those early days. I remember them all right. I remember checking to make sure my sleeping daughter was breathing. I remember tormenting myself over her first eye infection. I remember crying through a 2:00 a.m. feeding, a sloppy emotional bag of exhaustion and postpartum.

"She hates me," I sobbed to a coworker the next day.

"No, she doesn't hate you," he said knowingly. "She will hate you. But, she doesn't hate you now."

This man, you see, was the father of a teenage girl.

Really, now that I look back, what was all the fuss about? Basically, our job as the mother of an infant is to feed them, burp them, change their diapers and get them to sleep. Along the way you have to support their little head and change them from one adorable outfit into another — six or seven times a day. Their tiny hands curl around your finger and (whether it's just gas or not) they look up at you and smile.

Oh sure, some days are tougher than others. At six months, after I nearly fell asleep in the Sumner Tunnel on my way to work, we finally gave in and tried the dreaded "Ferber Method" so she would sleep through the night. Basically, you teach them how to "self-sooth" by letting them cry for five minutes, comforting them, then letting them cry for ten, then twenty, then thirty, etc. etc. etc. Forty-eight hours later, she was all set, and her mother (that would be me) was permanently traumatized.

But even on those endless nights, life was easier than I realized. If I could go back in time and counsel my younger self, I would say, "Stop. Breathe. Enjoy this."

I'd say, "Sister, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Here's a short list, in no particular order, of the things that keep me up at night these days:

• Grades. She's in ninth grade, that's freshman year high school. Suddenly, there are hours upon hours of homework. Suddenly, there are tests and quizzes and mid-terms, oh my! Suddenly, good grades count. (And, just as suddenly, they are much harder to come by.)

• Cutting. Sadly, I don't mean cutting class. I mean cutting one's arms (or legs or God knows what else). It bothers me that some of my daughter's friends are doing this. It bothers me that she even knows about such a thing.

• Online safety. Texting, sexting, Instagram, Tumblr, Skype, Snapchat. Just a couple of years ago, we were concerned about letting our then tween daughter have a Facebook page. That was so yesterday!

• Mean Girls. This topic comes at me from both sides sometimes. Within the same week I can be comforting my daughter as the victim of a particularly nasty encounter and trying to help her see how she herself might be perceived as mean.

And last, but not least, there's the time I spend missing and mourning my baby. The days when that baby, practically grown now, barely mutters a single pleasant word to me. When I can tell that I am no longer her bestest, most favorite person. In fact, I'm more like her least favorite, most annoying, barely bearable person.

We used to play that game ... "I love you more. "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more."

Well, for now at least, I win. I love her more.

Hacking the Grade

Do you remember Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Before he sets out to enjoy the greatest hooky every played, Ferris hacks into his high school's attendance records, changing his 9 absences to 2.

"I wanted a car," Matthew Broderick deadpans to the camera. "I got a computer."

This morning, I thought of this classic and funny scene from that classic and funny movie when I read a story in the news. It appears that in Pennsylvania (in the Northwestern Lehigh School District, to be precise), there was a breach of cyber security. The district's computer system was broken into and grades for two students were changed. The thing is, it wasn't one of the kids who did the hacking.

It was their mother. OMG!

My initial reaction was, "Why didn't I think of that?" 

Kidding.

My next reaction was, "Whoa. How did we get here?" We all talk about helicopter parents and, in my community, most of us do hover more than we should. But, surely there's a line, isn't there? Changing a grade, infiltrating a school's database? Yeah, I would say it's pretty clear that a line or two was crossed.

I know, I know. There's so much more pressure these days. It's tougher to get into the best colleges. Competition is fierce. Blah, blah, blah. Apparently, moms are fierce too. I come from a long line of mothers willing to go to bat for their daughters. And, I've sent the occasional email when one of my daughter's grades started to drop. But, I don't condone cheating. And, even if I knew enough to commit a cyber crime, I certainly wouldn't do it. Sheesh!

A friend pointed out recently that parents used to be on the teacher's side. He's right. If a high school student got a bad grade, they got grounded. Now, they get a bad grade, they get an attorney. We're not really setting up a scenario in which kids are encouraged to listen or follow rules. When my daughter doesn't like a particular faculty member (and, believe me, teens can get very mean and very personal when it comes to griping about their teachers), I try not only to help her be kind and compassionate but also to recognize that, like it or not, that teacher is an authority figure and deserves attention and respect.

Technology has made it easier than ever to cheat. Unsure about a date on a history test? Simply raise your hand to go to the bathroom and Google it on your smart phone. (Phones were supposed to be kept in lockers at my daughter's middle school. Guess where the girls put them? Inside those expensive UGG boots they all wear.) Want to get a copy of a quiz before you take it? No problem, your BFF can send you a picture of it by text. And, we've all read stories recently about brainy kids who were paid to take the SATs for other people. 

I even have issues with paid test preparation courses. I know firsthand that the girls in my high school who could afford those classes had a distinct advantage over those of us who couldn't. There's no law or even rule being broken there, but aren't we sending a message? Money can buy good grades.

So, what kind of message is "Hacker Mom" sending? Yikes!

Now that she's been caught, here's what we can learn from her. People, listen up ...

Unlawful use of a computer, computer trespassing and altering data are felonies. That's right: fel-o-nies. (Allegedly she didn't realize that what she was doing was illegal. Okay then.) She is out on bail and faces up to 42 years in jail and/or a $90,000 fine. When Ferris did it, it was seriously funny. In real life, it's a serious crime.

And, here's one of the most amazing parts of the story. Her son's grade was changed from a 98 to a 99.

Let me tell you, if my daughter comes home with a 98, I won't be committing a fraud. I'll be too busy opening the champagne.