Je me souviens ...
My teenage daughter used to really like French.
My husband and I have both been known to butcher said beautiful romance language. (At a hotel on the Riviera, my spouse once told the concierge that the car left its key in our room but, comme toujours, he made up for what he lacked in grammar with his enthusiasm.) When my daughter was little, we used French when we didn't want her to know what we were saying. She was particularly gleeful when her own studies (in eighth grade or so) surpassed our sorry attempts.
So much for our secret language.
My daughter enjoyed middle school French. She certainly enjoyed our mother-daughter trip to Paris. We visited Sacre Couer and the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Versailles (my favorite) and the Catacombs (hers).
We took a late night boat ride along the Seine, ate crepes and croissants, and my daughter conducted a thorough if not exactly scientific taste test of all the onion soup gratinée of the city. Throughout, we gamely exercised our skills françaises.
But, some time later in high school, between French 3 and French 4, la perle lost its sheen. There was a tremendous jump between the expectations of those two levels. They went from taking vocabulary tests (my daughter has always been a crack memorizer) to reading entire novels and doing oral presentations in class (not her favorite thing, regardless of the language).
She qualified for AP French but responded with a definitive, "Non, merci."
Those weren't her exact words, but you get the general purpose and intent.
In just a few months (mon dieu!), she'll head off to college. Although she has already declared her Equine Business major, she is enrolled in a liberal arts curriculum and is expected to fulfill a language requirement. This generated some dinner table discussion.
I suggested that she return to French, ensuring her that, as I found at my own alma mater, college courses would be much better than high school.
My husband also suggested that she return to French, with the helpful hint that if she dropped down a couple of levels, it would be very easy to score an "A."
My daughter had a different idea.
"I'm going to take American Sign Language," she told us.
Wow.
This was a different (and completely valid it turns out) solution. In fact, it may even come in very handy because I'm hoping that along with her Equine Business courses, she'll take some classes in Therapeutic Riding. Horses and horsemanship have proven very beneficial for riders with all sorts of disabilities and impairments. How amazing it would be if all of her interests and academic pursuits converged into something so special and important.
Then again, maybe it's just a creative solution to get out of a foreign language requirement.
Either way, it's her choice, n'est-ce pas?
Bien sûr.
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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.
Our school district sends out class assignments in late August. They claim that the "master schedule" takes that long to negotiate. In reality, I think they postpone the mailing until the last possible moment to minimize the number of calls — and complaints — they get prior to each new school year. We live in a fairly affluent community with a lot of, shall we say, "active parenting."
How will Muffy and Biff get into an elite college if they don't get the best teachers?
I remember several summers ago, when my now teenager was heading into fifth grade. We received the much anticipated packet and my daughter was absolutely thrilled. In our lower middle school, the kids are assigned to two-teacher teams. Each group of fifty or so students splits its time between one faculty member for math and science, and another for English and social studies. It's an effective preview of middle and high school when they'll have a different teacher for each subject.
My daughter had scored the much coveted team called "ATM." (One teacher's last name started with an A; the other with a hyphenated T and M — cute, n'est-ce pas?) We had heard good things and any mom will tell you that having your child actually look forward to the first day of school is a rare and wondrous thing.
On that first day, the two teachers showed up at assembly with a big "ATM" sign (probably hand-made, but I'd like to think they snuck out late at night and — in a selfless act of education-inspired vandalism — stole it from some unsuspecting automated teller machine). They had a chant, the sort you would hear at a pep rally, something about being "the best, better than the rest," blah blah blah. The lucky ATM kids fell in line, excited and motivated and driven and spirited and enthused and ... and ... and ...
You get the picture.
All good, right?
Apparently not. A and T-M were taken aside and respectfully asked not to crow about their team anymore. The sign must be put away, the rallying cry forgotten. You see, the lower middle school powers that be were concerned that the kids in the other teams would feel left out. So, the two teachers were asked to stop making their kids feel special.
Wouldn't a better solution have been to ask the other teacher teams to come up with a way to make their own groups feel special too?
This struck me at the time as a very silly exercise in dumbing things down, in settling for homogenous mediocrity rather than striving. The school was so concerned about making sure things were equal that they lost a chance to make things extraordinary.
As far as we know, we only get one shot at this life business. With any luck (and some attention to homework), fifth graders will only be fifth graders once. The same is true for high school juniors. I hope my daughter's teachers remember this, and I hope she herself makes the most of every moment.
Don't settle down.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The title of this post has nothing to do with George W. Bush. (Although I was one of the people very happy to say "Adios" to that particular W four years ago!) The W I'm referring to is the one between the T and the two E's in the word "Tween."
My daughter graduates from middle school tonight. I'm officially calling her a teen from now on.
Where does the time go? When I was on maternity leave, taking long walks with my precious little newborn all snug in her Snugli, mothers would come over to coo. "She's so sweeeeeeeeet." I agreed. "What an aaaaaaangel." I agreed.
"Enjoy it, they grow up so fast!"
I smiled and nodded, but I really didn't get it. Those days were long and lonely. She didn't sleep through the night. I was tired and sore; my breasts hurt and I had an inordinate number of stitches that needed to heal. Don't get me wrong, I worshiped her already, but time moved slowly and I was looking forward to her growing up at least a little.
If only. If only I could transport myself back for one day, one hour, one moment even. Hold her tight, gaze at that tiny face, smell her sweet head. These days, I'm lucky to get a half-hearted hug.
Thank goodness for photo albums. When I look at the often sullen, always beautiful teenager who lives in my house, it's difficult to picture the chubby-kneed toddler who used to twirl and collapse in a fit of giggles. When I see the confident young woman who jumps 3-foot fences at horse shows, it's hard to recall the terrified seven-year-old who competed in her first "lead line" competition. When I barely get a "hello" after school, it's almost impossible to remember the little girl who would run across a room and jump into my arms when I returned from a business trip.
I'm a passionately committed archivist; all of our pictures are in identical burgundy leather binders with the year and volume number stamped in gold on the spine. So many memories. Vacations, family gatherings, school trips, dance recitals. Gymnastics and swimming and archery and piano lessons (and all that money we paid — ugh). There she is on Christmas morning. Here's the first day of preschool. Swimming in the warm water in Bermuda or the frigid water of Maine. Dressed up for a bar mitzvah, dressed down with friends. Not dressed at all on a fur rug. Of course, I'm forbidden to show that one to anybody.
Dozens of my Lovin' the Alien posts talk about the frustrations that come with the territory when you're mothering a tween. But at least a few have expressed how proud I am of her. She is a good person with a good heart. She is smart and courageous and talented. Her room is a disaster area, but underneath all the clothes and magazines and stuffed animals and empty bowls and discarded hair accessories, there is a remarkable young woman who is no longer a tween. My daughter is a teenager.
Heaven help me.
Tonight, my husband and I will sit in the high school field house and watch our daughter and her classmates "move on." We're going to bring her a card and flowers. She gets to choose the restaurant we go to afterwards. Hopefully, she'll pose for some family photos. Hopefully, she won't be too embarrassed if I cry.
Hopefully, she'll let me hug her — at least a little.
