Here And Now

If there is one thing I do consistently as a parent it’s forget.

My life is marked by a series of hand-held, chalkboard and pin-up calendars, all filled with the week’s appointments and to-do lists. Without them my children and I would never attend a lesson, a play date or a doctor’s appointment. Ever since I became a mom and lost most of my brain cells, I find remembering is the most challenging task I have yet to master.

In a recent session with my therapist (seriously – how awesome is therapy?) I realized I had forgotten something crucial that no person should ever fail to remember: I had forgotten to enjoy the moment.

I am forever looking in the past or in the future forward. I glance back on my life and think about the things I would have done differently if given the chance today. I ponder about the things I should have done. I think about how I was raised and what I wish my parents had done. Then I imagine my own children and I wish their development and growth would rush to get to the next stage. When I am frustrated I focus on the light at the end of the tunnel – not the journey I am experiencing right now. I have been silently saying, “Hurry up!” in the hopes that the bad behavior, the potty training, the ability to talk, the ability to be independent – all of it would just hurry up and get here.

I forget to enjoy the ride.

I also realized there is nothing wrong with looking back or looking ahead, as long as I’m doing those things for the right reasons. Is there a lesson I could learn from my own childhood? What have I gathered from my experience working as a young adult? What should I change about myself today that could help me prepare for the future?

I believe allowing myself to remain in the past or future without enjoying the moment is one of the worst things I could do to myself. My children, although sometimes vexing and demanding, are often times a joy to be around. They will never be this age again. When I want to be around them chances are they won’t really want to hang around me. (Is life bitterly cruel or what?) My husband and I are in a great phase. Shouldn't I appreciate how special it is right now?

So I have decided to stop forgetting and start remembering that each day is a gift I was given. There may never be a tomorrow as I envision it and if that happens, at least I can say, “I took pleasure in what was given to me.”

Photo by Michal Zacharzewski, courtesy of stock.xchng

What Honor?

Here’s how she handled it: she lied to my face.

We had a Brownie outing last weekend and we took the girls to a nearby Planetarium. (Click here to read the first part of this story.) During the intermission I noticed many of the girls in Lily’s troop had different badges. I decided to approach the whole “thanks for leaving my kid out” subject by instead pointing out the different badges and asking why each girl’s vest looked so different.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Aren’t they all participating in the same activities?”

“Well, it depends,” the leader said. “Was your daughter at all the activities?”

She pointed to a one badge and asked if Lily was at that meeting. I knew she wasn't because we were out of town for it.

“No, she wasn’t there for that one,” I said.

Then the leader admitted she and her daughter often go through the Girl Scout badge book and earn some of the badges on their own. “The book is only ten dollars,” she said. “You and Lily could earn a few together, too.”

Right. Because, who wouldn't live for earning badges in their free time?

“But isn’t the whole point that the girls at this age earn the badges together to feel a part of a team?” I asked her. “I mean, it isn’t a competition, is it?”

“No,” she said. “And no again.” She said it was up to the girls if they wanted to earn extra badges on their own.

As if all 7-year-olds are aware enough to know they can earn badges (or even care, for that matter). I know this has never been told to the troops or the moms, for that matter.

Finally I had had enough. “Okay, but has there ever been an instance where some of the girls earned a badge together without the rest of the troop?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said.

I wanted to scream, “Liar! Liar!” Instead, I bit my tongue.

I spoke to a friend of mine whose daughter is also in the troop. Her daughter also participated in the Mother of God badge. I explained my position. “I think what she did was really divisive,” I said. “If the whole point of being in a troop is to teach teamwork, as well as tolerance and understanding, how is earning a separate, selective badge beneficial?”

My friend understood my point completely. She said the troop leader was not malicious but, rather, was very religious and wanted her daughter to earn the badge. She just figured other Catholic moms would want the same for their kids. “In other words,” I said, “she didn’t think about the rest of the girls and how they would feel.”

My friend told me she wanted to talk to the troop leader about the incident. “No, don’t,” I said. “There isn’t anything that can be done. I don’t want a religious badge. I just want the girls to not feel singled out. Plus, I don't like that she lied to me.”

She begged me to let her talk to the woman. I finally conceded. “If you think it will help,” I said. “But don’t make me out to be ‘that mom,’ okay?”

“I promise,” she said.

To be continued…

Photo by Pam Roth, courtesy of stock.xchng

My Nightmare

I wasn’t ready for this to happen so soon. I thought I had at least a couple of years before I’d be faced with making such an uncomfortable decision. When I stop and think about it, I shouldn’t be so scared; I went through the same rite of passage as a kid and came out unscathed, happy even. But last week when Lily got invited to a friend’s house for a birthday party, the invitation had one word on it that made me panic: sleepover.

Ay, yi, yi.

My child is not even 8 years old. It’s no accident she has never once slept at someone’s house without me. My husband and I are protective of her safety (I'm perhaps too overprotective in this regard). How, I told myself, can we keep her safe if she is somewhere else for an overnight period?

Let me back up for a minute. I know why I feel the way I do – my dad had the exact same reservations when I was a child. He worried I would fall prey to a friend’s older sibling or parent who may not have my best interest at heart. He was scared I’d be put in a position that could hurt me. In short, he feared I’d be abused.

And when you know the statistics, his concerns were not that far off the mark. Of children who are molested, two-thirds are abused by someone they know. (Click here to read a post on this subject and click here to read an article on it).

Do I think every man out there is a child molester? No. Am I generally sure that most families are like ours? Yes. To me this is not like allowing my child to walk to school. Taking a path in public with lots of other eyes upon her to me is much safer than sleeping in a room in someone’s home. Yes, I know I’m being hypersensitive. I just wanted her to be older – say, in middle school – before she started spending the night with her friends.

I thought I could find a common ground on this party. I asked the birthday girl's mother if Lily could attend the party until it was time for bed and then I would pick her up. She said no problem. But when I mentioned the idea to Lily, she got very upset. All at once I found myself in my 10-year-old body trying to explain to my parents why I should be able to sleep at my friend Jenny’s house. Jenny, too, had a slumber party and my parents did not want me to go. I was crestfallen. The same words that I said to my parents came tumbling out of Lily’s mouth: “They’ll make fun of me if I leave,” she said, crying. “They’ll ask me why I’m not sleeping over. I’ll be the only one.”

So I e-mailed my husband and told him what happened. “Let her spend the night,” he wrote. “She’ll be fine.”

I sometimes forget about how we are raising this child. We speak openly and often about every subject under the sun. We allow her certain freedoms so she will grow up to be independent, which she has done nicely (albeit a bit too quickly for my liking). We give her small jobs and she has become incredibly responsible. My husband is right – she will be perfectly fine.

“Besides,” my husband said, “if anything goes wrong we’ll just have their kid over and do the same thing to her.” (He’s funny, that one.)

So, how do you feel about sleepovers? Please vote in the poll (upper right-hand of this blog) and post a comment with your answer.

Photo by Mark Anthony, courtesy of stock.xchng

All Things At Once

Working moms, stay-at-home moms, new moms, mothers to daughters: have I got a book recommendation for you.

I just read All Things At Once by television journalist Mika Brzezinski and if ever there was a voice for the modern-day woman, Brzezinski is it. The book immediately draws you in with a horrifying narrative about her child that would devastate any mother. She describes the time when her four-month-old baby stopped moving from the neck down – all due to a fall down a flight of steps she caused by walking with the baby in her arms while battling intense exhaustion.

Ladies, we have all been there. We have all experienced that indescribable fatigue brought on by sleepless nights and unimaginable schedules. There is nothing like the kind of tired one feels after having a baby, let alone two children. Brzezinski's depiction of how she ran mostly on fumes for years will no doubt resonate with any mom who reads this book.

What I loved most about All Things At Once was its message: you can have it all, but achieving that goal requires something different from what we women born in the 1960s and 1970s were told. She cautions young women to make marriage and children a priority, something I (or any of my feminist friends) was never told as a young woman. Growing up I was always instructed to strive for a career and to put marriage and children on hold. Ms. Brzezinski had the foresight to know if she put off those important parts of life she would have been making an egregious error (one that many women I know now regret). I wish I had read this book as a young woman, and I hope my children read it when they are old enough to start thinking about their career paths. I know many women today who could have benefited from Ms. Brzezinski’s advice.

All Things At Once is both a cautionary tale and an inspirational memoir. Brzezinski discusses the need for women to be true to themselves by listening to their inner voice. She unveils her extraordinary life as the daughter of the former national security advisor, Zbigniew Brzezinski, and how being a child born to a powerful father and a determined mother allowed her to focus on her dreams of becoming the woman she is today – a mother, a journalist and a wife, all things at once. Her own mother, an artist who put her career on hold while her father led them to Washington, became a role model when she eventually declared to Brzezinski’s dad, “You’ve had your turn. Now it’s mine.” (I love a woman who stands up for herself!)

All Things At Once is also a fabulous guidebook for working moms out there. Women who may be making crucial career choices will undoubtedly find this book helpful in determining which workforce plan will be best for them. Even I, a stay-at-home mom who hopes to embark on a career again, found this book nothing short of encouraging and motivating.

This book is an easy read, which is great for moms with tight schedules. Brzezinski tells impressive anecdotes that captivate the reader that are surprising (her play dates with Amy Carter, former President Jimmy Carter’s daughter, for example), eye-opening (she got fired from a network job in order to realize what would truly make her happy) and truthful ( “Oh my goodness,” she admits, “it’s hard work, being a full-time, stay-at-home mom!”).

Ms. Brzezinski’s inspirational journey will no doubt resonate with most working moms out there. She describes the unyielding guilt from not being able to constantly and successfully juggle work, children and a marriage, but yet she somehow manages to find a way that was acceptable to all members of the family.

The bottom line: being a mom, a wife and a career gal means being true to yourself, even if that means taking a step back to move forward.

Cover photo by Brian Nice, jacket design by Brian Chojnowski

New Blog

Growing up my friends would hear me say the same four words over and over again: "Tell me a story." There was nothing I enjoyed more than hearing about the funny, heartwarming or scary events in other people's lives. Everyone, I thought, has a few great stories to tell.

I was reminded of my habit the other night when I watched a 60 Minutes special on the late television pioneer Don Hewitt. He masterminded the show and his mantra was the same as mine: tell me a story.

So I decided to launch another blog, Talk To Me, in the hopes that people would share tales from their lives. Did they travel to a remote land and fall in love? Did they meet their idol only to have him or her treat them badly? Did they commit a crime and get away with it?

If you have a memory you think others would enjoy, please e-mail me at tellmetales@yahoo.com. And please tell your friends - like I said, everyone has a story to tell.

In the meantime, check out Talk To Me and feel free to post comments.

Then and Now

It took a while, but I finally get it.

When songs come on the radio that I used to love as a teenager they make sense to me now. Not because I couldn’t appreciate the melody or the tune when I first heard them, but because the lyrics are ultimately relevant to my life today. Take, for instance, the song “Once In A Lifetime” by the Talking Heads. I adored that song as a young adult but merely because I thought it was fun to dance to. Today, when I hear the lyrics, I think, “Oh, my God. I’ve become what David Byrne has been warning me about all these years.”

I don't know if I should be scared or thrilled.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the song (and really, if you’re not, you should be), it’s is about growing up and finding yourself a few years down the line in a life you never imagined. You are living abroad, or you are married living in a house or you’re broke and down on your luck. No matter where you find yourself, the question is the same: “Well, how did I get here?”

Exactly, Mr. Byrne. How on earth did I get here?

Twenty years ago I was living a rock and roll dream working for a red-hot record company in Los Angeles. I was young, broke and happy. I had an amazing group of friends and I went out almost every night. I rubbed elbows with famous folks (not that they gave a rat’s ass about me, but still) and I went to a million parties. I lived paycheck to paycheck. I traveled the globe and increased my debt. I lived in two different countries other than my homeland. I embarked on a career I thought I would be in forever. I was insouciant.

Again, how did I get here?

Today I am a stay-at-home mother. I have two children who bring me joy and test my patience. I live in the New Jersey suburbs and maintain a modest home. I have a few close friends but see them infrequently. I go out at night maybe once or twice a month. I attend only a handful of parties a year. I live among many people who do not share my political beliefs. I'm still happy, but my contentment is measured differently.

Seriously, people. Just how did I get here?

Once In A Lifetime

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful

wife

And you may ask yourself, "Well...How did I get here?"

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself

How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself

Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful wife!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Water dissolving...and water removing

There is water at the bottom of the ocean

Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean

Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself

What is that beautiful house?

And you may ask yourself

Where does that highway go?

And you may ask yourself

Am I right?...Am I wrong?

And you may tell yourself

MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Photo by Elke Rohn, courtesy of stock.xchng

Empathetic? I'm Trying

When the tears fall, I can’t think of one nice thought.

Normally, when a child cries, a mother feels empathy and compassion. Well, most mothers do. I, however, feel annoyed. Because the tears I see usually are not born of sadness or hurt feelings but, rather, are a result of frustration and anger at something completely idiotic.

Example:

Lily comes home from school, eats a snack and does her homework. She’s a typical first child in the sense that she is a perfectionist and hates to be wrong. A few weeks ago she showed me a sentence she wrote. The instructions were: Tell me a sentence about your birthday. She wrote: My birthday has lots of presents.

Hmmm.

“That’s a good try," I said, "but let’s think about that for a moment. Does your birthday have lots of presents?”

She stared at me blankly. Her brow was furrowed and a frown replaced her normally dimpled smile.

“Or do you get lots of presents on your birthday?” I asked.

“I get lots of presents on my birthday,” she said.

“Do you see the difference?” I asked. I explained how the birthday was not the recipient of the presents, but, rather, she was.

She nodded and began to cry. She didn’t want to do the sentence over and said, “I don’t like getting things wrong!”

So imagine her delight when I found two more errors on her homework. (As a side note, I normally don’t go over her homework but happened to see the mistakes. Usually I just make sure she finishes her homework and I let her teacher discuss the errors with her at school. I do this at the request of her teacher, by the way, who told me she preferred to see the mistakes so she could assess Lily's strengths and weaknesses.)

“Agh!” Lily said. She threw up her arms and said again, “I don’t like getting things wrong!”

“I know,” I said calmly. “It’s frustrating to have to do things over again. But that’s how we learn.”

She walked away, her shoulders hunched. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

I am so tired of the weeping (and the drama) in my house. Good thing I gave birth to girls (both of whom came out with a wrist to their forehead and “Woe is me” stamped on their cheeks).

Aimee throws such severe tantrums I actually stop and stare at her in disbelief. She stomps her feet, gets destructive and – viola! – the howling begins.

I admit am I in a glass house on this one. As a child I cried constantly. (Who am I kidding? I cry as an adult!) I, too, would get upset and frustrated and immediately the waterworks would begin. My brother would make fun of me, my parents would announce their disgust and annoyance and I would feel even worse. Crying was (and is) the one release I could not control. (I will get back to this in a minute.)

As a mother I don’t show my annoyance at my children the way my family did. In fact, I am a thousand times more empathetic than they were. I try not to make a big deal about it but inside all I can think is, “Really? You’re crying about this?” I usually walk away because I know if I stay I might just laugh out loud. (Which is just what every crying child wants to see - a heartless mother.)

One of my favorite parenting books (which I should definitely pick up and read again for a refresher course), Children The Challenge, addresses children who cry incessantly. It illustrates the story of a child named Isobel who cried a lot as a toddler and continued to bawl well into elementary school. Her parents and siblings called her crybaby (sound familiar?) and she would use the tears to get attention. (Note to parents: any attention is good attention to a child, even if they are being punished.) The author, Rudolf Dreikurs, says parents should allow the child her right to cry but not make anything of it. For example, “I know you bumped your elbow and it hurts. When you’re ready to join us let us know.” The parent validates the child’s feelings but makes it clear there will be no reward for crying. “As soon as Isobel sees that crying isn’t going to produce results, she may decide to change her behavior. The same procedure should be followed every time she cries – casual acceptance of her right to cry together with a statement that she may join the rest of the family when she is ready.”

Parents are advised that they must pay attention to the child when he or she is happy and cooperative to reinforce the positive behavior. The author cautions parents from calling kids names because children will eventually learn to live up to those names. If parents call a child a crybaby, liar, tattletale or scatterbrain, they see him as his label - and so will the child. Rather, parents should view their kids are good children who misbehave at times. The point: it’s the behavior that can be labeled, not the child.

All that advice is good stuff. Clearly, however, Mr. Dreikurs did not have two thespians as children. I agree with his assessment that calling children names is detrimental and only leads to worse behavior, and I also agree that making a big deal out of crying will only bring more tears.

I just want to know when it will stop.

Photo by Neil Gould, courtesy of stock.xchng

Not Fit For Reality

I admit it: I watch American Idol. Well, I watch the auditions more than the actual performances. And when I do, I always imagine I’m the parent of one of the competitors. So when one of them succeeds and is awarded a golden ticket to Hollywood Week, I blubber like a 3-year-old sitting in a time out. I envision it is my daughter up there, pouring out her heart and soul to win a chance to live her dream. I’m nervous when she sings, and I’m panicked when the judges are about to give their answer. So when the person auditioning hears the word “yes” four times, I am beside myself with glee.

And then a horrifying reality washes over me: I am never going to make it through my children’s young adulthood.

Oh, my God. How difficult must it be to watch your child get his or her heart broken if they fail? How painful would it be if your child really kind of sucked – and you knew she was embarrassingly awful? Oh, and what’s worse: you wanted to support her so you told her, “You can do it!” and watched her fall on her untalented little face?

I just don’t think I could survive all that.

I know. This isn’t about me. This is about my kid. I decided long before I had children I would support them, no matter which career they choose. Lily tells me she wants to be an actress, and Aimee says she wants to be a singer. (Seriously? Kill me now.) I’m sure they will change their minds 10 times over when they get older (fingers crossed) but if not, I will support them and wish them well.

I just may not be anywhere near them when they try.

Image by Jasper Greek Golangco, courtesy of stock.xchng

Apologies

Lily has reached the age where she has become empathetic. Experts say children are not developmentally capable of empathy until age 8 or 9 (Lily will be 8 next month), but parents are encouraged to help teach children how to relate to others by saying, "Wasn't Mrs. X kind to give you her last cookie?" or "Isn't your sister thoughtful to let you share her favorite toy?" (To read more on teaching empathy, click here.)

The note to the left is Lily's latest written apology, of which I have received quite a few. It says, "Dear Mom and Ai [short for Aimee]: I am sorry for breaking the rules and sitting on Aimee. Love, Lily."

Have a great Tuesday.

Letter by Lily, age 7

MLK Day

Fifty-five years ago Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was elected was elected president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization formed to provide new leadership for the newly growing civil rights movement. He based his ideals on his Christian background but formed the organization’s operational techniques from Mahatma Gandhi.

For a man to embrace non-violent techniques in a country where violence was constantly used against him was not only brave but insightful. Aggression only begets more aggression, and MLK knew he could find a better way to solve problems.

Today, our world could use a lot more Martin Luther Kings (and Gandhis, for that matter). Many leaders have lost sight of what is truly important in our world: treating others with respect and equality regardless of race, creed, color or gender; solving issues without the use of weapons; making peace and not war; and giving our children a better world in which to live.

I look back and wonder if the dreams once held by Dr. King will ever truly come true: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”

Please click here to read Dr. King’s speech in full. I think everyone could benefit from his vision, especially today.

Photo by michelle kwajafa, courtesy of stock.xchng

What A Girl Wants

For someone who enjoys being pampered I certainly have a lot of demands. Take, for example, a trip to the nail salon. If the place in question employs men, the kind proprietor better not even think of sitting me down in front of one of those dudes. I just don’t like a man doing my nails. Oh, it’s not that I haven’t given the experience a try. I have. My few attempts at the man-performed nail buffing are exactly why I feel so strongly about having a woman give me a pedicure. For one, if a guy is going to rub up and down my legs like that he had damn well better buy me a drink first. Second, the whole situation is just creepy, okay? I don’t know if I should make eye contact, avoid his gaze completely or pretend it’s absolutely normal that a stranger is molesting my gams. Plus – and here’s the real reason – so far no man has ever done as good of a job as a woman in this particular area. Sorry, fellas, but in this department (and probably others) women know what women want.

And let’s talk about the nail salon “massage” itself: I don’t want one.

When I admit this out loud, I hear gasps from other patrons. “What?” they say when they overhear me tell the manicurist. “How could you not want a massage? That’s my favorite part!”

Don’t get me wrong. I looove me a good massage. I just don't like the half-assed ones they pretend to give you at the nail salon. Take the last one I had: a bored employee robotically took the lotion from the jar, haphazardly applied the cream to my legs and began to quickly smooth it up and down. She ended the procedure with a bunch of banging and hitting meant to mirror some kind of Oriental reflexology method but in reality, it was more like smacking the person who dared ask for something relaxing. I personally think there was nothing soothing about it. (In fact, it kind of hurt, dammit.)

Plus, who has the time for all that silliness? My legs are thrown in the air and twisted, I have to hold onto the chair arms for dear life while I'm being manipulated and I am forced to smile through the pain (of which there is way too much for a supposedly calming experience). I want to be in a chair, made pretty and have my nails dry in less than an hour. A five-minute beating just prolongs the outcome.

Speaking of the chair, whose idea was it to insert hard metal balls manipulated by a remote into the backs of those recliners? Those moving Barcaloungers are so painful they could be used to interrogate terrorists! If you think I don't like the fake human one, I like being jabbed in the backside even less. Sheesh.

Yes, I know I’m the anomaly. But now that I’m in my 40s I can make my demands and not give a rat’s patootie what others think. Now that’s what I call relaxing.

Photo by Alex Bramwell, courtesy of stock.xchng

Dirty Little Secret

I have a secret. It’s kind of big, so whatever you do, shut your pie hole and don’t tell my dear husband. But every once in a while, when he calls and reminds me he’ll be out late that night, I don’t get upset.

“Have fun,” I say.

What I really mean is, “Yippee!”

Don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. I enjoy spending time with him. I like when he comes home so we can chat about our days and snuggle on the sofa. But every once in a while I want some “me” time. And by “me” time I mean several hours alone when I can watch horribly mindless, awful television.

Is that so wrong?

So when he calls and tells me the news, I send the girls to an early bedtime (“But it’s only seven o’clock, Mommy!” they cry. “Too bad, kids, it’s Mommy’s night in!” I say with a smile and tuck them in bed.) I scroll through the shows I’ve taped on the DVR, grab a few high-calorie snacks and plop my happy ass on the sofa.

Bliss.

Go on, tell me your dirty secret. I promise I won’t poke fun at you (much).

Photo by Bartlomiej Stroinski, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Jump

Our school uses a reading system called “baskets.” For those of you unfamiliar with this method, each grade school classroom has a series of books grouped together in terms of reading level. Children take home books in their designated baskets to read each evening as homework.

Longtime readers of this blog might recall my eldest, Lily, who is now 7, had an exceptionally keen interest in reading at a very early age. No, I don’t think she’s a genius and I’m pretty sure she’s nowhere near gifted, but there is one thing of which I am absolutely sure: she really loved to read.

Or so I thought.

Let me give you a little more background on my kid. She was writing three-letter words on her drawings when she was 3 years old (Mom, Dad, cat, dog, etc.). By the time she was 4 she could read – not perfectly, but she could finish BOB books without much effort. (If you have a young child who likes to read, I highly recommend this series. Both my kids loved them.) By kindergarten I thought Lily would blossom and impress the teacher with her skill. She didn’t. She did well, but she didn’t seem to want to pick up War and Peace anytime soon. By first grade there were a few other students whose reading level made hers appear mediocre at best. I never said anything about her level because one of the moms I know, whose child had the same first grade teacher as Lily, said to me, “Mrs. R [the teacher] moves kids up to a new basket level incredibly slowly.”

Slowly, okay. But this slowly?

“I don’t get it,” I finally asked her second grade teacher at the beginning of the year. “This is a child was both reading and comprehending at an early age. Why is she in such a low level basket?”

“She’s not,” the teacher said to me. “She reads at the second grade level, which is just right for her age.”

“Yes, I realize that,” I said. “But that’s my point. She has been reading – a lot – for almost four years. She finishes all the books on her summer reading list. Shouldn’t she be more advanced?”

The teacher explained the reasons behind Lily’s basket placement. Apparently when the reading specialists assess the children they do not allow for even one mistake. If a child skips a word, adds a letter to a word (making the word 'dog' into ‘dogs’ for example) or doesn’t understand a paragraph, the child is kept at the same level.

“Do the kids know that when you test them?” I asked.

She paused for a moment and said, “No.”

I thought about this for a while. At home the kids are asked to read out loud for at least 15 minutes. I noticed Lily would get lazy and skip a word or add a letter to a word.

Before I continue, there is something you need to know about Lily before you shake your heads and say, “Oh, so that’s why she wasn’t ahead.” Because you’d be wrong if you said that. Lily is a strong-willed child. She likes to test me in a very different way from Aimee. When she read to me and skipped words or added letters, I would get annoyed and I would say, “If you don’t want to read properly, I won’t listen.” She would then pitch a fit, and I would get up and say, “Let me know when you’re ready to read properly.”

Here’s something else you need to know: Lily loves a challenge. As soon as I got up she would promise to read properly and would do so. Until the next night. I did everything I could to not make her reading into a battle. I simply said, “Reading is an important part of your schoolwork. If you don’t want to take it seriously, I won’t waste my time. We can just mark it down that you didn’t do your work and you can explain that to Mrs. S.”

If there is one thing Lily hates to do it’s disappoint her teacher. So Lily began to read – every night – perfectly. Each book sounded far too easy for her. I remembered the teacher sent home a note saying books should be effortless, but this effortless? I didn’t think so.

So finally I said something to Lily that I knew would have an impact on my competitive child. I found out that her good friend, who is not an exceptional reader, had just been moved into Lily’s basket. “Lily, you have been reading for almost four years and she has been reading for two,” I said to her. “There is no way you two should be in the same basket.”

Lily just sat quietly and didn’t answer. I could see she was trying to figure out what I had meant. While she was thinking, I told her what the teacher had said to me about making just one mistake during the assessment. “When they test you, you must read clearly and thoughtfully. Take your time and do not skip ahead.”

She must have thought long and hard about what I said (miracles do happen!) because she was assessed yesterday and has jumped seven basket levels. Um, excuse me? Seven baskets?

Does that make any sense to you at all?

I’m both delighted and annoyed. I finally feel she is being given books to read that are appropriate for her skill level. But why was she kept in such a low basket for so long?

This whole experience has been a good lesson for me. I realize I need to go with my gut about my children’s education. I also need to speak up more when I think my child is not getting the attention she needs. When she was assessed at the beginning of the year I should have spoken to the teacher about it more. I should have explained my feelings. But I didn't. I won't make that mistake again.

Photo by sanja gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng

Figuring Friends Out

For years I convinced myself that my children could not make friends with nice, normal children even if I promised them a lifetime of toys and trips to Hershey Park to do so. No matter how many well-behaved, polite and kind-hearted kids there were in their classroom (or in our neighborhood), they would immediately gravitate toward the evil, black-hearted child who could easily stand in for the boy in The Omen.

Whenever I would think about their horrible friendships I would calm myself down by telling myself that I, too, made some really crappy pals in my life. And because of those relationships, I was able to discover what I wanted out of life and what I would accept as proper treatment.

I also reminded myself that my parents, who were quite strict and didn’t like a lot of the girls I knew, either, never forbade me from being buddies with those kids. (If they had I probably would have rebelled.) So, with my own children, I bit my tongue.

Sometimes (or, I should say, most times) when you as a parent let go and allow your children to make their own decisions (while gently guiding them in the right direction), a beautiful thing can happen. One of my children – who will be 8 years old in February – developed and matured and figured things out for herself.

I worried about some of the girls Lily preferred because they were bossy, had bad manners and looked at me with a smug look on their faces that made me want to smack them into obedience. One such girl really rubbed me the wrong way, and when I met her father, I got even more creeped out. (If I ever see him on America's Most Wanted I will not be surprised.) Yet Lily really liked this girl. A few months ago, however, Lily came home upset because the girl was mean to her. I decided to take the opportunity to teach Lily about friendship. I had done this before when she was bullied (click here to read more on that) but she was younger and didn’t understand the full extent of what I was trying to tell her.

“Lily, I can’t tell you who to be friends with,” I said. “But I can tell you what a good friend is.”

I told her friends make you feel good about yourself most of the time. I told her friends support you and help you make the right decisions. I told her friends defend you when someone wrongs you.

“Does she do any of those things?” I asked.

Lily shook her head. She began to cry.

I hugged her and asked what we could do to figure this out. She asked if I could call the girl’s mom and make the girl be nice to her. As much as I wanted to throttle the child and give the mom an earful, I told Lily I couldn’t do that.

“I worry that by doing that it will make things worse,” I said. “Besides, have you spoken to her about how you feel?”

Lily said she hadn’t.

“Then how will she know if you are upset?” I asked. “No one can read minds. If you don’t say how you feel, you can’t expect people to treat you differently.”

Cut to a few months later. I asked Lily if she was still friends with the girl. Lily shook her head.

“Oh,” I said, trying to contain my excitement. “Why not?”

“Um,” she said, tilting her head. “She isn’t very nice to me so I don’t really like to play with her.”

Viola! She figured it out.

I then asked who she considered to be her friends at school. Most of the girls she mentioned were the kids I wished she would hang out with. I didn't say anything to her (what kid wants their mom to approve of everything in their lives?) but instead just smiled and told her I was happy she found people with whom she could feel good about herself. After all, those are the kind of folks with whom we should always want to be.

Photo by sanja gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng