Wanted: Parent Portal Support Group

To some degree, I guess I've always been a helicopter parent. However, when my daughter entered 7th grade, I made a conscious decision to step back and let her spread her wings. I promised to no longer micromanage her education, but rather, I would simply remain Bette-Midler-esque as "the wind beneath her wings."

It was a good plan, but I was set up for failure by the school. They enabled me and my obsessive personality by placing the "drug" right into my eager smothering hands. They gave me a password and access to information about my daughter's school life with just a click of a button.

It's name? Infinite Campus Parent Portal, aka the latest in designer street drugs. It should be called "Portal to Hell," and contain the warning, "Enter at risk of annihilating your relationship with your child."

It started innocently enough. I logged in and looked around the site to see what information was available. A few days after school started, I logged in again. Oh my gosh! I discovered I had access to my daughter's grades. In real-time, people.

And, that's when my obsession began...and grew...and became a major part of my life.

Sure, the name sounds somewhat innocuous, until you break the words apart. "Infinite?" Yes, the knowledge I can glean from this data (crack) base includes grades, tardiness occurrences, lunch reports, test results, and more. Here, "infinite" means "Mom knows all." The term "portal," when used in Harry Potter's world, implies a secret entrance to all things good and mysterious. However, when the word "parent" is added to the word "portal," let me tell you, nothing good can come from this access. Parents shouldn't have this kind of power because we don't know how to use it for good.

I fell hard; first victim of the most addictive and dangerous narcotic ever invented.

Hook, link, and sinker.

Experts say that the first step in healing is to admit you have a problem.
Here goes: I. Have. A. Problem.

This portal into my daughter's world gives me too much power. When I was a kid, my grades were a secret, a revelation on report card day. My parents had absolutely no idea what I ate for lunch or how well I did on my English test. They had to actually ask, "How was your day?"  Sometimes I answered, but I still had the luxury of either editing or complete omission. Because today's parents have this online portal, children no longer have secret school lives.

If you don't think that this is nearly as awful as having a nanny cam on my daughter throughout the school day, listen up.

I know my daughter's grades, usually the same day they're given, even before she does. Within seconds, I am unhappily aware she ate french fries for lunch three days last week. Instantaneously, I am appalled to see that she not only has a library fine, but she also has three missing assignments.

Big Brother? Oh yeah. When she gets into the car after school, my verbal assault awaits, readied with extra clips of ammo. "Why were you late to Math today?" "Please don't tell me you got a 70% on your science assignment because you (again) forgot to write your name on the paper." It wasn't pretty, and it was destroying our mother-daughter relationship.

I am not alone. Several friends also admit to the same portal obsession. I've been told, "I can't stop looking." I know people (ok, it's me) who have graphed their child's grades...daily...with a graph that started not at 0%, but rather 90%. (It may seem if the start point is 90%, there's really no need for this graph.) *ahem*

I'm told that there are applications to block time-sucking websites like Facebook and Pinterest. These apps will only allow a predesignated amount of access to the offending website. I've thought about getting an app, but I don't need one that limits my time to the Portal. The portal is actually quick to use...so quick that I can log in and view it nearly 327 times a day in only a few minutes time.

What I truly need is a website blocker. I have proven that I cannot use this "tool" wisely, so I should be banned. At the least, I'm thinking of entering my password incorrectly three times, which would serve to block my access...or it would, until I beg to have my access restored by the school administrators.

Recently, I noticed that my daughter would greet me with a deer-in-the-headlights-what's-

coming-from-her-now look when I retrieved her from school. It dawned on me that perhaps we (I) had a problem. I staged an intervention for me. I enrolled in a self-help group of one for me.

After discussing our options, we mutually decided that she would take responsibility for monitoring the portal for missing or late assignments. For my part, I agreed to remain silent about the offending grades unless a full week has passed.

I can still look. I just cannot use the power for bad. That seems fair.
(This essay is (mostly) written as a tongue-in-cheek satire, grounded in some reality.)

There's Always time to "be nice"

There's a well-known book, or is it an embroidered pillow case, that famously states, "I want to be the person my dog thinks I am." Well, if I look at *me* from his perspective, I don't really think I should aspire to be "that" person. From where he sits and judges, I know he believes I can be much better. I ignore his accusatory look  as I eat yet another snack.  His face has that unspoken question, "Hey, why do I only get food morning and night?" I am the person who scolds him when he awakens me with his continual OCD licking fetish. I am the ogress who shoves medicine down his gullet, and the one who recently delivered him to the vet for surgery. My standing in Darby's eyes is not too high these days.

And, after this morning, I think I've tumbled from the Mom pedestal, too, as my darling daughter thrust yet another humbling, life lesson upon my unwilling soul early this morning.

(Before we go any further, I must clear up this misconception that Hannah is thoroughly "good." She is definitely NOT perfect, just like the rest of us. For goodness sake, I just told you that after eight years of formal education, she is still nearly incapable of writing her name on the top of school papers. We argue, or rather "heatedly discuss," many topics. But just as humans are prone to apple-polishing and bragging, I usually only tell you the good things.)

Hannah used to say to me, "I want to be just like you when I grow up." Sure, I have a few good qualities. I think there are ...three. Yeah, that's right. After this morning's life lesson, I'm going to embroider a pillowcase that says, "I want to be like my daughter when I grow up."

Cue: this morning. As usual, we were running late for one of her numerous oh-dark-thirty extracurricular activities, because I seem to lack the be-on-time gene.

It was a frigidly cold morning, so Hannah waited in the warm car with me until I could deliver her to the front door of the school. We inched along behind other parents who were dropping off their kids. I grumbled under my breath, as a boy in the car in front of us searched for something in the trunk.  He was holding us up! Eventually, the boy stepped away and his dad drove ahead.

As I pulled forward, Hannah said, "Stop," but I didn't pay any attention because I was still trying to save her five steps and frostbite. I thought she just wanted to get out of the car sooner. As she leaped from the car, she threw me a mild look of disdain over her shoulder, and turned to walk in the opposite direction from the school entrance.

I stopped her to ask, "What are you doing???" I pointed to the school.

She replied, "That boy dropped one of his shoes on the sidewalk and he didn't realize it. I'm walking back to grab it, and then I'll run into school and give it to him."

I looked at the dropsy boy who had just put his hand on the door. "Why don't you yell to him that he dropped it and he can run back and pick it up?"

And, then, I uttered those words reminiscent of the scariest Tiger Mom, "You don't have time to "be nice!"

Wow, did I say that? "You don't have time to be nice??"

Yeah, I sure did, and I am filled with shame. But, she was going to be late for...Comedy Academy. (not school)

Hannah, to her credit, just looked at me and shook her head in disappointment. She couldn't believe I'd failed to engage my filter, either.

She jogged back, retrieved the boy's shoe, and then ran ahead and gave it to him. He smiled with gratitude at my loving, KIND, and sweet daughter, and I felt exactly like hot excrement.

When I say that Hannah is still teaching me to be a better person, I am not kidding, and I'm certainly not embellishing.

Today's life lesson for those of you who may have missed it..."There's always time to be nice."

I might just go get a treat for Darby.

How Can She Be 12?

At Hannah's birthday celebration last night, I thought to myself, "How can she be 12?"

I look at my daughter and really see her. As I gaze at her and try to see her as the world sees her, I nearly gasp aloud at the young woman that she is becoming. Beyond the new physical curves of her maturing body, I see the strong, courageous and assertive spirit that will take her into a successful future. But, in my mind's eye, she is still that little peanut who lay on my chest so long ago. As I rocked her and she drifted into sleep, I would repeat the whispered mantra, "Stay little...stay little...stay little." Now that she's surpassed me in height, I must confess that I don't think that my pleas worked.

Last night, as I watched her goof around with her two dining companions, I couldn't help but wonder how we got to this place - this place that is 12 years old - so very fast. Inside, I choke on the knowledge that two-thirds of her layover with us has passed. As activities and friends consume more and more of her waking hours, I know that these last six years will zoom by in a blink of an eye. And, before I know it, we'll be celebrating her 18th birthday, and shortly after that, she'll be off to college. The thought of this future "missing her" brings me to my knees, and a sense of foreboding makes my heart constrict with the impending loss...and I almost forget to be in this moment, here. Right now.

I know in my head that looming separation and her pursuit of autonomy is a natural part of growing up - and away - from me. It doesn't mean that I have to like it.

For now, I still revel in the glimpses of a younger Hannah, such as her request for a Play-Doh set this birthday, and I am secretly delighted and grateful when she still needs me. Within the walls of our home, I am still called "Mommy," but I've noticed recently that I've "graduated" to either "Mom" or "Mother" when she's among her friends. When we're alone, my daughter is still the outwardly demonstrative child I've always known; quick with a hug or a casual "I love you" thrown back over her shoulder as she leaves for school. But out in the world, I sense the slightest bitter taste of her pulling away from me.

Friends have begun to warn me that this is "just the beginning." I am told frightening things like,"Oh, just you wait for the teen years!" To date, my response has been, "Every age so far has been my favorite." Just because she'll enter teen-dom next year, I don't have reason (yet) to believe that Hannah is suddenly going to morph into the anti-Christ. Through the years, she has only become more interesting, kinder, smarter, and funnier.

I can only foresee this trend continuing.

Happy Birthday, my 12-year old.
I (continue to) beseech you - "stay little."

~Mommy

Listen To Your Mother - The episode in which I am tired, but proud

Listen To Your Mother 2011 Necklace by Ellie of Shining Stones**

The episode in which I am tired, but proud.

I have work to do this morning, but I’m ignoring it. Rather, I have chosen to bask in the after glow of yesterday’s Listen to Your Mother show. I find that I don’t want to leave that place just yet, but rather I am content to revel in the memories made before, during and after the show.

As a bit of background, I stumbled upon the LTYM website surfing the web, and I watched the video of the 2010 LTYM show. I was captivated by the woman that everyone calls, “Ding Dong;” a mom of chronic door-ringing children.

“Ding Dong” completely cracked me up, and I thought, “I bet I could do that.” I then discovered that auditions for the 2011 show were but a month away. I got down to business. I reread all of the pieces I’d ever written about motherhood. Should I submit a funny one or a serious one? I decided that I was more comfortable with the funny route, so I collected a bunch of snippets of conversations between my daughter and me about puberty. I smushed them around, sliced and diced, and made them into an essay that I felt rolled right along.

Despite a public speaking phobia, I auditioned and I was chosen to be one of the 13 Madison Mamas to read at the 2011 Listen to Your Mother show! I am so grateful to have shared this amazing experience with 13 beautiful, wonderful, generous, giving and loving women: Elizabeth Katt Reinders; Darcy Dederich; Suzy Grindrod; Jessie Loeb; Amy Miles; Stacie Rieder; Alexandra Rosas Schultze; Jennifer Rosen Heinz; Sara Santiago; Laura McNeill; Erika Wagner-Martin; Sara Ward-Cassidy and Ann Imig.

They have made me a better Mom and a better person. Because of this briefly shared time in our lives, they are my friends for life.

THE SHOW

I was blessed to have my daughter, partner, her mom and my best friend sitting in the front row on show day. I could feel their smiles and their good wishes being sent my way, even though it was impossible to see them after the lights went down. But I knew they were there, and that’s all that mattered.

As I listened to the three amazing women speak before me, I concentrated on breathing and calmness. I could hear my heart racing and pounding within my chest, and kept chanting to myself, “It will be fine. It will be great. It will be……….over……..soon.” I mildly cursed my daughter for “making me” do this thing. I berated the directors for picking my piece. Yeah, it was a busy place in my head.

As I walked to the podium, I repeated the word “pre-pubescence, pre-pubescence” over and over again. It was the word that would make me stumble, and dang it, I did later misspeak it. But you know what? I nailed every other damn word in that essay, and I was so proud of myself. When the first laugh from the audience came, I was so grateful. I actually wanted to pause and say, “thank you.”

They laughed…and I laughed…and I thought, “I am actually doing this, and I am going to survive it.” Hey, I’m sitting down now, and they’re clapping. Holy crap! It’s over. Yea for MEEEEEEE!  

Hannah told me later that she was laughing so hard that she cried during my entire reading.  I was confused. “But honey, you’ve read it and heard it 100+ times?” She said, “But Mommy, you are so funny when you read it out loud!”

The best part of the day to me was listening to and observing the audience members as they filtered out of the Barrymore Theatre. The lobby was ALIVE with the energy of smiling women, crying women, women hugging women. The women, young and old, of all shapes and sizes, they shared their stories with friends, and family, and yes, with strangers. Many took our hands and said, “Thank you.” They thanked us for being brave and for telling our stories.

For a few minutes, I felt like a Rock Star.

And in an ironic twist of karma coming around to slap my face, I hear from across the room, “Hey, there’s the “Puberty Woman.” Oh dear, “Ding Dong” sounded so much cuter.

I had a cape on my back…one that unfortunately said, “Puberty Woman,” but it’s a cape nonetheless. And, damn it, that’s all that matters.

P.S. Deb Nies’ make-up yesterday – Elizabeth Katt Reinders. (Thank you for making my eyes “pop,” in a good way!)

Listen to Your Mother in Madison, Barrymore Theatre 5/8 3pm

 Listen to Your Mother - Barrymore Theatre 3pm May 8th, 2011

The Episode in Which I am BRAVE!

"The important and only vital question is, how much greater, finer, am I than I was yesterday? Have I fulfilled my possibilities, made the most of my potentialities?" — Edward Weston

I can truly say that I am indeed "greater, finer" than I was yesterday. I have fulfilled my possibilities and made the most of my potentialities.

You see, I am a writer/reader for Listen to Your Mother. Sounds simple, but not really. This exercise is an incredible leap of bravery for me, as I am deathly afraid of public speaking.

Last night was the second read-through for the Listen to Your Mother show. I enjoyed hearing the other 12 women's stories even more than I had at the first listening session.

Perhaps the first time, I was so nervous about reading my own piece that I found it hard to concentrate closely on what others were saying. While I am humbled by the other writers/readers in this amazing group of women, I have also finally realized that I belong there, too. I didn’t always believe it.

When I first thought about writing something and auditioning for LTYM, I felt a bit inadequate and pessimistic about attempting something that was foreign to me.

It took my 11-year old daughter – a budding actress who is comfortable speaking to 500 people from the stage – to convince me to try out for LTYM. Believe me, she pushed and pulled me kicking and screaming to sign up for an audition. She told me that it would be “good for me,” and that I would “grow.” I could tell that she relished being able to turn my own pithy words of encouragement back on me like a knife of the sharpest blade.

Upon initially meet someone, you don’t know their history or their own personal story. Sure, we freely hand out labels like parade candy, but they are usually wrong or at best, incomplete. My little background story is that I have a major phobia of reading anything in public. I have hated it since Middle School, when I would spend entire class periods dreading being called upon to read anything aloud from a textbook.

When I did have to read aloud, my face would flush, my voice would quaver, and I would stumble over words…words that I knew, but my anxiety caused me to trip over my tongue. It. Was. Horrible.

Since then, I have avoided public speaking like the plague. Until now. You see, I had to audition. I had to back up those words of encouragement that I so freely dispense to my child. I had to put my money where my mouth is, which is constantly open, divvying out unsolicited advice. If I didn’t audition, she would see me as a fraud; someone who didn’t take her own damn advice. So I told her my concerns, and she said, “Mommy, you can do it. Really. You can. Pretend like you’re talking to me.”

Ok, right. So, I auditioned.  Wow, I was so nervous. During the audition, I felt the old face flushing, and then the voice quiver reared its ugly head, and I thought, “Oh boy, this is so over.” And, then, as I began to read my piece on puberty, Ann and Darcy (LTYM head honchos) laughed. (Not at me, as I suspected might happen.) And, as I read some more, they laughed some more, and I thought, “Hannah’s right. I can get through this,” and I did.

After I walked out, I thought I’d seriously blown it. Why would you want someone who fumbled over her words and was obviously mentally tormented about public speaking. I returned home, and told Hannah, “I did terrible. I know that I didn’t get in.” She gave me a hug and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. You tried, and that’s all that matters.” (Who is the parent now?)

Time passed. I’d already written the entire thing off in my mind. And, then I received Ann's email inviting me to perform. I was SHOCKED. My darling daughter, not so much. I think she said, “I knew it!”

The first read-through was hard for me, especially that damn word “prepubescent,” which kills me every time. Actually, it was hard because these other people were strangers, and I had to read in front of them. Then, I felt the love and acceptance and understanding in that group of beautiful women, and I started to relax. Last night, the 2nd read-through was even easier for me. Everyone was so supportive and I feel like they have become my extended family.

Lest you think this is the end of my rant, it’s not. Last week, my daughter asked to show me a bulletin board in the hallway outside of her classroom. I joined her in front of these pictures of a lot of famous people. It was a wall of heroes created by she and her classmates. There on that wall, next to a picture of President Obama and Lance Armstrong, was a picture of ME!

After I was able to speak again and I’d wiped my tears, I asked her, “Why am I up there on this wall?” She looked at me like I was a bit touched in the head (you know how teens can do that), and she said, “Because I knew you were afraid to speak in public, but you overcame your fear, and you just did it.”

Please come see "Listen to Your Mother." You'll laugh. You'll cry. And most importantly, you will be changed forever.

And, if I don’t pass out, and my voice doesn’t quaver and I nail “prepubescent,” please give me a high five!

Dear Daughter: A letter of thanks-giving at Thanksgiving

Dear Daughter:

At Thanksgiving dinner, it is a tradition to go around the family table, and each person expresses what they are thankful for. Often times the answers sound something like this: "I am thankful for my family, house, job, health, etc." Those are all terrific answers and certainly, "things" for which to be grateful.

I am indeed incredibly blessed with my family and friends. But today, I want to tell you specifically why I am grateful and thankful to you, daughter.

I am first and foremost incredibly grateful to be your Mom. There is nothing that will fulfill me as much as watching you grow into the strong, intelligent, loving, young woman that you are becoming. If I have ever done anything right in this lifetime, it was bringing you into this world, and doing my best to raise you.

I am grateful for the early morning, wake-up kisses and the warm snuggly smell that is only you. I treasure every hug, every kiss and every "I love you." I cherish every loving note and card that you've ever written to me, and every picture that the two of us are in together.

I am thankful that every day you teach me something. For example, when my natural inclination might be to say "no" to a request, you have taught how to say "yes."

I am grateful that you have taught me not to be so serious. You have given me joy and laughter. You have made me lighter, freer, more loving. Thank you for teaching me that play is just as important as work.

I am thankful to you for teaching and showing me every day how to be a better Mom. Thank you for being the fabulous daughter and person that you are...

Happy Thanksgiving.

I love you. - Mom

Being Olympian

My daughter has been a member of a swim team for 15 months . She is a good swimmer, but at her current rate, she will never be Dara Torres. But even though she will (probably) not be an Olympic swimmer, I care deeply about the life lessons that she is learning from being on a swim team.

While swimming is mostly an individual sport, she is also learning what it means to be on a team. At a swim meet held recently, I watched her pump up the members of her 200 Freestyle Relay team, and it made me smile. At 10 years old, she was the oldest in the foursome. One girl was swimming in her first meet and was very nervous. Hannah offered her advice, and said, "It'll be fine...You'll be great." My daughter may not be the fastest swimmer, but she is a kind-hearted, nurturer to her teammates. She may not always contribute points to the team's cumulative total points, but she definitely adds to the group's bottom line.

Her coach, Matt Wunderlin, recently told his swimmers the following about swimming: "It's not about being an Olympian. It's about being Olympian. Learning to be a hero. And, it is not comfortable to be a hero. If it were, being one wouldn't be so great."

Trying things that you haven't attempted before, losing the safety net, and stretching yourself beyond your self-imposed limits, now that is heroic. I explain to my daughter when she laments that she doesn't swim faster or that she DQs sometimes, she does heroic things everyday. Going to swim practice three or more times a week, when you'd rather be vegging with a good book, is heroic. Cheering on your teammates in a race is heroic. Giving kind words to struggling swimmers is heroic.

As parents, and as coaches, we need to teach our children how to be heroes in their daily lives. The following story now embarrasses me, but I tell it with the hopes that another parent might learn a valuable lesson from it.

When my daughter was a 2nd grader, she joined a competitive soccer team. This was her (our) first venture into the sports world. Many of her teammates were also new to soccer, so we weren't expecting to win the Waunakee World Cup or anything. At this age-level, the soccer players don't understand the concept of "playing a position" on the field. Constantly, it looked like a group of swarming bumblebees with all ten players hovering around the soccer ball. The background music provided by the parents sounded something like this, "SPREAD OUT! MIDDLE! GET TO THE MIDDLE! SPREAD OUT!"

Soccer just wasn't serious at this stage. For the kids, I should say, it wasn't serious. For the parents, well...It wasn't unusual when play was at the other end of the field, to see the goalie turning cartwheels, sitting down in the goal, daydreaming, or picking flower weeds.

After their 8th straight loss without scoring a goal, I (this is the mortification part of the story) actually went up to the coach and asked (pleaded) with him to set it up so that they could score a goal in the next game. "Can you put in a few extra players on their side or something? Just so that they can know what it FEELS like to score?? They are demoralized and it's hurting their self-esteem." I am now certain that he was internally rolling his eyes at my pathetic, dramatic tirade. My request came from a good parental place, but I know now that it wasn't the right answer. He managed to soothe and placate me, but didn't agree to my suggestion. (thank you...and I'm sorry, Steve)

The team ended up finishing their season with a record of 2-14. Yes, they did manage to score some goals as their play improved...on their own and using their skills...without parental intervention. The players self-esteem wasn't scarred for life and they learned, in a safe environment, that sometimes you just don't win. The coach, by not rigging the system in their favor, taught them perseverance, strength, and sportsmanship. (My daughter even scored a goal, though she was supposed to be playing defense at the time.) The bottom line is that the coach allowed them to become heroes. They turned into kids who overcame a miserable string of losses, with their improved skills, teamwork and determination.

It's easy to make similar over-protective parental mistakes. As parents, we want to keep our children safe, and it seems intuitive that we should protect our children when we can. We want everyone to get a ribbon. We pad the walls. We hover like helicopters, never letting them be alone to explore the world. We don't let them fail. We lessen life's blows to the ego. We offer excuses for them. Basically, at times we carry them and keep them sheltered from life's storms in plastic bubbles. And, then we have the audacity to pat ourselves on the back, because we are "good parents."

Is it wrong to want our children to always be happy and successful? Actually, it is. If our child is sad and disappointed, we tend to attempt to talk them out of the mood. We spin strands of golden sunshine of happy words to cheer them. This is wrong. By dismissing and belittling their feelings, we disparage our children. We need to let them feel their emotions, and learn to express them appropriately.

When a child cries because they failed, they are expressing their disappointment. They are not asking you to fix the issue. Parents are fixers. From the moment we gave birth, we want to make it all better. Falling down and getting a boo-boo requires a band-aid and a kiss, yes. Your child getting a bad grade on a report card does not require you to phone the teacher and petition for a better grade. As parents, the answer needs to be more cuddling and far less coddling.

By cushioning every bump in life's roadway, we cheat our children of the opportunity to fail. Yes, you read that correctly. The act of failing is an opportunity. You know the old adage, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again?"Failing is a chance to find a way to do something better, or perhaps in a different way. Children who are allowed to fail learn self-coping skills. These life lessons are better learned now as children, when the stakes are small.

The reality is that sometimes you don't win. Sometimes, you lose and fail miserably. Sometimes your feelings get hurt. At times, you will have to play hurt. And, sometimes, you will even have to ride the bench, while others play. Real life has many competitive moments, and there aren't many consolation prizes for 2nd place, much less 16th place.