The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Letting Go

Peeping Mom

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If you happened to see a figure some 26 years ago hiding in the bushes looking into the window of my daughter’s first day of nursery school, it was me. That was my first ‘letting go’ and I was reassured that she was not wailing as some children were, but happily playing at the sand table. Some might have called me crazy (which I could have been) but I took great joy in parenting this child and only wanted her to feel loved and safe.

I am reminded of a special moment with my dad who gave me my love of horses. Whenever we would take summer road trips, he would always take me to a riding barn for a few lessons and a trail ride because no facility existed close to our home. Mom told me years later that on one outing, I was on the last horse as the group went out on the trails. He swiftly grabbed and saddled up a mount – as he was anxious that I might get overlooked at the end, and so he followed the group to keep an eye on me. He thoughtfully stayed back just far enough away so that I wouldn’t know he was there. I think, in retrospect, that became my approach to parenting: Don’t hover but always be there to catch.

Luckily, I got over the peeping mom period as my daughter grew into a confident girl and played by most of the rules as a teenager. Then college came, and well, you know how that goes. Tears that ran unannounced from both of us were soothed by multiple fun trips to Bed Bath & Beyond. I made sure she had a first aid kit, birth control and gave all the lectures about not walking back to the dorm alone at night and not drinking from red cups already filled. I felt she was safe along the well-lit paths until her first off campus apartment with her besties across from a run-down cemetery. All my fears went into overdrive with visions of zombies rising from the graves a la Thriller or creepy men lurking to grab her (I think zombies would have been safer, I mean at least they could dance). She survived and, better than that, she thrived.

I know I’m a genetic worrier (you didn’t know my mom!), but I think her knowing she could call me anytime day or night or even to talk as she walked home in the dark made her feel she could take risks knowing she could always reach me. I had determined myself to not project my own fears onto her.

College is a huge step for both parents and children. Some kids rebel and let loose, drink too much, or skip classes as they try out their freshly minted wings. Others hit the books and join clubs but, from what I’ve observed, most find their place somewhere in the middle. If I had to name one thing that makes the college years easier it would be having a strong history of communication. Problems, concerns and even intimacy issues can be openly talked about as well as listening to the endless complaints about boring teachers or obnoxious friends. Listening to everything without judgment keeps the door open for when one has parental wisdom to impart or aims to guide a situation that is beyond their scope.

My daughter is now long graduated, finishing pandemic-delayed graduate school, and preparing to be married. The lessons learned about the balance between autonomy and closeness developed during the college years now serve us well. They have helped maintain our great friendship as she still comes to me when she has concerns or just needs to know how long to boil an egg. I figure we have done pretty well – at least on my end. You’ll have to ask her how she thinks we did. Better yet, don’t ask!

Now I Meow: Learning to Silence the Tiger Roar Within

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Let’s play a short game of “Never Have I Ever.”

• Bought the “My Baby Can Read!” Program?

• Enrolled your two year old in Mandarin lessons?

• Prepped your four-year-old for a pre-school entrance exam?

It’s been ten years since I was pregnant with my son. Due to a severe and unannounced complication, Jesse became my only child. All of those proverbial eggs went into this one basket. My husband and I, ignoring our collective DNA, believed our seven-pound,12-ounce baby would one day be a boy of grit and determination.

Why on earth did we think a child born from our creative chromosomes would express an interest in perfect penmanship, homework done without a hint of procrastination, or a sincere desire to conform to school and suburban societal standards? Both of us were boundless daydreamers, not “good students.” Neither of us went to an Ivy League school. It took me 12 years to get a Bachelor’s Degree. Who was I as a parent to have such unrealistic expectations of an infant?

I decided to ignore genetics, and turned to nurture and instead of nature. From before that soft spot closed on his not-so-hairy head, I read to Jesse for hours: Sandra Boynton board books, The Old Man and the Sea. By the time he was two I’d bought a small chalkboard, where I would write out the alphabet every day, singing along with an actual pointing stick. Of course he knew the whole song by 26 months and four days but who’s counting?

Right before Jesse turned three in February of 2011, a bestselling book was released. You know the one. The Tiger Mom. Her Battle Hymn. With children practicing instruments on vacation. This tome was sweet validation for my maniacal child rearing practices. Immediately after reading the book, I began teaching him to sound out three letter words:

Bat, cat, hat, pat, sat. Bet, jet, let, met. Bit, fit, hit. Cot, dot. But, cut.

By the time Pre-K rolled around, he was more than ready for real kindergarten. Imagine my elation at my four-year-olds parent teacher conference upon hearing, “What a smart boy. Such language skills!” That sound you hear? My inner tiger roaring across the Okavango Delta.

September 2013 arrived, and sadly, Kindergarten started with a whimper. Jesse cried on the bus every. Single. Day. I thought to myself, “If he’s so sad, he can’t concentrate. But it’s ok, I’ve already taught him so much.” (In hindsight, I should have been thinking about his feelings, but I was a tiger, not a kitten.)

Fallen crimson leaves replaced fallen tears, and by Thanksgiving, I was most thankful that Jesse was doing better. Plus! The most wonderful time of the year was soon upon us: his very first report card. The day arrived and I tore open the envelope. A grade of “4” was the best. A “1” was the worst.

And there it was, in the right hand column, not under reading or writing or “rithmetic.”

There was a one.

I never realized there was an “emotional” side to a report card.

At his parent/teacher conference, Mrs. Crusher of Dreams tells my husband and I, “Jesse takes no pride in his work. He thinks he knows everything already.”

Of course my son felt this way and it was all my fault. It was time to accept a few truths. My parenting was much like my cooking: overdone. Children should learn things in their own time. And my son was no tiger cub. More like a sloth – cute as could be, moving at his own pace.

Every year since Pre-K I’ve made my son hold up a sign on the first day of school. You know the one. “Jesse’s first day of…” and the date. I always added the line, “When I grow up I want to be a…” First grade it was policeman. Second grade I winced as I wrote “garbage collector.” Last year my heart swelled when he wanted to run Apple. This year, fourth grade, I have done away with asking the question. Because I have finally learned – the only right answer is HAPPY.