Apache

"It is essentially a flying tank -- 

a helicopter designed to survive heavy attack 

and inflict massive damage.

 It can zero in on specific targets, day or night, even in terrible weather."

I am evidently stupid.  Or so suggests my 12 year-old.  No, the boy doesn’t say it in so many words, but telling me his homework is done when it isn’t does seem to suggest a certain lack of confidence in my ability to check his homework.  He told me his planner was stolen.  He told me he lost his vocabulary book.  He told me he hates English.   Now, these are all things that any rational semi-involved parent would instruct the child to sort out or report or get over. 

The thing is – this is a killer – I work at my kids’ school.  A short walk across the carpool lane will reveal to me a planner in the bottom of a locker that was “clean yesterday,” a vocabulary book under said planner, and an English teacher who – brace yourselves – wants the child to do his homework and then – gasp – bring it to class.  Yes, this child needs to sort things out, but the thing that kills him is that I know what’s happening.  I’m there.

I have worked at my children’s school since the year after we moved south.  Let’s just say that the public education system in our fair state is not up to snuff.  Being in education in the independent school setting has some advantages.  However, helicoptering has never been one of them. Although I have worked at the school my children attend for the past 13 years, I have gone to parent-teacher conferences only when required by the teacher.  I have looked in my older two sons’ lockers a total of maybe three times, and only then when bidden to do so by them.  I went to high school back to school night because I had to: I'm on faculty.  I haven’t checked up on the older two at all.  They have done their work, requested supplies when needed, and gone about their merry way.  My mantra has always been, “I’ve already been in (fill in the child’s current grade), and I don’t want to do it again.”  I’m willing to admit that they probably missed some homework and fell down here and there.  But, overall, they did pretty well left to (mostly) their own devices.

My youngest child is going to be the death of me.  And him.

He inspires helicoptering.  And I hate it.  I love him.  I hate what is happening.  He is near failing nearly every aspect of fifth grade: getting homework done, keeping track of homework, bringing home PE clothes to be laundered – you name it, and he’s struggling.  Or he wants me to think he is.  Before anyone pulls out the oh-but-he’s-in-his-last-year-of-elementary-school pity, let me tell you that fifth grade is middle school for us.

This is the downside of having a parent-teacher: I’m always on the teacher’s side.  Work detail for missed homework?  Dandy.  Lonely lunch for missed work detail?  Sure.  Need him to come in after school for extra help?  No problem.  Before school for organization counseling?  He’ll be there.

I will always side with the teacher.

I will always support my son.

These two things are not mutually exclusive.

So, dearest, youngest child please understand that I didn’t helicopter-parent either of your brothers, and if you insist on driving me to it this year, I’m going to be an Apache helicopter.  With one target.  You.  

Baby Einsteins

This past week my youngest son got a rash.  My middle son ranted about the ineffectiveness of the student government at his school.  My eldest son decided to revamp his college plans – again.  None of these things are what I wanted for any of them.  We all want our kids to be healthy, to believe in that being involved in your community can improve life, and to go to college and get a good job.  None of that was happening this week for us. 

Over in New Orleans, where my sister lives, her sons’ school implemented a no-nuts policy.  It’s not a new, clever math program, nor is it a program to decrease helicopter parenting.  It is a dietary restriction for all.  As you might surmise, it is a policy that prohibits nut spreads and products throughout the school.  According to the American Peanut Board less than one percent of the population suffers from peanut or tree-nut allergies; another source suggests that 1.4% of children have nut allergies.   Compare that to 2.5 percent of children who have milk allergies.  Are we making policies at schools for the 2% now?  It would seem so over in the bayou.  If I know my nephews, they may suddenly develop allergies to homework or break out in hives over pencil lead.  As a life-long teacher, I do need to know about special needs or allergies your child has, but I don’t need the school to make policies based on those needs. 

When I was a teenager, I babysat a kid who was allergic to almost everything.  Throughout his childhood, this boy’s skin was swollen or welty because he had allergies.  He learned not to eat the things that irritated him, and his parents were cautious with his diet and contacts.  However, they did not demand across the board policies at the school to protect their son.  They taught him and those who cared for him (including the teachers) what he could and couldn’t have or do.  Institutional policy wasn’t altered for this one child.  Likewise, my Jewish friends did not picket the school demanding no pork ever be served in the lunch lines.  They simply didn’t eat it.  My middle son is a vegetarian, but he does not like people to make a big deal out of it.  If he’s going to a friend’s house, he doesn’t demand different foods or extra expense because of his needs.  Of course, there is a difference between an allergy and a dietary choice, but if a person demands that society stop just for them and their issues – whatever they are – well, that person might just be feeling a little bit overly special.

As the villain in the Disney kids’ movie The Incredibles asserts:

But everyone wants to be special.  And, every parent definitely wants their kids to be special.  Preferably for some super talent – a music prodigy, a math genius, or a future professional athlete.  The fact of the matter is that most people are regular.  In reviewing Wikipedia, it appears there are less than two hundred music prodigies worldwide, across all genres and across all instruments, including voice since the 1700s.  That’s less than one a year for the whole world – for over three hundred years. On the sports front, about one percent of NCAA Division I, II, or III players will make an NFL roster, much less be the next Drew Brees or Jimmy Graham.  But, if your child doesn’t have super talents, maybe he can be special and get attention due to his allergies?  

I work with high school students and their parents. I have found that it is immeasurably easier to be frank with the kids about their chances at getting into Harvard or Yale than it is with the parents.  All parents want to think that their child is destined for greatness, and we all know that greatness only comes out of the Ivy League.  Well, no.  But that is a prevailing attitude.  We all know that there are excellent leaders, teachers, doctors, accountants that attended State U.  That’s where most of us went to college – if we were lucky enough to go to college.  Did you know that less than seven percent of the world’s population even has a college degree?  You have one?  Feel special. 

My sister asserts that there is nothing wrong with being average. Most people are – that’s why it’s called “average.”   While that may be true, it is also certainly true that everyone wants to feel special in some respect.  On the job.  In the home.  To their spouse.  In their neighborhoods.  The problem is that many people seem to be going about earning the “special” title in the wrong way; they are trying to over-control or negatively approach situations or ideas in order to get that title.  Not everything that happens at a school or in the community requires outrage or a movement or a 5K run.  But, have a look around, and you’ll see these sorts of things happening everywhere in order make a point, or get a new policy, or raise money and awareness.  It’s exhausting; some of us just want to sit on the porch and have a beer. 

I have a neighbor who objects to everything the homeowner’s association does; she wants to be recognized and heard, but rather than get involved, she simply sends vitriolic emails to the association.  Parents want to make sure their children are learning and progressing in school.  Instead of ensuring homework is done and the child is learning responsibility, many of them lodge formal complaints, mount campaigns against certain books, or just bad mouth a school or a teacher until they get some action. Among teachers there is a phrase that is always heard, every year after parent conferences:  “Now I understand.”  If you, as a parent, have time to stand in carpool lines and complain, you have time to volunteer to help – to support the mission of the school. 

If my child fidgets a little, perhaps he is AD/HD and needs medication and extra time for tests and extensions on homework.  That’s not a way to feel special – that’s a way to guarantee your child will grow up expecting to be catered to.  And, no, I’m not disparaging those with real learning differences – like I said, 20 years in education – I know differences exist, and they need to be addressed.  But, there are those parents who simply want extra attention for their children, and thus for themselves, and seek it with unreasonable demands and undocumented differences: rallying against nuts or milk products or berries in school cafeterias or demanding extra attention because a child is simply undisciplined.  Therein lies the problem.

A couple of years ago I was instructing my middle son to do something that he had neglected to attend to.  He responded, “Mom, you’re damaging my self-esteem.”  I looked him right in the eye and said, “It’s called self-esteem for a reason.”  You and your child may not be Mozart or Julie Andrews.  You’re probably not Julio Jones or Peyton Manning.  And while you may be good at math, there’s only one Gabriel Carroll or Zerah Colburn.  But, we can all be forces for good.  We can be special if we just do our stuff:  job, school, yard work, laundry.  If we could all just agree that average is the new special, then, maybe we all can relax, sit on the porch, and have that beer.

On Being Normal

Where can you go to see people you normally don’t really want to see at all in various states of undress and dampness and relaxation and sandiness? 

I went to the beach today.  Despite the marketing ploy of the town in which I live – “three hours to the beach and three to the mountains!” -  I probably haven’t been to the beach in about three years. And, yeah, that marketing tool is basically spinning the fact that we are in the middle of nowhere.  But, I needed to see the ocean today.  We happen to be in Florida, and I happened to have a few hours to myself, so I went.

Let me just say that it wasn’t crowded.  It was hot and windy.  After I removed myself from the smallish crowd, I settled on a dune to watch the surf and contemplate.  As with many meditations, my undisciplined mind began to wander.  I took in the seagulls, two ships on the horizon, the white surf, the sway of the water.  And, then it happened.  People were walking by – running by – wading into the surf.  Having worked in high schools for the past twenty years, I am adept at tuning out the noise and movements of those around me.  However, it happened.  It was kind of like when you glance across a nighttime room, and you are really sure you just saw a moving shadow, but you know you’re home alone, so you try to convince yourself that nothing was there.  The beach version of this is when a larger lady is sporting an ill-fitting one piece, and she strolls by as you are staring out at the horizon.  And, just as she steps into your line of view, the edge of her bikini line pops out and greets you.  Not unlike a little ground hog popping its head out of the ground, glancing around, and then burrowing back down.   Larger ladies who may not fit well into conventional swimsuits need to check the body fit of their swim attire on a regular basis.  When we have some extra mass, our clothes can stretch in places we don’t always check.  I don’t care if you have rolls of fat, and I think you should wear whatever swimwear you are happy in, but I want it to cover your labia.  Sitting on the small dune and the sight line I had out to the ocean evidently created such an angle that my view was punctuated not once or twice but four times by four different ladies with this particular wardrobe malfunction.

These instances were not in quick succession, and after each, um, greeting, I had to readjust my sight, search around for a shell or two, breathe in the ocean air, and generally cleanse myself.  I found my thoughts reaching to what was “normal.”  The beach, as well as amusement parks, state fairs, and children’s birthday parties challenge what any of the participants might view as normal.  I did not grow up around beaches, and so I do not have a standard for a “normal” day at the beach.  Perhaps my experience today is just that.  I did not grow up near the mountains, so I have no idea what a “normal” day hiking would entail.  Sure, I did these things, but on vacation.  And, vacation is – most often – not normal.  I know what a “normal” school day is; I can define a “normal” work day for you; I might even endeavor to tell you what a “normal” birthday celebration entails.  But wait.

No, no I can’t.  There is no such thing as normal.  (Normal, Illinois notwithstanding.)  I have my experiences.  That is all.  I know what traditions I grew up with.  I know what traditions I tried to instill in my family life when the boys were young.  I remember the one time I desperately tried to squeeze a husband into my preconceived notions of what a family New Year’s Eve should be.  (That failed, and the following year I bought him a New Year’s hunting trip so I wouldn’t be reminded of my failure.)  I used to have a sign in my classroom that read “Tradition should be a guide not a jailer.”  Indeed.  Over the past four years, I have gradually and intentionally thrown out such traditions and expectations and normals in order to more fully embrace opportunities as they present themselves.  My middle son’s 18^th birthday brought us to Florida this weekend.  Back in June a friend offered to sell me tickets to a two-day multi-band concert; he had bought them, but his plans had since changed.  So, my son and a friend are at an all-day concert, and I have time.  Not a normal celebration, but a wonderful one.  He and his friend are having fun; I’m not at home moping about the crumbling bathroom or broken truck.  Neither am I doing the normal Saturday mowing and cleaning.  I’m in Florida, visiting the beach, having a glass of wine, writing.  Normal might just be over-rated. 

I recently had a conversation with a male friend which eventually turned to dating.  I stated that I do not date any more.  He was aghast.  “That’s not normal.  That’s not healthy,” he asserted.  I assured him that, in fact, it is quite normal and very healthy.  He went on to tell me that I needed to find someone to grow old with otherwise I’d be alone and – you guessed it – “that’s not normal.”  He has a point.  I believe that not wanting to be alone in old age is part of the impetus for marrying; at least it was for me.  But, I embraced that “normal” without actually examining all the parts of it, and the results were less than satisfying.  That “normal” doesn’t fit me any better than the women’s swimsuits fit them today. 

In high school and afterwards, I wanted nothing more than to “fit in” and “be normal” all the while being different.  I created a paradox for myself.  I took Russian to be different.  I wanted to be a spy to be different.  I got married to be normal.  I taught Russian to be different while fitting in.  Such paradoxes we can create for ourselves!  My eldest son wants to have a life not unlike the one his grandfather lives – materially comfortable, respectable, and generous.  At the same time he wants to travel, speak different languages, and date just about anyone who walks through the door. What’s a person to do?  My youngest son craves peer acceptance because, well, what’s middle school for if it’s not for gaining popularity and being regarded as cool?  At the same time, he still sleeps with his teddy bear and watches Dr. Who.  Perhaps we are all some version of this middle school dilemma:  “I want people to like me, but I want to do my own thing.”  It can be a horrific tug-of-war that can last far too long.

Now, I’m contemplating earning another graduate degree, selling my house, cancelling TV service; getting ready to send my middle son to college; watching my eldest son on his last two laps of undergrad before going into the army.  The truth is that I spent time and tears trying to fit into a normal that never fit quite right.  My children are doing this all much better than I ever did.  It is my hope that they already know that life does not have to be a paint-by-numbers kit.  The best lives are freehand, out of whack, and a little messy.  

Broken Hearts and Hope

Well, ladies and gentlemen, in the halls of your local high school it has begun.  The subtle hand-holding despite the rules against PDA; the kisses snuck in the parking lot or near the stadium before the game; the too long telephone calls and too many text messages.  I had my first “I can’t live without him” discussion with one of my students early last week.  I told her that in fact, despite what she thinks, she can, indeed live without him and live well at that.  Those of you who know me, know that I have had my share of this sort of thing: being the dumpee and also being the counselor to the dumpees (both male and female).  High school can be cruel in the area of relationships, but so can life. 

One can make arguments for never letting one’s children date.  I had a rule:  you must be sixteen and able to drive.  Reasons?  I don’t drive people on dates.  And sixteen is a good arbitrary number.  And I’m the Mom.  Eldest son never fussed about this rule.  As the eldest, he accepted his fate at the object of parenting experiments, and, anyway, he was always happier with a book or LOTR marathon.  Middle son insisted he had a girlfriend in middle school.  He was wrong.  He argued.  I won.  Youngest son thinks he has had a girlfriend since kindergarten.  He is also wrong.  I will win. 

Still, whenever the New Year starts, I think it is natural to want to have that special someone to share it with.  To go to dances with.  To hold hands in the hallway with.  And, those of us single adults want the adult equivalents.  Our school has various events throughout the year, and we must RSVP for ourselves and our guest.  I always RSVP with a grin, “I’m coming, and maybe, if the planets align, I will bring someone.”  I go alone or with my dear friends. I do think that the events coordinator would fall over in a fit if I ever showed up with a “someone.”

All of these football, homecoming dance, and relationship ponderings of my students reminded me of a sketch I wrote at one of the summer writing sessions.  I offer it here for your consideration.  And, I hope that no matter what your relationship status that you are well loved and thoughtfully cared for.

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Tears.  Mutterings and awkward hand holding.  He is clearly breaking up with her.  She is the kind of girl boys break up with.  Especially when the boys in question are 20 and shallow and lack forethought.  Her hair is not brown neither blonde nor red – an indeterminate color and her eyes are pale and washed with the pain of never yet being the dumper – always the dumpee.  It is not a fun place to be for her.  In fairness, he is not comfortable, either.  Trying to stroke her hand and bring comfort to a place he just made ultimately uncomfortable.  Did she give her virginity to him?  He to her?  Has he realized that she is too self-centered or too controlling or too interested in marriage?  Maybe she realized those same things about him long ago and chose to overlook them in favor of being with someone rather than being alone.  She looks away, wipes her eyes, willing the tears to flow or to stop.  He looks at the ground, shifts restlessly, and glances at his phone, checking the time or the text message that he would really like to get but hasn’t yet.

We have all been there.  We have begged someone whom we knew not to be the right person to stay with us.  Why?  Because being with someone – even a sub-par someone is better than being alone.  In this culture of couples – it is hard to have the resolve to be alone.  Alone.  Not lonely.  Just alone.  There’s a difference.  I was dumped at 20 – at 17, too.  And, again at 23.  I’m sure there are other times – we all can mark a few of them.  We shed the tears or we created the tears.  Or a little of both.  We have been uncomfortably waiting for the text that never comes.  We have gone home to our dog, our childhood blanket, and a pint of Rocky Road.  We have drunk one too many shots of whiskey and almost called.  Or we did call.  Or we texted.  And it wasn’t good. 

About two months ago I got a call from one of those sweepstakes things you fill out at the annual home and garden show.  The kind where you get a 4 night-5 day stay somewhere fabulous as long as you agree to hear the sales pitch and fill out some questionnaires.  They are good deals, if you have no money to invest or the willpower to say “No, thanks.”  After a few preliminary questions, the gentleman with a lisp on the other end of the line asked me who I might bring with me on such an excursion.  I said, “Hmm. Maybe my son.”  He then proceeded to ask me if I were married, if I lived with someone, or if I had a partner.  No. No. No.  He said this offer was only for those in relationships. He promised to call back with a different promotion for singles.  I don’t expect to hear from him.

In a culture that smacks of marriage-worship, it can be hard to be alone.   And, when you’re young and you haven’t yet had your first job, bought your first house, or had your first child, and you’re ever so slightly afraid of really living by yourself, it’s even harder to be singular.  I sympathize with that girl – even if she knew he was all wrong for her.  And I sympathize with that boy – even if he had a new girl lined up.  This isn’t the last time they will be alone, but my hope is that they can embrace the peace that is found in solitude in order to find the meaning that can be in a relationship. 

How was your summer?

“How was your summer?” has been reverberating in the hallways of high schools and across college campuses for the past few weeks.  The traditional “What I did on Summer Vacation” essays will have been read, graded, and revised within the next two weeks.   So, how was your summer?  How was your summer?  How was your summer? 

My summer wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either.  Like hundreds of thousands of people across the nation, my summer began with the end of school.  I finished my 24^th year in high school on June first.  For sixteen of those years, I was a classroom teacher.  So, a few days, a couple of meetings, and one well-intentioned but always ill-conceived end of the year luncheon after graduation, summer began. Not being a classroom teacher now, though, I work through the summer (like the vast majority of Americans).  The hallways are quieter, but the work continues: testing statistics, best practice research, cleaning out last year’s publications to make room for the next year.  We have things to do over the summer. 

Everybody does:

Vacations.

Cook outs.

Baseball games.

Beach trips.

Family reunions.

We all have things to do over the summer whether or not we work full time during these three precious months.  And, now here we all are at the end, ready to go back and report on how we spent our time.  Perhaps we share some common ground.

I revisited the city where I spent five college years.  I went to two weekend conferences there, and I still agree with myself: this is a great city to live in.  My son, who is a junior there, disagrees and argues that the tenor of the town changes when the undergrads are drunk in the streets.  Yep, I remember.  But, I wouldn’t be a part of that scene if I lived there as an adult.  Still a great place: cultural, gastronomical, athletic, literary opportunities abound.  In between those two weekends, I visited my parents in the town and home where I spent my formative years.  I hung out with a high school friend, a college friend, and a friend of my sister’s.  More traffic there.  I still mostly know my way around there despite an absence of thirteen years.  I feel like I could, indeed, go home again and be quite comfortable. 

Then, I spent some time alone.  Not by design, but due to the fact that eldest son was in summer school, middle son was on a beach trip with friends and then at summer language camp, and youngest son was with his dad.  I found out I can, pretty comfortably, not talk to anyone for hours on end.  A good thing?  I think so.  Middle son was worried that I became anti-social during this time.  Not so.  Also during this time, I was privileged to help a friend who was recovering from surgery.  Yes, I was alone, but I didn’t curl up or wither up.  I did the things that about fifteen years ago I would have lamented never having time to do:  read the whole newspaper, watch the movies I wanted to see, go to the bathroom alone, make exactly what I wanted for supper and then eat it while I read my favorite book.

Finally, it was road trip time.  Ten days up to New York state and back, including lots of points in between with middle son.  It is good to change your surroundings occasionally – from rearranging furniture to just seeing something new outside of the car window – this can refresh your approach to life.  And so it did for me.  We also did some planning for the future; he is a high school senior, and the future looms, inviting him to new places and marking changes for me.

We didn’t go to the beach and, blessedly, I only had to watch one baseball game.  For me this summer was about looking back when we were in Iowa; reviewing the past and the places where I come from.  It was also about discovering peace in the present.  Where I thought there might be panic or fear, I found that I enjoy my own company, and I have dear friends to spend time with.  Finally, in the college visit road trip, I have begun to embrace the future fact that two-thirds of my family will be gone next year at this time. 

Maybe you watched a lot of baseball; maybe you spent weeks at beach or did the family reunion thing.  Perhaps you had an illness to contend with or a wedding that launched you into a new life.  As a teacher and parent, September first has always been more of a New Year than the one in January.  As we enter this New Year, my hope for you is that you embrace what you have learned from the past, you have peace in your present, and some really great plans for the future.  How was your summer?