parenting

Getting It Wrong

By / January 26, 2012 / 26 Comments

I always cringe just a little when the caller ID reads “Public School” in the middle of the day. No matter what the reason for the call, it means that my day is about to be rearranged. This particular call was no different.
“I’m trying to give Patch his reading test, but he is just sitting there not working. Can you come down?” My heart sank. It was one of many interactions with Patch’s teacher. She was trying her best to help my son. We’d attempted several strategies to help him engage more, participate more, and get his work done in school hours. Yet here we were, faced with a state mandated test. He’d passed it with flying colors in the fall. I knew he could pass it again, but not if he wouldn’t pick up his pencil.
“Yes I’ll come.” I answered and then rearranged my day. While I was at it, I also rearranged the following day. It was time for me to observe Patch in his classroom. We needed better solutions and, to figure out what they might be, I needed more information.

I had a lot of information already, of course. I’d been observing the teacher since September. I’d paid attention every time I was in the classroom. I watched Patch do his homework. I sat with him every time he brought home unfinished class work. Like Patch’s teacher, I’d watched him gradually freeze up and lose confidence. In the face of a question for which he did not know the answer, he would stop. I began to recognize that he was terrified of getting things wrong. He was also not asking questions if he was confused. Speaking up is hard for Patch, particularly when it will focus group attention on him. I think it ties back to his fear of getting things wrong.

I walked into Patch’s class. He sat alone at his desk. All his classmates were gathered on the floor for a group activity. Patch looked up at me with wet eyes. The teacher kindly and wisely moved all the rest of the class into the music room to practice for an upcoming performance. Patch and I had a private space. I had to begin with scolding. When a child reaches the point where a parent has to be called down, scolding is in order. Three sentences later, Patch slumped into a repentant heap on his desk. It was enough. He knew he’d made a poor choice, so I gave him the opportunity to make a right one.
“I have to be here and you have to take this test. For every minute that I have to sit here and you don’t work, we’ll have a consequence at home. If you keep working, you can avoid adding to your consequence.”

Patch picked up his pencil and the work began. I could not give him answers, but I could repeat the things I’d been saying at home for weeks. “If you don’t know the answer, skip it and move on. Come back to it later.” “Keep your pencil moving.” Patch did keep working. I watched him when the work was smooth. I saw his forehead crinkle when he was confused. But he kept working, right up until he finished and went back to the skipped questions.
“I don’t know how to answer this!” he pleaded. It was a question asking his opinion on a story character. I could tell the question was not looking for a specific answer, but was just checking to see if he had focused on the story enough to pull details from it.
I looked into Patch’s eyes and said “Then get it wrong. Write something about her pink elephant.”
Patch looked at me confused. “She doesn’t have an elephant.”
“Okay. Write something about her purple balloon. Or pick something that is actually in the story. Just read the question and write the first answer you think of. Don’t try to figure out if it is the best possible answer. Just get it wrong and move on.”
Patch looked at me for a long minute, then turned and began to write.

Get it wrong and move on.
Sometimes there is no perfect answer. Sometimes I am exactly like Patch in this. I plan ahead. I study all the angles. I fret about all the repercussions, trying to see how this small decision will fork into future possibilities. But sometimes the right answer is any answer. I need to get it wrong and move on. There is almost always a chance to fix it later.

Patch got his answer right. Once he stopped being so afraid of getting things wrong, he knew which words needed to be on the page. He finished that test in the allowed time. More important, he worked without stopping. We walked out of the school triumphant. Instead of continuing to wallow in misery I was able to praise his efforts.

The next day I observed his class at the invitation of his teacher. He had a pretty good day, possibly because I was there. Watching him reassured me that much of the time he was fairly happy at school. There were just these spots which were hard on both him and the teacher. By the end of the day my subconscious had absorbed enough information to toss out an idea. I shared it with the teacher and she agreed it sounded good.

I made a bingo card for Patch. The squares say things like “I raised my hand to give an answer” and “I worked during all of the assigned time.” When Patch does one of these tasks, he brings his bingo card to his teacher and she signs the square. The central square is the one that Patch is allowed to award to himself. It reads “I told myself ‘I can do this.'” Three in a row earns him a treat when he comes home. A black out of all nine squares earns him a big treat. The bingo card gives Patch small things he can be doing to stay engaged in class. He remains focused on the things he can do. It also gives the teacher several chances to interact positively and praise Patch throughout the day.

The day I was called in was last Wednesday. Today was Parent Teacher Conferences. Instead of having a concerned conversation about how to help him, the teacher and I were able to share smiles about how well things are going. This was our third attempt at helping Patch. Looks like we finally have the right answer. Either that, or Patch just solved the problem for himself. Doesn’t matter. “Get it wrong and move on” has brought us to a good place.

The Bucket of Fish

By / January 21, 2012 / 8 Comments

I am glad to see Link developing interests which take him outdoors and away from his beloved video games. I am incredibly grateful to his scout leaders who aid him in developing those interests. However the particular bent of those interests resulted in Link coming home from today’s ice fishing trip with a dozen perch in a bucket. He held the bucket up proudly for me to examine. I looked at the fish in the bottom and then one of them twitched.
“They’re not dead.” I yelped.
“Yeah.” said Link. “Perch can live a long time out of the water.”
We placed his bucket of fish outside the back door and then listened while Link regaled us with his adventures. I love listening to Link talk when he is enthusiastic. His typically short sentences lengthen out and his eyes are bright. He’d had a great time and arrived home with a sense of accomplishment. The experience of fishing had been good for him. After he went downstairs to shower, I peeked out the window at the bucket of fish. One of them twitched again.

We are carnivores here at the Tayler house. I do not think it is a bad thing for all of us to confront the fact that eating meat means that an animal had to die for our dinner. Buying prepared meat from a grocery store disconnects us from that. The bucket of fish forced us to face it. Someone was going to have to gut those fish. Looking out the window at the fish, I admit that there was a strong temptation to “forget” about them until they needed to be trashed. However I ccouldn’t think of anything more disrespectful to life than to catch fish, let them die in a bucket, and then throw them out. If Link intended to pursue fishing, then he needed to understand all of the consequences of it. He needed to be willing to prepare and eat the fish he caught. If he was not, then he needed to not go fishing.

The trouble was that not one of us is experienced with gutting fish. They are slippery and injury is a real possibility if proper technique is not used. I couldn’t teach proper technique unless I knew what it was and practiced it enough times. I was going to have to gut some fish first before I could teach Link. There is a reason that my kids have never been fishing, despite the fact that they’ve all said they’d like to go. I’ve chosen to arrange my life so that gutting fish is not something I need to do. But the bucket of fish was already present, right outside the back door. Something had to be done. YouTube demonstrated for me. Howard sharpened a knife. He arranges his life to avoid fish gutting too. I was the one unwilling to waste the bucket of fish, so I was the one who got to wield the knife. The rest was me learning through practical experience. I had Link watch. Next time he’ll need to help.

All of the kids were a little bit fascinated by this process. They were interested in the fish and the ickiness of the guts. On some level I was too. There were also several levels on which I was disturbed by the entire thing. It was the same set of feelings I had years ago when we dissected frogs in Biology class. I worried that the process might prove traumatic to one of the kids. I fended off my own disturbance and their potential trauma by keeping up a running conversation about fish, biology, respecting life, and what on earth is that weird thing that just fell into the sink. Guts are very strange.

Cooking the fish was also new territory. We don’t cook fish often, particularly not small fresh water fish with tiny bones. The result was reasonably good, but picking out all the tiny bones was a fiddly process. Link liked eating the fish. This means he will not starve to death when his scout troop goes on a multi-day fishing campout this summer.

So I learned something new today. And then I showered a lot.

Homework Time

By / January 17, 2012 / 2 Comments

On Sunday I wrote some lovely words about not wanting to count the months until the end of the school year, but instead trying to savor them.
Four months, two weeks. And I really hope that most of them are more savor-able than this evening has been.

Trying to help four kids with homework simultaneously is destined to end in frazzle. This is particularly true when part of my brain will not shut up, but is instead providing a running commentary, complete with grade sheet, about how I am handling each bit of parenting that I do. Today’s grades are not stellar.

Nothing has gone wrong. The kids are cheerful. They are cheerful little cats whom I must herd. Well, except for the moments when they are stressed little cats hissing and spitting at their various homework sheets. Our house could be a wonderful and peaceful place if only I would stop trying to make them do the things that they are supposed to be doing.

The other voice that I wish would shut up is the one who evaluates all my decisions against the theories of homeschooling and unschooling which would abhor the very structure of homework itself. Of course if I switched to those unstructured methodologies, I would have a ranty voice saying I was failing to teach discipline. The voices in my head will not let me win today. I think I shall bury them under ice cream. I’m pretty sure I can savor that.

Requiring Kids to Do Hard Things

By / January 11, 2012 / 5 Comments

The time you face something harder than you’ve ever done before is the time when you either crumble in despair or discover that you are stronger than you thought you could be.

The thing no one ever told me before I became a parent is that sometimes I would have to be the one who was inflicting the hard things on my own children. I faced it first when my two month old baby girl had to be vaccinated. I helped hold her down, looked into her eyes, and let the nurse stick a needle in her leg. That was not the end. Dozens of vaccinations followed and they only got harder as the children got big enough to resist. They would not have believed it, but helping with those vaccinations was every bit as hard for me as it was for them. They calmed down and were done. I stewed for days with a mix of fear, guilt, and relief. I’ve only got two 12 year booster shots to go. I rejoice at the thought.

Vaccinations are a clear case of “we must do this for your health and safety.” They are also accompanied by either a doctor or a nurse to help bolster my flagging spine. Then there are days like yesterday when I have to stand over my 8 year old son and require him to finish the work he did not do in school. It took three and a half hours to finish 18 math problems and five sentences. Less than thirty minutes was actual work, the rest was distraction and tears. When you include the two hours of classroom time he did not use, it was five hours spent on thirty minutes of work. I stood over him and tried to determine whether I was watching Can’t or Don’t Want To. In the end it was some of both. When my son stopped fighting me, we were able to identify the blockages and devised some very simple strategies which he can use next time to boost himself over. I rehearsed the strategies with him three or four times, “When you get to a word problem, skip it and complete everything else, then come back.” He rolled his eyes at me. I watched his face, unable to know whether he would actually remember. My children have amazing memories, but they do not always focus on the things I know would help them. Please let him remember, because I can not bear another afternoon like yesterday. If he comes home with his school work done, then I can know that yesterday’s hard challenges were beneficial. If he doesn’t complete his work, I have to consider whether to stay the course or to adjust my expectations.

I say I can’t bear another afternoon like yesterday. I can. I will. If I know it is right, I can deal with a lot. I can do it even if it leaves me exhausted and weepy for the rest of the evening. My fatigue is less important than doing right by my son. The part I don’t know is what kills me. Until he either steps up and becomes strong in the face of adversity, or crumples under the pressure, I can’t know whether I’m helping or hurting. During all those hours I alternately cajoled, scolded, encouraged, slathered on guilt, and extended praise to my son. Through it all I loved him. All of my words were tools focused on getting him to sit up, take control, and try. The work got done. I can only hope that he also learned lessons which can be applied to new work. The lessons were the point, not the work. If the lessons weren’t learned, we’ll have to do it all over again. The thought makes me weary.

Weary though I be, this is nowhere near the hardest thing I have ever done. I can do this.

Educational Choices

By / January 8, 2012

High pressure, academic focused educational programs have always been something I resisted. I saw other parents choose to place their kids in academic charter schools. Those kids were inside slogging through homework while mine were outside playing. So it feels odd that I currently have two kids in an academic gifted program. Not only that, but I’m completely convinced that this program is exactly what they need. When Kiki was in this program years ago I spent lots of emotional energy worrying that we’d made the wrong choice to put her in. I’m not even the slightest bit conflicted about Patch or Gleek. I can see how the structures of homework and learning are answering their developmental needs. It is not about preparing for college, or getting a scholarship. It is not about me being afraid and trying to pile up advantages for them. It certainly is not about bragging rights. My kids are where they are because of all the educational programs available to us, this is the best path for them to grow. I have to admit that some days the work load feels a bit heavy, but that is mostly due to fatigue rather than the load itself. We all get tired sometimes. Then we find the strength to keep going and we get stronger as a result. I ponder all this at the beginning of another week while I’m contemplating my many things to do. It isn’t too much. It just feels that way some days.

In Which My Thoughts Wander from Parenting, to Accomplishment, and End at The Weather

By / January 5, 2012

My pause when staring at the empty blog post box is not for lack of thoughts. I have too many of them, but they are all fragments and pieces which are not gelling of their own accord. I like it when ideas click together instead of me having to pull meaning from them. Tonight I’m too tired to pull on much of anything, having spent the last two nights tending to a sick child. He’s all better now. Hopefully no one else will catch it. This was a particularly nasty stomach flu. Taking care of Patch took my shiny new schedule right off the rails for Wednesday. Fortunately we’re back on track today. Or, if not completely on track, we’re at least headed trackward. Why is it that I forget that the first week of January always feels messy and stressy? Somehow I expect to be able to hit the new year ready for action. Instead I’ve been helping three out of four kids who have all been feeling just as conflicted about their oncoming tasks as I have been about mine. I’m working to remember that their problems are not necessarily my problems. I can’t solve them. It isn’t my job. My job is to help them deal with the problems. It is a subtle, yet important, difference.

Many people I know online are writing Year in Review posts. In one writer’s forum there is an entire thread which was created simply for people to report on how their writing went in 2011. I keep opening that thread. I don’t actually read every post. I skim over them. The truth is a Year in Review post is more valuable to the person writing it than to anyone who may stop by and read. Or so I thought. But several people commented about how much they love to read the thread. Every time I go in the forum I click on that thread. I think about writing a post for it. My post would be a sort of counterpoint. I accomplished a lot during 2011, but not very much of it was as a writer. I never start typing that post. I’m stopped by the conviction that the things I have to say are only me justifying my decisions to myself. The only reason I would need to do that is if I doubt the choices I made. I don’t doubt. Except when I do. During the times that I manage to find calm contemplation of the year just past, I think it was what it needed to be. Some of it was stressful, there are some hard bits which loom large and obscure my view of the rest. It will be interesting to see how my mental picture of the year changes as I compile my annual book of blog entries.

I think I’m also avoiding writing a year in review post because it faces backward. I want to just start where I am and make today be good. I want to reach for goal completion. Last year saw the beginnings of many things, but the second half of the year was lacking in projects completed. Most of the things I began are still pending or in process. The two feel different to me. Pending are the things which I can not control, in process are the things which I can affect. The fact that I’m avoiding it probably means I should do it. I should delve into last year, even the hard bits. I’ll likely discover that my feelings about the year have been colored by various inaccurate perceptions. Because 2011 was a good year. I know that it was. I also know that I made the right choices during it. And then I think that all these thoughts are probably a waste of emotional energy. Either write it up, or don’t.

The weather has been lovely. It has been years since we’ve had 50 degree weather in January. The last time I’m sure of was 1999 when most of February was 50 degrees during the day. That was during my radiation therapy while my mother was here. I remember that she was able to take the kids outside every day. We also planted bulbs because the ground was not frozen. I should probably do that this year, but I forgot to put Gardener on the hat schedule. Perhaps I shall revise. The sunshine would be good for me.

Declaring Independence

By / December 18, 2011 / 6 Comments

Gleek’s 5th grade teacher carefully established a classroom economy at the beginning of the school year. About three weeks ago, she started to give the kids taxes. At the same time she started having them memorize the first part of the Declaration of Independence. Then she raised the taxes. She separated the students into patriots and loyalists, then she pulled spelling words from the Declaration of Independence. This week she started levying fines and applying unfair rules. Today the kids were required to recite the Declaration of Independence.

This afternoon the teacher sent around an email saying in essence “Help! Your children are wonderful and obedient. I need them to revolt and declare independence before Christmas break. Please talk to them about unfair dominion and public responsibility.”

Gleek had a hard day in class today. She wants very much to remain a loyalist, but can not help seeing that the rules have become impossible to keep. (For example: You must maintain the quality of work, but I will no longer give you supplies and you are not allowed to bring any supplies from home.) My brave girl sneaked a notebook out onto the playground and wrote a note to the principal. Tomorrow Gleek will arrive at school with a backpack full of school supplies to share. This is in direct opposition to the new “bring no supplies from home” rule. Gleek will share these supplies openly and take whatever consequences come. My little girl is learning about conscientious objection. By the end of the day tomorrow I suspect the newly independent classroom will be ready to start their own constitutional convention.

I admire the courage of this teacher to follow through on such an ambitious educational plan. It is working and these kids will never forget.

Dec 18, 2011 Update: The kids had their revolution the very next day and the unfair taxes were repealed. Gleek loves her teacher again and learning will continue after the Christmas break.

I should also note that while I truly admire this teacher and this method of teaching, it must be handled with great skill and advance forethought. It puts a big strain on both the teacher and the students because the emotions involved are real. It can go very badly. In this case it did not.

Casting New Light

By / November 16, 2011 / 4 Comments

Kiki and Link both had a youth activity. Patch had an awards ceremony to attend and Howard planned to take him. This left Gleek and I at loose ends. I briefly considered taking Gleek along to Patch’s event, but it is hard to be ten and see other people honored when you are not. Also a big room filled with people is guaranteed to wind Gleek up into a high energy state and then there would be frustration with a high probability of scolding. I wanted for her to have something special, just for her. However I also knew that if that if I preempted all her homework, there would be stress in the morning. So we needed special and routine all rolled into one. Everyone else departed leaving Gleek and I alone.

I consulted Gleek to see what she would like to do. Or rather, I spoke at Gleek while she fiddled with a bean bag. She tossed it to me. On a whim I tossed it back. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. It must have been one of the earliest games in the existence of humanity, yet it was oddly satisfying because I was feeling mellow and not inclined to run around getting things done. The game was simple, but Gleek and I were together, facing each other, both of us giving the game our full attention. She began perfecting a two handed fling. I began catching and throwing with only my left hand. I’m not particularly dextrous with my left, so I loved that magic moment when my brain somehow calculated exactly where to place my hand so that the beanbag would thunk right into the middle of my palm. Then I could, almost casually, curl my fingers around it. Catch.

Our evening needed something simple, like the game of catch. Something that would slow down both Gleek and I, because we are both prone to running too fast for too long.
“Pioneers used to play with beanbags.” Gleek said. She has been studying US History with a teacher for whom the subject is a passion. Her class has been grouped into Indian tribes, then into European immigrants, and now into colonies. In the coming months she will live through bits of revolutionary war, western expansion, civil war, industrial revolution, world wars, cold war, civil rights, and near to modern day. Gleek has been thriving on this diet of history. I keep hearing random bits about how life was in the past. There is a longing in Gleek’s voice as she tells me these things. She admires these times when life was slower. I think because she struggles to slow down in the face of modern information overload.

Between one catch and the next I knew what we needed.
“We’re going to have Pioneer homework time.” I said. “We’ll turn out all the lights and do your math by candle light.”
Gleek’s face brightened into a smile. “I’ll go put on my pioneer clothes!” and she dashed to find her costume.

Candle light imparts a hush to the room it inhabits. The edges of the room were dim, so Gleek and I had to draw close in order to see the words on the page. Without declaring it to be so, both of us dropped our voices quieter. Subconsciously we only needed to fill the lit space, not all the way to the dark corners. Gleek worked her way through the math happily. She only paused once when she remembered the candles she’d made with her Grandma. Those were fetched and lit as well. In moments of conversation we determined that a Pioneer Homework hour also needed and accompanying Pioneerish dinner. My original plan of buying Wendy’s did not fit with candles. After the math was done we hitched the horses to the wagon (my van) and drove over to the market (a grocery store.)

Gleek swished her pioneer skirt as she carried her basket through the aisles of the store. Her apron was tied neatly around her waist and her bonnet dangled down her back in best Laura Ingalls Wilder fashion. We were both carrying baskets instead of pushing a cart because Gleek deemed this to be more historically correct. Pizza, hot pockets, and yogurt were all rejected as foods that a pioneer would not have. Gleek’s desire for historical correctness was sorely challenged by the display of oreo cookies, but history won. We reached the check out stand with Swedish meatballs (some pioneers were Swedish), broccoli, and a pumpkin pie for sharing. At the last minute a desire for bubble gum won out over history, but it was stashed away to be consumed later.

We came home to a dark house and re-lit the candles we’d blown out. Gleek read while I prepared the food. Then we ate it together. I warned Gleek that Pioneer time would be over when the others came home. I wanted to forestall potential conflicts. Kiki and Link blew in the front door with a draft of cold air. They were startled by the candles, but urged us to keep them. “It’s nice.” Link said. “can we do it again tomorrow?” Patch agreed when he came home. Snack and bed were accomplished far more quietly than usual. All of us responded to the change in lighting. It isn’t something we can do every night, but I’m definitely stashing the idea into my bag of tricks for future use. I could use more lovely candlelit evenings.

Patch’s Multiplication

By / November 15, 2011

Third grade means memorizing multiplication tables. This has been true since my own schooling. It was true for my three older kids. Now it is true for Patch. This particular scholastic challenge has been hard for him. He’s in a more academic program than my other kids were at his age. The measurement of this skill is very results-focused, five-minute tests of 80 problems each. Patch’s teacher offered a new set of markers as a prize for anyone who makes their way to 12s before Christmas break. Unfortunately Patch got stuck at threes for several tests in a row. He lost confidence and began to feel bad about himself and about school. He alternately declared that markers didn’t matter and cried because he didn’t believe he could earn them.

Presented with this situation, I had several choices:
1. Confront Patch’s teacher about her expectations, be angry with the requirements that were making my son feel sad and reject the system that imposed them.
2. Negotiate with Patch’s teacher to lower the bar so that he didn’t have to struggle so hard.
3. Step up my game and Patch’s practice to help him pass the requirements.

A conference with Patch’s teacher resulted in a combination of two and three. She would give him a little bit of extra time and a few extra mistakes allowed. I would work with him every day to help him be prepared.

We start with flash cards. This is a fairly standard method for teaching multiplication facts to kids. As I held up cards for Patch and he sometimes struggled for answers, I pondered how complex this seemingly simple task actually is. Patch looks at a card and his visual centers interpret the reflected light into an image. The language center of his brain translates that image into symbols which have concepts attached. Patch then has to access his memory to find the correct answer to go with the presented symbols. This memory then has to be translated into words so that Patch can speak the answer. All of this must occur in mere seconds in order to get through 80 problems.

I realized that we were practicing verbal answers, but that the test was written. We needed to be practicing that final translation step both written and spoken. I devised a writing game where instead of answering out loud, Patch wrote the answers on a white board. Then we printed out math facts practice sheets so he could take practice tests. I sat next to him as he wrote, glancing from timer to his pencil. Patch cruised along smoothly until the moment when his brain did not instantly supply an answer. Patch shifted in his seat, rubbed his eye, tapped his pencil. It was as if he was attempting to jog loose the memory by physical action. Sometimes these fidgets led to longer distractions. I once watched him spend a full minute with his pencil poised over a single problem because his mind went off on some tangent of thought.

It was so very tempting to switch to the angry option. We worked and Patch struggled. Threes forever. In the middle of one practice, Patch declared he hated school. My heart sank. I fumed at the seeming arbitrary measure of 80 problems in five minutes. I groused a bit to Howard outside of Patch’s hearing and he pointed out that the speed of recall was in indicator that the facts were stored in a permanent and easily accessible memory location. This was the point of memorizing the problems at all. I swallowed my grumbles and faced the next practice session.

It was that next practice session when everything clicked. Patch, who had routinely only been completing 40-70 problems in five minutes, sat down and rocketed through 80 in under four. “Wow!” I said and gave him a high five.
Patch smiled back at me. “I just found the right way to set my brain. I just told myself I could do it.”

Far more important than storing math facts in memory, Patch learned how to focus his mind. Someday there will be something he wants very much and getting it will be easier because he knows how to focus and persevere. The pattern continued through fours, fives, and sixes. We practice, practice, practice, it seems impossible and then click. It is easy. But even during the impossible-seeming parts we know that it will eventually work. Patch still does not rejoice when I declare practice time, but he heads off to school happy each day because he knows he can succeed even when the task is difficult.

Kiki’s Church Talk

By / November 13, 2011 / 2 Comments

The phone call came on an afternoon early in the week. Kiki was asleep when I poked her awake and handed her the phone. Then I stood there and listened because any time I serve as a telephone delivery service I figure I get to know whats going on. The shape of Kiki’s semi mumbled answers indicated that she’d been asked to speak in church. She’s had this type of assignment before and public speaking is not something that scares her, so when she handed back the phone we both proceeded through the rest of the week without giving it a second thought. It didn’t even get second thoughts it should have had. The next time we thought of it was when Kiki was greeted with “So, you ready to give your talk?”

I arrived in the chapel to see Kiki hunched over with her hands covering her face. She was mortified. This piled on top of other stresses in her life and seemed to show, once again, that she was doomed to fail in all her endeavors. The meeting conductor assured her it was fine and that she could just speak some other week. All Kiki could do was nod and try to hide her tears.

I watched her down the bench. The prelude music still played. We had two hymns, announcements, and a sacrament service between us and the moment when she was assigned to speak. Kiki probably had 20 minutes to prepare, if she could focus on preparation instead of mortification. As my daughter’s parent, I had choices. I could tell her that she would be speaking and had better scramble something together. I could tell her to let it go so that she could be properly prepared on some other day. Or, I could take the less active path, the one where I did not declare what she ought to do. I knew what I hoped she would do, what I thought would be best for everyone concerned. I hoped that she would, of her own accord, find the courage to scramble a three minute talk together from a scripture and the thoughts in her head. I wanted that for her, because to pull success out of apparent failure is a triumph. It is the sort of triumph which grants future strength and can never be taken away. I wanted so much for her to reach out and grab that triumph, but all I could do was point out that if she chose, there was still time.

The meeting began. Kiki still surreptitiously wiped tears as the opening announcements were read. During the first hymn I watched out of the corner of my eye as she opened a book and began to sing. I could not tell what thoughts were churning through her mind. I could not know what story she was making from the events of the day. Was she telling a story of victim hood: “why does this always happen to me?” Was she pounding out a story of failure: “I always forget things, why can’t I be better?” I hoped that her rigid posture was because she intended to seize her chance. During the sacrament service she opened her scriptures. I closed my eyes. Please let her have the courage to speak. Please give her the words to say.

The moment came. Kiki stood and walked to the front of the chapel to take her place on the stand. She spoke and her thoughts formed a coherent, amusing, uplifting talk. She spoke about things she’d learned in her seminary class. She touched on the assigned topic. She brought in an example from her own life. In the moment of crisis all these little preparations came together and combined to be the words she needed. It was a talk for which she thought she had been unprepared, but for which she was completely ready. In less than four minutes she was once again seated. This time she had her head high and was smiling.

After the meeting was over she came and hugged me. I hugged her back. She had found courage to reach for triumph. I’d found the strength to stand out of the way without knowing what the result would be. Both of us are more confident in the brightness of the future. It is well.