Last week’s post got me thinking about the kid/achievement/parent dynamic. I may have mentioned, once or twice, my absolute fury toward and lack of goodwill for parents who place volumes of pressure the size of planets onto their kids’ shoulders and tell them repeatedly that only the achievements which can be recorded on paper [...]
Last week’s post got me thinking about the kid/achievement/parent dynamic. I may have mentioned, once or twice, my absolute fury toward and lack of goodwill for parents who place volumes of pressure the size of planets onto their kids’ shoulders and tell them repeatedly that only the achievements which can be recorded on paper are worthwhile, and that being anything but the top 5% is as good as failing utterly. I escaped having a mother and a father who put that kind of pressure to out-perform my peers on me, but I did have a few grandparents who made sure I was aware that success was all they were interested in.
As an older and wiser thirty-five-year-old, I’ve had some time to ponder the raising I had, and to figure out which bits made me a better person, and which bits made me wish I’d come from an uneducated, low-pressure family that would have been ecstatic if I’d achieved a high school education and a lifetime of honest work days.
Also, now I’m a parent, and since it’s really better to figure out what your parenting philosophy is prior to raising one’s offspring, I’ve been doing some research. You have a little leeway to screw up, because there’s some time to patch it up later. Plus, it’s difficult to impart much wisdom to a tiny person who crawls everywhere, can’t hold up their end of a conversation, and keeps shoving everything smaller than a tennis ball into their mouth. Keep in mind, though, that the more you mess up when they’re little, the more you’ll be scraping off and re-plastering when they’re older, more angry, and a lot less convincible.
Parents reading this should pay attention, and any kids reading this should make their asinine parentals (whether borderline or solidly inside the dumbass box) read it all the way through. Watch them to be sure they’ve really absorbed it.
As I mentioned in the previous post, I was so ready to escape small-town life and be my own person at college, I practically ran across the graduation stage. Sadly, I was excited for college because not only would I be free, I had also convinced myself that college would be similar to high school in that I would be able to skate by on my (slightly) above-average intelligence and my ability to charm every adult in the room. Studying was never something I had had to do very much of, and since I test well (college teaches you your social security number, and public school teaches you how to kick ass on standardized tests), I figured I’d do just as well in college as I had done for the past thirteen years.
It was not to be. Which sucked while it was happening to me, but is really effing funny to look back on and watch cocky little good-grades, non-student me get taken down a notch or three. Academic probation is a painful life lesson to report to your parents over the winter holidays. Even more painful is your very own parents nodding their heads and telling you, their supposed wonder child, that they had known the first semester would end like this. And down I went, five more notches. Ouch.
To be fair, my parents have really good bull**it detectors, and they probably knew the whole time (my entire pre-college career) that I was getting lots of praise for just being me: a slightly charming, well-read kid with a good vocabulary who tests well. Which is to say that my parents knew good and GD well that I was riding my little wave of glory without doing much to actually earn all that praise. They weren’t even all that impressed with my pile of swim team medals and ribbons until I actually started working my ass off trying to be a better swimmer than I’d started out (which I did for me, not for anyone else, and that also made them proud).
When I grew up a smidge and was able to get a little distance on high school and those early college years, it became clear that my parental units were not the types to slobber all over themselves with praise for anything that I hadn’t actually worked hard at achieving. They didn’t even seem to be impressed by place, names, numbers, or ranking; all it ever took was their witnessing of my literal or figurative sweat, and I’d get the look and the hug and the “You did good, kid.”
And that, people, is good and decent parenting. Loving your kids unconditionally for who they are, not for their scores and grades; seeing through their bull**it; and praising them not for their high placement or numbers, but for the work they did to get from point A to point B; and, most importantly, being content and satisfied with them when they are happy, not when they’re doing triple back-jumps through hoops on no sleep because they’re killing themselves to achieve awesomely high paper numbers so they can be ranked in the top 5% of some ridiculous and cruelly scored game of life.
Here comes the I’m a parent so I know of what I speak and I practice what I preach so listen up pal part: My daughter is seven, and is currently into gymnastics. At the end of the ten-week term, they have a Show Day and the parents come and watch the kids perform the skills they’ve learned, and at the end the kids all receive an identical pretend gold medal (which 99% of the kids believe is real gold).
After all of the parental applauding, my kid ran up to me, eyes shining with fake-gold-medal joy, hugged me violently and said, “Mommy! Aren’t you so proud of me for getting a medal?!” I said, “Nope.” I told her I was super happy for her that she had a medal because it was obvious that having something that cool and shiny was making her euphoric, but that I was proud of her because she had shown up to every class, had always tried her hardest, had worked to get better at her gymnastics skills, and had tried new things, even the stuff that scared the crap out of her.
I could see the little wheels turning in her head, trying to work out what her weird Mom meant. On the one hand it makes things easier on her: all she has to do is try and actually work at stuff. On the other hand, it makes things tougher on her: she’ll actually have to work because I, like my own parents, have a magnificent BS detector, and will know it when she’s riding the wave of charm and innate abilities.
Posted by Alexa Harrington
