Mom in the Mirror

An "A+" in parenting?

It seems early in the school year to be getting a "Midterm Report" from Colter's teacher, but we did yesterday. I found out via an e-mail from Gary that read:

We have reason to celebrate. Colter got his midterm review.
When will you be home? In time to go out?
Call me.
Gary

I called right away and he told me that Colter was actually a little upset that he didn't get all "E"s (for excellent). I don't think Gary had even finished the sentence when I thought, "I must be pushing Colter too hard." He should be thrilled with the report. Here's what it said:

Reading:	E
Writing:	E
Math:	E
Science:	NA
Social Studies:	E
Behavior/Teamwork:	V

When I got home and he told me about his grades, the first thing he mentioned was the "V" in Teamwork. So, I told him I was proud of all his grades and asked him about the Teamwork portion. He said he prefers to work alone. What could I say? So do I.

Which leads me to this: I learned from a story I was editing at work that the Philadelphia school system will start grading parents in "home support." The grade will attempt to measure physical preparedness (everything from whether kids come to school tired to whether they have the proper school supplies), and parental follow-through (do parents respond to notes and calls home, etc.). Starting in December, the report cards will be available online for elementary and middle school students. They aren't grading the parents of high schoolers -- maybe they know that control over kids is virtually nonexistent by then.

I can't help but wonder how parents will respond to this. I suspect the most involved ones will be glad to have teachers recognize their contributions while the least involved will resent it. How would you react?

Arrivals and departures

I'm not the best traveler. I always look at a picture of my son when the plane takes off and lands, so he'll be the last person I see if anything happens. It's a ritual that comforts me, but also makes me anxious.

Here are the best parts of my return trip from Washington, D.C. last night.

• The shopping. I discovered: a great independent bookstore (Olsson's), and they were having a storewide sale; Pen and Prose, a stationer's that sold fantastic cards, paper, and pens; and an American Crafts gallery -- As Kindred Spirits. The woman there was so nice that when she heard I couldn't find Post-Its to buy anywhere in the airport, she gave me an unopened package of purple ones from the store's stash. Naturally, I bought some jewlery and other accessories there. (They had really funny thank you notes for new parents to send.)
  
• The CNBC Newsstand. Right near my gate, I could watch Brian Williams and get on the Internet at the "Online Station."
  

Here was the worst part: I spent so much time shopping that I forgot to eat. At 7 p.m. I was in line at a hot dog stand near my gate when I noticed no one milling around there. I thought maybe my plane was delayed, but couldn't tell for sure. I quickly brought my food over to the gate and discovered that at 7:05 p.m. they were calling "final boarding" for my 7:30 flight. I hurried on, and as I was walking down the aisle to my seat, the woman in 8F snidely said to no one in particular, "I can't believe she brought french fries on a plane." I can't believe I had to!

Baby blogs

I discovered a few really cute ones today: babyblog from the UK features two brothers, including a list of their words (by month), their drawings, and even a store that lists books and toys they want! Adventures in Preggness has ultrasound pictures and the cutest little baby tie-dye shirt (we got one just like it for Colter). And Like a baby describes itself as the journal and blog of a new family. It features the birth story and then week-by-week breakdowns of life with Chloe. I also came across a site that encourages people to pre-register their child's name as a blog for future use. Guess I can stop hauling Exersaucers to baby showers and give a URL instead.

Grounded for life

A little girl Colter plays with was grounded today because she was at our house for awhile and her dad didn't know where she was. I've never understood parents who let their kids wander around and then hold the kids accountable for keeping them informed of their whereabouts as they travel like vagabonds from house to house. To top it off, her father went swimming and left her alone in the house to serve her time!

We've never grounded Colter, or even threatened to, but he keeps thinking we will (I guess because other kids are). Last night I came close, though. I don't cook, so when Gary is away almost everything Colter and I eat comes either from the freezer or a restaurant. Last night, we were walking home from an ice cream place that conveniently sells hot dogs, when Colter ran ahead of me toward the intersection. I called to him twice to stop and then finally said, "Freeze" and he did. I asked what he was doing and he said the light was about to change, and he wanted to get across the street before it did. I said, "You were going to cross the street without me?" He said, "Yes." I reminded him that it was nighttime, cars couldn't see him, and he could have been killed. He said, "Or I could have been grounded for life." Isn't that the same thing?

How worried should I be?

For about a half-hour tonight Colter was playing with two little girls who live nearby. They are also 7, and both little Farrah Fawcetts -- blonde, beautiful, and bold. They were all in our den, and I listened from the living room. For a while, they were a family. Colter was the baby, and the girls were his sisters. Then, one girl was his mother. Finally, he was the dad. It was only when he wanted to close the door that I remembered what I used to do when I was a little girl playing house with a boy. Know of any monasteries that would take a 7-year-old Jewish boy?

Peanut butter therapy

I've been having semi-miserable days this week, ever since I worked really late Tuesday night. I've been crabby and tired and generally down. Until a few minutes ago, when I opened the peanut butter to make Colter a sandwich. Ah, the smell of comfort. Warm, gooey, sweet, and salty. Forget eating it, I'd like to climb in the jar and take a long nap.

Your turn to be last

I'm stuck between a schoolbus and a glass repair truck. There is no lane of traffic moving faster than 50 mph on the Interstate, and I need to get to school to pick up Colter, who HATES when I'm the last parent to arrive. Usually Gary gets him, and it's not a problem. But I'm notoriously late. So, today I left at 5 p.m., giving myself an hour to get somewhere that normally takes 30 minutes. Good thing I did. It really bothers me when Colter's afterschool teacher says, "He was really worried you were never going to come." I don't understand where this anxiety comes from. There is absolutely no logical reason a child whose parents' lives revolve around him would think that. We have never ever forgotten him anywhere or at any time. I just don't get it. Fortunately, I'm there with 15 minutes to spare. It'll have to be another parent's turn to be last today. Whoever you are, I'm sorry.

Gary going, Isabel coming

I always get sad when Gary goes away. He travels every six weeks or so for work, and every time he leaves, I worry and I wait. It's been especially bad since Sept. 11. This time, I'm more anxious than usual because of Hurricane Isabel. It hasn't even been a year since we left North Carolina and we still have friends and family there. I know he's headed away from the storm (he's going to Houston for a three-day project), but fear is not logical. And maybe there's some guilt involved. I ignore him more than I should -- more than I mean to -- when he's around. Here's a Zen question -- if a husband's not around to ignore, can you still miss him?

Some days you're the bug

Last night, one of our cats caught a small water bug. She picked it up in her mouth, swung it around a little, then let it go. Its tough shell wiggled as it squirmed away, scrambling for safety. Then she picked it up again. And let it go. This happened three times before I had to walk away. I just couldn't bear to watch any more. I didn't want to know whether the bug was going to escape, with little intact, or end up the casualty of being toyed with. I really sympathized with that little bug. Some days, I feel just like her.

Give up the remote: his & hers tips for a happy home

Whether you're newly engaged or have been together for years, you're probably fighting a domestic battle of the sexes. Here are some tips to help you win -- or at the very least, lose gracefully. "His" tips were written by my husband as advice to men. "Hers" were written by me as advice to women. Be sure to add your own.

Hers:

1. Give up the remote control. Eventually, he'll fall asleep and you can watch whatever you want.

2. Let him fall asleep on the couch while you read in the bedroom. The distance will muffle his snoring.

3. When you discover you're talking too much about dental work and retirement accounts, get a babysitter and go somewhere expensive for dinner.

4. Let him finish his sentence before you start your monologue.

5. Send him to Home Depot while you browse at Borders.

6. Switch chores every once in a while. Try mowing the lawn, then watching the game with a cold beer afterwards. It's not as easy as it looks.

7. Take control of his hair, including the stuff in his ears, nose, and on his face. It may be his body, but it's not his right to choose.

8. Don't remind him of how he used to look unless you want to be reminded.

9. Even God rested on the 7th day, shouldn't your husband? Take the weekend off, or at least let him.

10. Say "I love you" and give him a kiss whenever you say goodbye.

His:

1. Don't ask how she feels about something unless you really want to know.

2. At least twice a month, pretend you are still dating.

3. Treat her like a friend, not a relative.

4. She doesn't need to hear how nice her best friend looks. (And by the way, no need to mention the threesome thing, it ain't gonna happen.)

5. Never ask, "Is it that time of the month?" Especially when it is.

6. Being open and honest doesn't mean telling each other everything, especially when you're at a party and her tuna casserole is the worst potluck dish there.

7. Cleaning the house requires more than picking your socks up off the floor.

8. Listen.

9. Write her a poem, but not a limerick.

10. Tattoo your anniversary and her birthday to your body and keep a backup gift somewhere, in case you forget anyway.

A slightly different version of this piece will be published as my LifeFiles column.