The Drop-Off

When I first saw the movie "Finding Nemo" when it came out in 2003, I loved it. But I didn't get it completely, because I didn't have kids yet. I understood it on a "head" level, but not quite on a "heart" level. Now that I am a mom, it touches me in a different way emotionally, especially because I am definitely a Marlin kind of parent. I have to work really hard to not be a helicopter mom, and to allow my children to try some things that are difficult or even dangerous. I see myself completely in the "drop-off" scene:

I understand how Marlin felt when his little one first encountered the "drop-off", because that's how I feel now that MY (not so) little ones have encountered the drop-off.

No, I haven't sent my kids deep sea diving, but I have begun to take them places and...leave them there. Instead of bring them to friends' birthday parties and hanging at the back of the room with the other parents, or sitting up in the observation room during gymnastics class, or watching the closed-circuit TV during dance class, I drop them off. I take them somewhere, and then I go somewhere else.

It's definitely a bigger step for me than it is for them.

Yesterday I dropped my son off at gymnastics, and I didn't even go inside with him. He just hopped out of the car with barely a glance back. (He did toss off a request over his shoulder that I come back a few minutes before the end of class and come inside to see what he was doing, which I think helped us both feel better.) My daughter joined the Girl Scouts is about to start having monthly Daisy meetings after school where I won't even see her from the bus stop goodbye in the morning until nearly dinner time. Speaking of the bus stop, on days when she stays after school, I don't even have to meet my son at the bus stop.

It's kind of a weird feeling, but it's also very freeing. My kids are old enough, responsible enough, well-behaved enough (I hope) to manage their activities on their own. It's funny, because when I was their age, my mom didn't think twice about not being home when I got home from school - I had a house key and I was perfectly capable of letting myself in and making myself a snack. I'd even go down the street to play with friends or go ride my bike in a nearby empty parking lot; the only requirement was to leave mom a note letting her know where I was. That's not really the norm any more, at least not where I live. The last time my daughter rode her bike without a parent right next to her, the cops showed up at our door, thanks to a well-meaning but ridiculously over-protective neighbor. So I want to actively seek out opportunities for my kids to be independent. I don't want them to feel like they need Mom there. I want them to know that I trust them to make their own decisions.

I want them to touch the butt.

After all, it turned out to be an amazing adventure, for Nemo and for Marlin.

First Day

This is weird.

This morning, I put both my kids on a school bus for the very first time, waved to them, and then went about my business for seven hours.

That's never happened before.

I mean, I've been away from them for that long. But never without knowing that I could pick up the phone at any time and the person responsible for them would answer and tell me exactly what was happening. I didn't take advantage of that knowledge, but I knew I could.

You can't do that when your kids are in school. For one thing, the teacher is too busy being responsible for them and 20 of their soon-to-be closest friends to stop and take a phone call from a paranoid parent. For another, they go to a bunch of different places. Are they on the playground for recess? In the cafeteria eating lunch? Playing in the gym? Painting in the art room? Enjoying story time in the library?

So all day long, I've been wondering, "Where are they right now? What are they doing right now?" But in addition to that, I can't help but also wonder, "Were they scared or confused when they got off the bus? Did they like their new teachers? Did they find someone to sit with at lunch? Did they remember to wash their hands after they used the bathroom? Will they be able to find the right bus at the end of the day?" So many questions.

And with one hour left before the bus brings them back home, I'm trying to decide which of those questions I should ask them at the end of their first day. Actually, I probably shouldn't ask them any of those questions. What I should be asking them is things like, "Who was the nicest person you met today? What did you like best about your new classroom? What did you bring home in your backpack? What was your favorite part of the day? Who was wearing the cutest first-day-of-school outfit? (that one's for my daughter) Who had the coolest backpack? (that one's for my son) What was the most interesting thing you learned today?"

Because I know that my attitude will rub off on them. They'll understand my concerns about school, even if I don't express them in so many words. If I approach them with questions that assume their first day was scary and uncertain and unpredictable, they'll think of school as being scary and uncertain and unpredictable. But if I ask them questions that assume their first day was exciting and interesting and fun, they'll think of school as being exciting and interesting and fun.

And that's exactly what school should be: exciting and interesting and fun. And I bet that if I approach it that way, I'll be sure to get the right answer when I ask, "Are you looking forward to going back tomorrow?"

I Don't Want to be a Helicopter Mom

My natural tendency as a mom is to be vastly overprotective. Particularly since my son (the older of my two children) tends to be anxious about new situations (gee, wonder where he gets that from??), I am hesitant to launch him off into the unknown unsupervised. But at age 6, he is more than ready to deal with most situations without me.

I, however, am not.

Fortunately, I am aware that I am not doing him any favors by hovering over him and doing things for him that he can – or should be able to – do himself. I’m not going to increase his shaky confidence by making him feel like he needs help all the time. By treating him as if he can do things, I force him to learn how to do those very things, and to prove to himself that he can do those things. I know this. But it’s still hard to do.

There are times when I have to literally bite my tongue or sit on my hands to avoid helping him. He gets frustrated quickly, and often gives up after only a brief, half-hearted attempted at a task like turning a shirt right-side out, unbuttoning a stiff button, or figuring out a difficult math problem. But I’ve begun to take baby steps in making him solve his own problems. I start by giving him a time limit: he needs to try on his own for, say, 5 minutes before I come and help him. It’s taken us both some time to make those 5 minutes be actual problem-solving time rather than pretending to try while watching the clock tick down. If he’s still struggling, I explain to him what to do: reach into the armhole and grab the cuff; pull the button towards the center of the buttonhole; look at the numbers in the ones place. And then, once again, I give him time to try and think and struggle. And I don’t volunteer to help again unless and until he specifically asks me to. And finally, I show him what to do, but then make him do it. I reach inside and turn the shirt right side out, but then I turn it back inside out and make him fix it. I show him how to angle the button and slide it through the hole, then rebutton it and have him try. I draw boxes with the numbers in the tens and ones places in them, then give him a similar problem with different numbers to solve by himself.

It’s frustrating for both of us – at first. But if we both struggle through it, the triumph of independence is a reward for us both. And the next time the situation arises, I can remind him that I know he can solve that problem, because I’ve seen him do it. He might need a little reminding, but each time I force him to solve that problem without help (or with less help each time), the quicker he can solve it, and the more confident he becomes.

I’d like to think that my helicopter mom tendencies will wane as he grows older and more independent, but I suspect they will become even harder to fight as the problems he struggles with grow more mature. When he’s bullied on the playground, when he’s snubbed by a friend, when he isn’t invited to a party or doesn’t make the soccer team or gets turned down by the girl he asked to the school dance, I will desperately want to step in and fix everything for him. But I can’t do that. I won’t do that. As difficult as these lessons are to learn, they are his lessons, not mine. I will give him advice, I will give him support, but I won’t give him answers. I’ll guide him to find his own answers. It won’t be an easy journey for either of us, but the more difficult path leads to a much happier and healthier adulthood than the easier one.

So when he tells me I’m a mean mom because I won’t do his science fair project for him, or write up a job application for him, or call his company for him when his paycheck is wrong, I’ll just smile and know that I’m not really a mean mom. I’m a great mom. 

And he's a great kid, who's going to be an even greater adult.