parenting

Some Days I Really Rock the Parent Gig. Or Not.

By / July 9, 2012 / 1 Comment

Forty minutes after Patch’s Lego Brick Camp ended, I got a phone call from the teacher.
“So, um, are you going to come pick up your child?”
At which point I apologized profusely, promised it would never happen again, and barely took time to hang up before grabbing purse and keys to drive very fast. The place is only five minutes from my house. All the way there I berated myself, felt horrible, and worried that Patch would be distraught at being forgotten.

I arrived and Patch was happily helping clean up bricks and put away chairs.
“Some other parents were late too,” The teacher said as I apologized yet again. “Then I got talking with them until I realized you weren’t here yet, so I called. It was no trouble.”
“I told him you’re late sometimes.” Patch volunteered.

I’m late sometimes. A part of me dies inside that my son knows and believes this about me. Surely part of being a mother is being reliable. My other kids would have panicked if I’d been forty minutes late. I wasn’t late for them. Patch has a different mother than they did at his age. Patch’s mother works. He’s learned that sometimes I’m late and the world doesn’t end if that happens. which is actually a good thing in some ways. Patch is more self reliant and confident than my other kids were.

Yet I don’t have “flaky about afternoon appointments” in my self image. In my head I’m reliable. Mostly. I’ve been memorably late twice in the past year. Both times I was focused on a computer task and was too far away from my cell phone to hear the alarms I set for myself. I set those alarms on purpose…because if I don’t, I’ll forget. So, yes, I’m flaky. I’ve developed systems to handle the flakiness. Most of the time they work and no one can tell. Then I can pretend to myself that I’m completely reliable, when actually I’m human and prone to make mistakes.

Patch and I made a joke out of my lateness all the way home. We laughed together about it, which is probably a healthier way to approach things than for me to plunge into guilt-driven despair. However both Patch and Howard independently arrived at the conclusion that my contrition for being so late ought to extend far enough to spring for Wendy’s. So I did, and all was well again. I’ve also set more alarms for tomorrow and made them much louder. Once can be funny, more than once is bad.

How To Raise a Strong Girl

By / June 27, 2012 / 6 Comments

Last week I saw several social media campaigns urging people to go see Brave on opening weekend. “Let’s show Hollywood that girl-led movies can make money!” they said, as if increasing the number of girl-led films would make the world a more fair place for women. I did see Brave during opening weekend, because Howard writes reviews and needs to see films early. I wanted to love it, but I didn’t because it managed to gut-punch me in my emotional baggage about motherhood roles.

Today I decided to spend my afternoon seeing Brave again. My kids had not yet seen it, and I wanted to re-view the film leaving my emotional baggage at home. I bought tickets and then set to work, before we could leave I had to make progress on my shelving project. I donned my work gloves and plugged in my borrowed electric sander. There is a sort of magic in watching a power tool turn a sharp wooden corner into a smooth round one. I glided the sander over the edges of the boards and dust blew away. I was careful to keep the sanding surface away from all my limbs and thought gratefully of my Grandpa who used to take me into his big garage and let me work on projects with him. With Grandpa, I soldered, repaired bikes, used a lathe, sawed wood, and hauled rocks. Grandpa let any grandchild was interested participate in the work; there was no distinction based on gender. Because of Grandpa, I am not afraid to pick up a power tool and make things even if I have never done so before. This shelving project is my first time using an electric sander.

Afternoon came and we all trekked to go see Brave. The kids loved it. They laughed out loud at exactly the slapstick moments which didn’t work well for Howard and me. I loved it too. I loved it as much as I wanted to love it the first time I saw it, but didn’t. The mother character, Eleanor, has to be rigid in order to provoke Merida into taking action. A more balanced representation of motherhood would have ruined the film. The scene where Eleanor quells the room full of brawling men is critical to a hero moment later in the film when Merida turns and faces down the woman who turned all those strong men into jelly. Yes it plays to a stereotype, but it allows that one moment which I think is the epitome of Brave, mother and daughter staring angrily into each other’s eyes because they have mutually exclusive plans for the future. I’m exceedingly pleased that the central conflict of Brave has nothing to do with romance or finding true love. If there is another girl-led animated film without a major romance component, I can’t think of it. In the car on the way home, I was thoughtful with tears pricking at my eyes, while the kids regaled each other with the antics of the comedy characters.

I’m glad I took my kids to see it, they now have a new princess story in their minds which is in many ways the antithesis of a class ic Disney-type film. But, if I were to weigh what I did today for gender equality, the most important thing I did was sand boards. My grandpa is not around to haul my kids (both boys and girls) into his garage to use power tools, but they can see that mom fixes stuff. For every movie where the girl character exists to scream, there is a time when I am fetched to slay spiders. For every movie with true love in it, they see a hundred days where mom and dad snap at each other grouchily and the laugh together later in the evening. For every movie where the dad helpless to manage the household, they have the days when Howard cleans the kitchen and makes dinner. Seeing a movie present a different perspective can be truly powerful, as when a young Whoopi Goldberg saw Nichelle Nichols on Star Trek and realized that black women could be on television without being maids. These powerful, pivotal moments in entertainment matter. Perhaps Brave is one of those moments and can change the world for some girls. But if I want to raise strong girls of my own, I just need to live as if the equality I hope for them already exists. I need to gift them with pocket knives, bows, arrows, hair ribbons, and nail polish as their interests warrant. My actions should say that of course they can be what they choose to be so long as they are willing to work hard to get there.

Life is not fair. It never will be. No movie can make it so. But strong girls can see the unfairness and do what they want to do anyway.

Enabling Creative Dreams

By / May 28, 2012 / 2 Comments

When my fourteen year old son comes to me and tells me he has a plan to change the whole world for the better, I listen. When he clarifies that this plan is for him to video himself talking about his thoughts and life, I give him the video camera and get out of his way. His plan may completely lack in distribution planning, he doesn’t intend to edit anything. It may be uninteresting and unmarketable to the world at large, but even if the only thing in the world that is changed by this effort is my son, then the effort is worthy. Son, have a video camera. Take over my office for an hour at a time. Record away. Because I remember twelve years ago when your father, the full-time cartoonist, took up doodling as a hobby.

Dreams are worthwhile because they change the world, starting with the internal world of the dreamer.

A Long Day

By / May 22, 2012 / 3 Comments

“Are you okay mom?” Gleek asked, and I realized that I had just made a large sigh while surveying the contents of our pantry. The lack of enticing food had been some sort of sigh trigger.
“I’m all right.” I answered, “Just tired. It has been a long day.”
“Aren’t all days the same length?” asked Patch. “They all have the same hours.”
I turned to look at him, his blue eyes wide. “Yes, but some days seem long. Today felt really long to me.”
Gleek and Patch continued to munch on their cereal, which was my simple-as-possible bedtime snack effort for the evening. It was all I could muster after having to scold Gleek for ignoring me and turning the scolding into a lecture on how she should respond when I say “stop” in a commanding voice. Perhaps the scolding and lecture will make tomorrow’s conflicts a fraction easier, no guarantees. Before snack and the scolding had been the mediation over whether Gleek could play her music in the kitchen even though Kiki had been there first. That had been preceded by a cub scout pack meeting full of running and shouting children. Then ever-so-long-ago at the beginning of the day had been the ninety minute long meeting with Link, two of Link’s teachers, an administrator, and the school psychologist in which we hammered out his Individual Education Plan (IEP) for next year. Nothing said in the meeting was news. I’d already seen all the results, knew what we were going to say. But it all needed to be said out loud so that everyone could hear all the words. Most of all so that Link could hear. Half the information was new to him. He needed to assimilate it. It also needed to be written down on paper so that next fall when we’re all attempting to settle into a new year we can just read our instructions to ourselves.

I asked Link later, how he felt about me blogging about his diagnoses. (Yes, plural).
“That would be good.” he said. “It could help people.”
I agree. I began planning out a big, beautiful post which would clarify everything and put it all into an emotional context. I stopped writing notes halfway through, because I’d run out of emotional energy. It is just possible that 14 years of worry is a bit much to try to pull into a single blog post. Maybe I’ll write that post later, or a different one.

The short version is this: Auditory Processing Disorder (APD) and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). The ADHD we’ve been treating for years. The APD…I’ve also known for years. I just forgot that I knew it because treating the ADHD made such a huge difference. I guessed APD back when Link was in Kindergarten because it was the only thing I could find which explained the patterns of development I was seeing. I keep thinking that perhaps I should feel guilty that it took us this long to diagnose the APD. I ought to feel guilty, but I don’t, and I feel vague guilt about not feeling guilty. The truth is that we’ve all been doing the best that we can. Link just needed this comprehension now so we tested and found it. Link’s ears work fine, but his brain scrambles words, so that Link has to work hard to comprehend what is said. Combine that with the working memory and processing speed challenges which are common with ADHD, and you begin to understand that Link has to be brilliant in other areas or else we would have found this long ago. He’s like a deaf person no one knows is deaf because he reads lips so well. Link has distinct areas of brilliance. I’ve got test data showing that too.

So none of it is new, but all of it is now official in the school paperwork. Making it official is exhausting, as if writing it down makes it more real. This I think is why many parents shy away from diagnosing their kids. I think it is why I did. As long as it is only a suspicion it could be wrong, everything could be fine. Knowing the auditory processing diagnosis shifted things in my head. It shook up my thoughts and they settled in ways that will be much more beneficial to Link. Now when I slow down and simplify my sentences for Link I know that it is because he physically needs that, not because he can’t comprehend complex concepts. I knew that before too, but this knowledge has also become more real and that is a good thing.

Or so I tell myself. I’m finding it oddly difficult to click “publish” on this post, as if that too is a line to cross, making things more real.

It has been a long day, and it is time for bed now.

Diagnosis Again

By / April 21, 2014 / 4 Comments

“Link is a patient of mine, his diagnosis is Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder…” The handwritten note continues with details of medication, but the words are blurred by the tears in my eyes. It is so small this piece of paper, handwritten on a prescription pad. I wipe away the tears with an angry swipe of my hand. Nothing the paper says is news. Link was diagnosed years ago and has taken medication ever since. The only reason I hold this paper is because Link’s current IEP team mentioned that his official diagnosis is not documented in their paperwork. They have a two-inch thick binder full of papers about Link –skill test results, IQ test results, language test results, nine years worth of specialized educational plans, psychological reports–but none of them include this diagnosis. I’m told that if I add this little paper to their stack, it may open up additional support options for Link. So I called the Doctor’s office and he mailed me the paper. It changes nothing. I can’t explain why seeing it written down should make everything feel more real. It just does.

Infants have incompletely formed brains. There are many things that they are incapable of comprehending until their brains develop further. The remainder of childhood is one long biological trade-off, alternating body growth and brain development in a careful dance to optimize the probability of survival. This means that children experience periodic bursts of new comprehension. Suddenly they see the world in new ways and have to re-evaluate everything based on their new comprehension of it. This is why a five-year-old who has never drawn on the walls before suddenly begins to treat the entire house as a huge canvas. The teenage years are hugely important brain development time. Teens are nearing adult comprehension and begin to look forward toward fending for themselves. They desperately need to have an identity and a goal. Link is fourteen, his childhood comprehension of himself is no longer adequate. He has outgrown many of the childhood tools he used to manage his cognitive differences, but has yet to acquire comparable adult tools. He was left with an awareness of being different and little vocabulary for explaining why. He struggled. His struggles drew the attention of myself, his teacher, Howard, and the school psychologist. It was time for a new round of testing. We needed to assess what changes brain development has made and then based on that information we needed to create a plan. We’re mid-testing now. I don’t know what the plan is going to look like except that a huge part of it is sitting down with Link, showing him the test results, and explaining to him what they mean. Link is old enough to be included in the planning. This is part of the process of turning his life over to him.

Link is not the only child for whom I have a prescription pad diagnosis. I have participated in counseling and management of issues for all of my four children, for children of neighbors and friends, for relatives, even for acquaintances. I’ve helped people with ADHD, Autism, Aspergers, Bipolar Disorder, Multiple Personality Disorder, PTSD, Psychotic episodes, Anxiety, and Depression. Psychology fascinates me and I study it everywhere. I’ve learned enough vocabulary that people ask me about my credentials. I have none, only experience. Yet I am not an expert by any means. And even those who are experts are regularly baffled by the intricacies of human minds and needs. So I study my son. I read the reports until my brain is tired. I gather a team of credentialed experts to help him. Or rather, they gather themselves because, once again, exactly the right people are in place to help with this process. The elementary school psychologist who sat me down all those years ago and told me I might want to consider ADHD is now working at the junior high school. Once again she is here to help Howard, Link, and I as we gather information and plan for what comes next.

Most of what comes next is exactly what we’ve already been doing; small adjustments in classrooms and at home. The necessary changes are so small that it is hard to believe that they are necessary. We make the changes so that Link can learn without floundering. This time one of the small necessary things is including Link in the process so that he will understand himself better. He will be informed and thus able to act upon information rather than stewing in fear and ignorance. I take the prescription paper and I put it on the stack of things to deliver to the school psychologist. Perhaps this declaration of diagnosis will help open a door which Link will need to walk through. My feelings about it are for me to work through without troubling Link.

In My Absense

By / April 21, 2012 / 2 Comments

The fear is that when I step out of my regular life, stop doing all the things I do daily, that everything will fall apart. Sometimes it does happen that way. I go out for an evening and get endless calls on my cell phone to mediate conflicts between siblings. After the fourth call I begin to wonder why I bothered to leave. Lately this has not happened. Lately, I go out for an evening and no one calls me. I’m not sure if this is because the kids are getting older or if the careful shifts I’ve made in the last year have helped the kids learn self sufficiency. All I know is that I’ve been gone for two days and my family back home is drawing together instead of falling apart.

Howard helped Kiki draft a bill for her Gov and Cit class. Link hauled out his Pokemon cards and has been teaching Gleek and Patch how to play. Kiki got herself up at 6 am this morning, cleaned the kitchen, then drove herself over to the school to matte pictures with her art teacher. Howard finished all his work despite being time-restricted by carpool duties and space restricted because my computer is currently residing on his drawing table. They all have a plan for today which involves an outing together. All of them are learning and growing as the cooperate to fill the gap I left. All of us will be really glad to have me return again on Sunday

It shows me, once again, that sometimes the most important thing I can do for my kids is to get out of the way and let them overcome by themselves. I’m certain there have been conflicts and crankiness. I know that the longer I’m gone, the more chances there will be for everything to fall apart. Things fall apart often enough when I’m there. I’m glad that I get to hear the happy stories and that all the conflicts are already resolved. Being in California continues to be hard. Hospitals always are and I spent nine hours with Grandma yesterday. Coming home to my parents house is not the same as going home to mine. But after talking with Howard and the kids this morning I begin to see that spending time with Grandma is not the only good thing which will come from this trip.

Some Days Parenting is Hard

By / March 29, 2012 / 4 Comments

Some days, weeks even, parenting just makes me tired. I’m not talking physically exhausted or sleepy, though that happens too. I’m talking about facing my children’s needs and feeling like they gape out in front of me like the grand canyon. I have to take this small person next to me and get us over there. Somehow. Without a map, or a guide, or even a burro to help carry all the baggage. I can’t even tell how far it is to the other side. It could be that we’ll step out and discover our feet landing on a miraculous bridge like the one in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I pray for a bridge. But I’m pretty sure most of this trip will be done the hard way. Lots of walking, dust, confusion, rattlesnakes, and muddling through. And the truth is, I’m not beginning these trips. We’re already in the middle with miles behind us and miles yet to go.

At this point I should probably have something lovely to say about faith and inspiration. I’ve relied on them greatly in the past. I’ll do so again. They are the only way I have to find those miraculous bridges. But right this minute, I don’t feel a flow of calmness or comfort. I don’t have a clear vision for what the path should be. I can’t even be sure that the gaping canyon I’m staring at is actually a canyon or if it is an optical illusion shaped out of my own fears rather than the actual needs of my child. I could be taking things far too seriously. Or I could be failing to take them seriously enough. I don’t know. Yet. But I will. I will gather information, we’ll start moving, and we’ll revise travel plans on the fly. Because that is the only way I know how to do things. And somewhere as we’re walking a bridge or a map will show up for us to help us through.

And maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow in a different day and it will all feel much easier.

Contemplating My Hats

By / March 26, 2012 / 11 Comments

We were in the middle of a pre-convention stress-fest. Howard had a pile of priorities and worries, I had a different set of priorities and worries. Both of us needed to be two people in order to get everything done and discovered that neither of us could solve problems by handing them to the other. In a moment of stress I found myself muttering “I hate this” under my breath. In that moment I truly meant the words, but I worried that the feeling existed. We’ve spent a lot of time and effort building up this life and now I was saying that I hated it. The trouble was the unreferenced “this.” Days later when the stress levels were back to normal I realized that in my life I do a lot of jobs. Often I picture these various jobs as hats that I wear. In a moment of clarity I realized that it is okay for me to not like some of the hats. Not liking a necessary job is normal. I don’t expect myself to love the job of laundress, I do it because it needs to be done. However identifying which jobs I like and which I don’t helps me to be better at planning. So here is an incomplete list of hats that I wear and how I feel about them:

Accountant: This job is fairly routine and soothing, except when the money is running low. It used to be scary. For a long time I lived in fear that I was doing everything wrong.

Convention Liaison: This one has lots of little details to track and lots of advance planning. I keep track of Howard’s appearance and travel schedule. I make arrangements for all to go smoothly. I kind of like this one. It feeds my inner need to keep track of things.

Graphic Designer: I like getting to exercise the artistic portions of my brain. Playing with text, color, line, and flow all please me. However I’m very aware of the gaps in my graphic design education (self-taught) and am often afraid that those gaps will cause me to fail in an embarrassing or expensive way.

Shopkeeper: Running a table while at a convention is in the “do not like” column. It is not miserable, just draining.

Inventory manager: Don’t mind this one. It just is. Although I wish I could do a better job of keeping the storage room organized.

Shipping manager: This one wears on me. Not all the time. Mostly it is routine. I guess right now it is wearing on me because I’ve got a bunch of new things to learn really soon.

Business Manager: Again this is a job that gives me the opportunity to track dozens of things. This is the hat I wear when I’m assigning jobs and work flow to the graphic designer, convention liaison, shopkeeper, accountant, etc.

Art director: I don’t like this job. The art director has to hand out assignments and deadlines to the artist. The artist in this case is Howard, which means I’m piling on stress. Howard, naturally, then complains about his stress to his wife. Then I feel guilty even while knowing the stress is necessary to getting the job done.

Wife: I like this job. I plan on keeping it for a long time.

When I was talking to a friend and rattled off something close to the list above, she asked me if there were parenting hats that I don’t like. At the time I answered that I didn’t think that there were. That most of the parent hats I wear fill me up as much as they take from me. That conversation was several weeks ago and I’ve been paying attention since. Here are the parenting hats I do not like:

Homework warden: The homework belongs to the kids. It is their work. They should be allowed to succeed or fail at it according to their efforts. Except that teaching them how to succeed at homework is my job. It is a job that can only be done if I’m standing at their elbow to help, either figuratively or literally. Also I can’t stop my brain from tracking their homework. My brain has an auto track function which tells me that my teenager mentioned a huge report two weeks ago and that I’ve not seen him work on it since. Then my stress levels rise because I can sense the impending storm when said teenager will have a complete meltdown because now the work is due and he planned poorly. Then it is my job, not so much to rescue the child or make sure the work gets done, but to help the child navigate consequences in such a way that perhaps a different path can be picked next time. Often it gets to the point where I cringe at any homework at all.

Short order cook: In theory I cook food, the kids eat the food and all is well. Sometimes it actually works that way. Usually though I cook food, various subsets of kids complain about the food, we have arguments about eating, and stress is spread all around. So then the next time I cook I try to base my cooking decisions on past experiences. I make sure to have a low meat option for one child and a non-potato option for another. I use all sorts of creativity to try to provide food that will result in no complaints. Sometimes I even stand around waiting for them to decide what they want and then fix four different meals for four different kids. Other times I place a standard in the ground and fight the battle of “I’ve cooked for you, therefore you should be grateful and just eat what is in front of you.” I have a guilty suspicion that if I could be more consistent about food and meals that this would be less stressful for everyone. But I don’t like spending creativity on food. I want to save it for other things.

Pack mule / garbage can: If the kids don’t know where a garbage can is and I’m near by, they give it to me. Thus my purse becomes a repository of wrappers and other sticky things. If we’re out of the house and they don’t want to carry something anymore, they give it to me. This happens a lot less now than it used to. However each time I have to decide whether to quietly accept what ever is being thrust at me or whether to make an issue of it.

And so that this is not a post more filled with complaining than good things, a couple of hats that I love:

Snuggler: When they need comfort, they come to me. Even the teenagers.

Listener: I love listening to people sort their thoughts and tell me about silly things. Sometimes I am tired and listening is hard because it takes energy. Other times listening invigorates me, filling me with hope and happiness. It is a good hat, much treasured.

Thinking About French Parenting and My Parenting

By / February 7, 2012 / 11 Comments

The other day I followed a link to an article entitled “Why French Parents Are Superior.” The article was written by an American who lived in France. I had noticed the same thing that she did, American kids are generally demanding and undisciplined. My own kids are often demanding and undisciplined. On the whole the article was mildly interesting, but one segment gave me words for feelings I had about the structure of parenting. To quote from the article:

When I asked French parents how they disciplined their children, it took them a few beats just to understand what I meant. “Ah, you mean how do we educate them?” they asked.

I love this distinction. In my language talking to and about my kids I try not to use the word “punishment” instead focusing on consequences for decisions. This concept of education takes that idea one step further.

the French ideal of the cadre, or frame, that French parents often talk about. Cadre means that kids have very firm limits about certain things—that’s the frame—and that the parents strictly enforce these. But inside the cadre, French parents entrust their kids with quite a lot of freedom and autonomy.

It is not my job as a parent to make sure my children are always happy. My job is to help them grow. Sometimes this means nurturing and smoothing the way for them. Other times it means that I must make their lives harder. No matter which I am doing, the objective is growth.

The bulk of the article discusses how French parents consciously teach patience and delayed gratification to their children. A young French child is bought a treat at a store, but instead of gobbling it down on the way through the parking lot, the treat is saved until snack time that afternoon. The same is true when French children want to make requests, they are required to wait until their parents have time to attend to them. Thus the French mothers are able to finish sentences, or even entire conversations, uninterrupted.

I was fascinated to see that some of the behaviors I’d been feeling guilty about are actually part of conscious education for a French parent. I tell my kids “Just a minute” all the time, but then later feel bad for neglecting them. Then I am too lenient in another area because I feel guilty for this perceived neglect. Thus my parental frame is crooked and sagging in places instead of being a sturdy structure on which the kids depend.

I’ve long been enamored of having three meals a day plus a snack at regular times. In between the kitchen would be closed (and spotlessly clean, naturally.) In theory this would teach all of us a healthy relationship toward food. Instead of responding to immediate hunger and grabbing what ever is most convenient, our food choices would be carefully planned. I love the idea, yet I doubt this will ever happen in my home. Life is about choices and I choose to be a mother, business manager, writer, and a dozen other things before I choose Cook and Meal Planner. On the other hand, my parenting frame for homework is rock solid this year. I’m also pleased that in the past couple of weeks we’ve been fitting daily chores back into the lives of the kids. It feels like a miracle that chores are fitting with homework. So when I notice that once again they’ve foraged themselves a meal of tortilla chips and cream cheese, perhaps I can be pleased with their self sufficiency and trust that we’ll find time to focus on healthy eating again soon.

Over the next few weeks I’m going to pay attention to how often I teach my kids that waiting a little bit will not kill them. I’m also going to notice the times when my kids wear me down with negotiation. I think the negotiating skills are valuable, but sometimes I need to be better about sticking to my “no.” Most importantly I’ll remember that while American kids are nuisances in restaurants and French kids are not, both French adults and American adults handle restaurants just fine. There may not be a “right” path and a “wrong” path through conscientious parenting. Many paths can lead to well adjusted adulthood.

Preparing for College

By / January 26, 2012 / 4 Comments

Kiki came home from school with four colorful brochures. They extolled the virtues of an art college with campuses in Georgia, Hong Kong, and France. Kiki flipped through the pages and rattled on about how good it would be for her to get out where she can really be grown up and how nice it would be to surround herself with other students who loved art the way she did. My response was to ask the question pounding in my brain.
“How much does this school cost?” The response, $30,000 per year, led us into a discussion about cost and benefit. Then into talking, once again, about advantages that are available to Kiki because of the quantity of working artists with whom we have business contacts. Then I looked over at Kiki. She was closed down, clutching the brochures to her chest. I remembered the light in her eyes when she’d first unfolded them. Howard and I back-tracked.
“Show me the page about the horses again.” I said. Kiki flipped open the brochure and described the things that the college representative had explained to her AP Art class. This time I listened.

Now is the time for Kiki to be excited about the possibilities for her future. She needs to picture dozens of paths for her life. There is no choosing to be done yet, just the growing process of possibility. All the years before this Kiki’s life has been dictated by others. Adults have guided her path, told her where to go and what to learn. The realization that she can choose for herself is both exhilarating and frightening. The very process of picturing herself in Georgia, or Hong Kong, or France changes the way she thinks about who she can be. Next year, after applications, acceptances, and rejections, will be plenty of time for us to talk about specifics and logistics. Then Kiki will be ready to begin narrowing down and weighing which path is most likely to take her to a destination that she wants.

This year is also a learning process for Howard and I. We’re beginning to imagine a future in which our oldest is launched out into the world. Rather than just generally knowing that at some point college expenses will come, we’re beginning to view our financial picture to evaluate what is possible. We have to make careful decisions about the level of financial support we are able to extend, because whatever we do for Kiki will set a precedent for three children to follow. We need to choose something sustainable across four college educations, some of which will over lap each other. A friend has decided to sever all financial ties once her kids hit college. Other friends support their children all the way through. We don’t know what our balance needs to be, but we are beginning to picture possible choices.

All three of us are learning about the emotional processes involved with the launch into the college years. For one thing, we need to let Kiki dream as big and as far as she wants this year. A week after the brochures, Kiki returned to saying that perhaps she wants to go to the local college and live at home to save money. She is alternately thrilled by adventure and wants to stay comfortably close. Sometimes the impending application process makes her stressed, other times she is calm and confident.

We try to stay in “Calm and Confident” land as much as possible, but there is so much frantic urgency regarding college applications. School teachers, counselors, and other advisers all hand out lists. They give long lectures on what colleges look for. Students and parents end up with the impression that everything must be started right now and done exactly right. The truth is that anyone who and figure out how to pay for college education can have one. The high pressure is only necessary if the student hopes to enter a career for which an Ivy League college is required. Along Kiki’s educational path we’ve made decisions based on her current educational needs first and how it will look on a college application second. It is possible that will affect which colleges she is accepted to attend. I still think all the choices were the right ones.

We attended a scholar’s night which had sessions about standardized testing, college applications, financial aid, and a host of other post-high school possibilities. I noticed that the representative of one college pointed at the list of recommended classes and emphasized that they were not required for acceptance. He told us that GPA, SAT/ACT scores, and the quantity of AP classes had more effect than whether a student had two years of language classes. He said that the recommended list was simply there because it was this sort of a balanced academic curriculum that was most likely to help students be prepared for the sorts of work they would be expected to do in college. Yet if you talk to the average school counselor, they will get quite intense about the need to get every class on that recommended list. It is fascinating how the drive to give students every possible advantage creates stress where it need not exist.

It helps me see that the application process is actually a useful tool for students. If you are not accepted at a particular school, it is possible that you simply aren’t prepared for it anyway. It takes a certain sort of academic focus to thrive at Harvard, and it may be a kindness to keep out the ones who are not ready. I find this thought calming. If Kiki is accepted at a college, it is because the registrars believe that the education paths we have chosen have suited her to succeed at their school. We’ll continue to make our best choices at every step, because that is all we can do.

Our next college preparation step is almost upon us. Registration for her senior year will start in a week or so. We’ll have one last opportunity to choose classes which will be on her transcripts for college applications. We’re also beginning to look up college websites and request more information. Standardized testing looms as well. Each of these things is new, but none are worth the level of stress which is often attached. Yes they have an effect, but none is the make-or-break point for her entire future. As long as we can continue to see that, we’ll do fine. In the meantime, we’ll be flipping through more brochures and picturing what is possible.