Mom-ents of Truth

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. 

Coddled

We have a friend who teaches sixth grade in an economically depressed community in California. She and her husband were visiting us and the conversation naturally turned to students and schools and teachers and parents. 

I complained about all the helicopter moms and dads, hovering around our comfortable little town. These parents can be loud and bossy. They disrupt PTO meetings. They challenge grades. They demand only the best for their precious scholars.

Our friend replied that she wished it were like that at her school. "I never see a parent," she said.

Wow, that put some things into perspective. We're all so focused on our children's success. But, her students succeed or fail on their own, and against the odds. They have to get through school without much aid from (or intervention of) their mothers and fathers. 

They are hard-boiled kids, like the detectives from pulp fiction. They started out as fragile as any silver-spoon baby. But, they've had to get tough if they're going to get through school. And, sadly, some don't.

My daughter and the majority of her friends, on the other hand, are what I would call "coddled." They've spent the past 16 years gently cooking over a very low flame.

Many moms and dads today (and, believe me, I'm not excepting myself from this observation by any stretch) seem to think that the job of a parent is to make things easier for their kids. So we check their grades on web-based "parent portals." We email their teachers and make mad dashes to the school with forgotten permission slips, papers and lunch boxes. We passionately advocate on their behalf.

Some of the things you hear are just plain silly ...

"My daughter has test anxiety."

"My son is on the varsity basketball team; he shouldn't be penalized for skipping gym."

"Please excuse them from school next week; we're going skiing."

And, what can be particularly disturbing is that with so many parents making so much noise about their average ordinary kids, it's hard for anyone to notice the student that does need extra help. It's as though all the well-meaning mothers and fathers crying "Wolf" are making too much noise to hear anyone else. 

We've become so overprotective, that many of these teenagers don't know how to do things for themselves that they should already be doing for themselves. Back when I was a teen in 1970s New York City, we had more independence, more autonomy, and more responsibility. Unless my charge was turning blue, I didn't call my mother from my babysitting gigs. Macaroni and cheese dinner, bath time, a crying kid? I figured things out.

If I had two tests and two papers due on the same day ... guess what? I figured it out.

If I had after school plans with friends, we took whatever bus or subway we needed to, to get to whatever apartment we were going to. We figured it out.

I realize that living in a small town, it's different for my daughter. She often needs a drive (from a licensed adult) to get where she's going. Coordinating drop-offs and pick-ups means that I'm privy to a lot more of her private plans than I would need to be. (Or, quite honestly, want to be.) 

It's interesting then that a recent wake-up call for me came from her new driver's ed instructor. My husband and I attended the state-mandated parents' class. Of course, I was taking copious notes about my daughter's permit and license requirements. Always a plate spinner, I was already leaping ahead to how I would arrange her schedule for classes and practice drives. It appeared that all the other mothers (and one or two of the fathers) were doing the same.

The instructor (What a cool job, btw, every teen in this town loves her — and why not? She's helping them get their LICENSE!), she stopped us short.

"I'm available by email or cell, but I don't want to hear from any of you." 

This was a surprise.

She continued, "If your kids are old enough to get behind the wheel of a two-ton lethal weapon, they're old enough to schedule their own lessons."

Whoa.

She was right, of course. And this particular (I won't say "helicopter") enabling mother saw it immediately. With relief actually.

Some kids are a little hard-boiled. Some are a little coddled. 

I'm more than a little scrambled, myself.

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Field Guide To Moms

We've all heard about Tiger Mothers. In fact, I see them at every PTO meeting I attend (although, I confess, after three years serving as the PTO secretary, I haven't attended much lately — PTO burnout). These are the moms who arrive on time, sit up straight, take notes, and ask questions pertinent only to their little genius/diva/Olympic champion.

"I have a question," they begin, smiling at the group complicitly as though, surely, we all have the same query. "If my daughter is already taking 5 AP classes, can she still start a third language this year?"

Or, "Why does woodwind ensemble meet at the same time as lacrosse? It's really impossible for my son to give up either, and he has his heart set on winning student body president this year."

Or, "Is it possible for the kids to get extra credit for their summer jobs? My daughter is spending July in Geneva, curing cancer."

In a town like ours, Tiger Mothers are everywhere. They regularly email teachers to protest grades. They challenge school committee members, principals, and the superintendent in forums both public and private. They push their National Honor Society tiger cubs into excessive extracurricular activities to build their resumés. 

(Question: shouldn't you have to actually do something before you have a resumé?)

We also have the so-called Dolphin Mothers. These are the liberally educated PBS types. They wear embroidered jackets from Tibet and chunky jewelry. They drag their offspring to cultural events. While their manner may be more fluid, they still expect extraordinary things from their often ordinary kids.

While Tigers and Dolphins (and Helicopters) may be the most famous, here are some other mothers you may see out in the wilds of upper middle class suburbia:

The Ostrich Mother, who buries her head in the sand. As far as she knows (or wants to know), her teen is doing fine. No school issues, no friend troubles, no eating disorders, no inappropriate use of digital technology. All fine here. Thank you. Nothing to see. Move along.

The Harp Seal Mother, who sacrifices everything for her teen. In nature, the harp seal nurses her newborn 24 hours a day for 12 days. (Yikes!) During this period, the pup gains 60 pounds while the mom loses 84. (I repeat, Yikes!) In humans, this phenomenon can be observed in what teens and their moms are wearing: Uggs and Abercrombie vs. the clearance rack at Marshalls. 

The Octopus Mother, who has her many hands in as many things as possible. She runs the church youth group, coaches softball, tutors reading, organizes fundraisers, volunteers at the local thrift shop. She is generous, dedicated, utterly tireless. You see, if she stays really involved, she won't really have to let go.

The Koala Bear Mother, who carries all the weight. These moms are über supportive. In fact, they want their little joey to succeed so badly that they don't just jump in and help, they happily take over. Teen daughter's too tired to finish her essay on Ayn Rand's Anthem? No problem. The Koala will write it for her, and still find time to mash up a nice meal of eucalyptus leaves.

Most moms I know blend characteristics of all of these types. I've certainly helped with homework (stopping well before all-out ghostwriting, but I can understand the temptation). My daughter does indeed dress better than I do, and she'd be the first to complain about my high expectations and how often I insist we go to plays and museums. And, although I don't completely hide from awkward teenage truths, I have been known to turn the occasional blind eye.

So, which mother am I really? 

You'll have to ask my daughter.

Pride & Parenting

According to Garrison Keillor, in Lake Wobegone "all the children are above average."

Apparently, they are in my town too.

My tween daughter is about to graduate from middle school, and the pending move to ninth grade has everyone — parents and students alike — a little stressed out. The high school is a big scary place, with four times as many students, some of whom are as old as eighteen or nineteen! There are electives and AP courses and varsity teams. And, from the moment you walk in, colleges are watching you. Yep, from here on in, everything counts. 

Yikes.

The other morning, I received an email inviting me to a meeting with high school peer mentors. These fine, upstanding students would enlighten eighth grade parents on the social and academic transition we were about to embark upon. This was the good news. The bad news was that the meeting was that very evening, giving us in essence nine hours notice. (Really, this is so very par for the course that I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore. Just when you think you have things under control, you know where you need to be and when — bang! — they sideswipe you with an "important" meeting. But, I digress.)

Although I had some work to wrap up and was looking forward to a quieter than usual night at home, I rallied and got to the high school library about ten minutes before the session was scheduled to start.

We were split into discussion groups with twelve or so parents assigned to a team of six sophomore and junior students. I was so impressed with our young leaders! They were well-spoken, thoughtful, and self-possessed. They seemed to have an innate (or very well-rehearsed) sense of what was appropriate to discuss as a group and what warranted a respectful suggestion that parents schedule a private conversation with a guidance counselor or the school's social worker.

The parents in the group? Not so much.

As usual, the attendees were mostly mothers. And, despite the fact that the students had notes prepared and a prescribed agenda, the moms quickly took over the meeting. Here are just a few of the types of "questions" they asked ...

"How much is too much? My daughter was placed in all honors. Y'know, Honors Bio, Honors Geometry, Honors World History, Honors English, Honors Spanish."

(Let me guess, she's a smart kid?)

"My son is already playing varsity soccer. How can I make sure he's on the traveling team and not stuck with the other freshmen?"

(Your son is quite the athlete, eh?)

"We're coming from Prestige Elite Prep Academy. I'm concerned that my daughter will not be challenged enough. What should I do?"

(I get it, your kid has already been doing high school level work. Oh, and now I know you have a bit of money. Thanks.)

Notice how these comments were phrased as questions, but really came across as proud pronouncements? The issues may be legitimate ones for each of these well-meaning moms. But really, couldn't they wait and speak about their oh-so-unique offspring's oh-so-unique situation later? Later and in private? 

Is this what I have to look forward to for the next four years? Ugh.

I'm proud of my daughter too, but I don't crow about it at meetings. Instead, I do what any respectable modern mom does: I blog about it. For the record, she also qualified for high school honors courses. 

I'll spare you how many and which ones. 

Sleeping Tiger Mother

"Rrrrrrrroarrrrrrr?"


Last year, Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother was all any of us could talk about. And, when I say "talk about," I really mean "stress over."


Were we too relaxed? Were we pushovers? Were we not giving our sons and daughters the tools, the talents, the discipline, the résumé-building activities that they so desperately needed to get into the Ivy Leagues?


We look down on hovering "Helicopter Parents," and with good reason. But are we slackers? I let my daughter drop out of piano lessons after two years. Two years, during which time I spent $35 every week for a thirty-minute lesson after which I had to listen to her instructor tell me (every week) that she would never get better if she didn't practice. 


And, I let her take French regardless of the fact that Latin would equate to higher PSAT scores. And, I don't sufficiently freak out when she brings home an A-. My daughter watches popular TV. She reads popular books. I encourage sleepover parties.


Of course, I hope my daughter will be accepted at Harvard, Yale and Princeton (full scholarships would be nice too). But the world will not end if she isn't. In fact, at fourteen, she has her eye set on the Equestrian Business major at a far less prestigious college. My hope is that we'll meet somewhere  in the middle. For now, I bite my tongue; we'll be touring schools soon enough.


So, if my daughter is less than she might be, I guess I have myself to blame. I am not a Tiger Mother. However, I am something equally dangerous. 


I am Sleeping Tiger Mother.


Be warned. If you threaten my daughter, I will quickly wake up. And all that pent-up ferocious energy that was not spent ensuring that piano was practiced will be expended somewhere else. In your face.


For example, my daughter competed in a two-phase horse show yesterday. She and her new pony pulled off a perfect round of stadium jumping after a rather lackluster dressage test. (Dressage, my daughter argues, is like watching paint dry. It's all about precision. And, if I were a Tiger Mother, she would no doubt practice more and perform better. But, I digress.)


When the final scores were posted, my daughter came in fifth place in her class. She was pleased, but I noticed that the young man who was taking home fourth place had the same combined score.


This, obviously, is enough to wake Sleeping Tiger Mother. I marched into the office of the officials and asked, respectfully of course, why the identical scores earned disparate ribbons. It turns out that in the event of a tie, there is a specific subset of dressage results that are used to determine the order. Okay, fine. I was very polite and thanked them for their time and the explanation. My daughter was happy to get me out of there without a scene.


Another example occurred a couple of weeks ago. Our middle school has a new principal who is taking a look at the traditional year-end activities with the aim of saving some money in today's tough economy. Suddenly, when the eighth grade harbor cruise was in jeopardy, Sleeping Tiger Mother woke again.


My daughter's class has had a roller coaster ride since third grade. They have had five principals in as many years. They were displaced because of a long overdue renovation and spent 6th grade in trailers. They've already missed annual "Nights of Excellence," end-of-year "Field Days," and a Boston scavenger hunt. This particular "big cat" didn't think it was fair that they should have yet another celebration pulled out from under them.


So, I roared.


For the record, I am not now and have never been a high-maintenance mom. I don't use public forums (like PTA meetings) to pursue my personal agenda (or air my own laundry). If my daughter gets a low grade on a test or a paper, I don't rush to call or email the teacher. As long as things are fair, I'll stick to my den and snooze. Just be very careful if you wake me up; I have long, sharp teeth.


One more thing. My daughter and her friends are really looking forward to their harbor cruise.