Excellent article on parenting

In "The Kindergarchy," writer Joseph Epstein describes in detail the differences between two generation's of parents attitudes towards raising children. What rang a distinct bell were the tales of his upbringing; in other words, he was not the center of his parents' universe.

When I was a boy my parents might go off to New York or to Montreal (my father was born in Canada) for a week or so and leave my brother and me in the care of a woman in the neighborhood, a spinster named Charlotte Smucker--Mrs. Smucker to us--who was a professional childsitter. Sometimes an aunt, my mother's sister who had no children, would stay with us. We seldom went on vacation as a family. When I was eight years old, my parents sent me off for an eight-week summer camp session in Eagle River, Wisconsin, where I learned all the dirty words if not their precise meanings. None of these things made me unhappy or in any way dampened my spirits. I cannot recall ever thinking of myself as an unhappy kid.

My mother never read to me, and my father took me to no ballgames, though we did go to Golden Gloves fights a few times. When I began my modest athletic career, my parents never came to any of my games, and I should have been embarrassed had they done so. My parents never met any of my girlfriends in high school. No photographic or video record exists of my uneven progress through early life. My father never explained about the birds and the bees to me; his entire advice on sex, as I clearly remember, was, "You want to be careful."

At roughly the age of 11, I had the run of the city of Chicago, taking buses, streetcars, or the El with friends to Wrigley Field, downtown, or to nearby neighborhoods for Saturday afternoon movies. Beginning at 15, the age when driver's licenses were then issued in Chicago, I had frequent use of my mother's cream-and-green Chevy Bel-Air, which greatly expanded my freedom. I don't recall either of my parents asking me where I had been, or with whom, even when I came in at early morning hours on the weekends.

When we were together, at family meals and at other times, we laughed a lot, my parents, my brother, and I, but we did not openly exhibit exuberant affection for one another. We did not hug, and I do not remember often kissing my mother or her kissing me. Neither my mother nor my father ever told me they loved me; nor did I tell them that I loved them. I always assumed their love, and, as later years would prove, when they came to my aid in small crises, I was not wrong to do so.

I did not seek my parents' approval. All I wished was to avoid their--and particularly my father's--disapproval, which would have cut into my freedom. Avoiding disapproval meant staying out of trouble, which for the most part I was able to do. Punishment would have meant losing the use of my mother's car, or having my allowance reduced, or being made to stay home on school or weekend nights, and I cannot remember any of these things ever happening, a testament less to my adolescent virtue than to the generous slack my parents cut me.

My emphasis above. Boy, does that hit the nail on the head!

This generational dichotomy is oft discussed in my own home. My wife is what I call (well, someone else made up the term) a "helicopter parent." She feels the need to be at every single event our daughter is involved in, frequently at the expense of other matters. This has led to some spousal conflicts as you might imagine. For instance, daughter might have a parent "visiting day" for her dance class. According to wife's philosophy, I am to drop everything and make sure I attend this visitation. Now, keep in mind that there are several visitations throughout the year, and what we see in the visitation we ultimately see at the big dance recital at the end of the year. The reason (or "excuse") that I may have students after school for extra help, or have some other school business to attend to, is not a valid one to miss visitation -- according to the wife.

Such a situation would be unimaginable to my own parents. My father would be too exhausted after work and/or had to give guitar lessons upon his arrival home. (Yeah, my dad is a pretty good guitar player!) Mom was a stay-at-home mom, but she had my two sisters to worry about. Like Epstein, it was a rarity for either of my folks to attend one of my little league games; I usually had to ride my bike to the games, as it were. Same with my school track meets. I only remember my dad being at a track meet one time, and the fact that I knew he was coming sort of made it "special."

And y'know what? I never held any grudges for my folks not being at my events. Not at all. I knew they had other commitments. Indeed, I was thankful that they ponied up the cash for my little league participation, and my track spikes for the running season! As Epstein notes,

Parents generally didn't feel under any obligation to put heavy pressure on their children. Nor, except in odd, neurotic cases, did they feel any need to micromanage their lives. My own father once told me that he felt his responsibilities extended to caring for the physical well-being of my brother and me, paying for our education, teaching us right from wrong, and giving us some general idea about how a man ought to live, but that was pretty much it. Most fathers during this time, my guess is, must have felt the same.

I attempt to abide by this idea, although I am clearly at odds with my generation, wife included. I make it clear to our daughter what's expected and if something doesn't happen as it should, there are consequences. But on the other hand, when daughter does something good, there are small rewards (NOT something like MTV's utterly ridiculous "My Sweet Sixteen") and a general attitude to "keep up the good work." For instance, daughter only received one "B" all year in her classes. (Yep, the rest were "A's" ... pretty good, eh?) Helicopter mom, however, was constantly checking daughter's grades online (two-three times per week), hovering over her when she was doing homework, and insisting on when she did her homework. My retort to this was: "She's gotten one 'B' all year. She's obviously doing something right. Why not leave her alone?"

But, again, it's my wife's attitude that is the prevalent one in today's age, not mine. I'm in the minority. I'm seen as some sort of ogre (and not just by my wife) if I don't "push" daughter to, say, play softball ... or run track ... or join the swim club swim team, and just about everything else that is humanly possible. "You have to show her!" I'm told.

I do? Sorry if I'm sort of showing off here, but my daughter is one smart cookie. She knows what she likes and what she doesn't. If she wants to try something, I'll certainly back her up, get her what she needs, and assist her with any training/advice.

Those with my wife's attitude abound in schools today. They micromanage their kids' homework, want daily or weekly reports from teachers on their children's academic and social progress, and perhaps worst of all will back their children in any conflict (academic or behavioral) with a teacher or administrator. Epstein recognizes this:

School is the pressure point. More and more teachers in grade and high schools complain not about the children they are asked to teach, but about the endless contact with children's parents. Parents are in situ, on the scene, unstintingly on the job. "How come Corey only got a B in physics? He's always been so wonderful in science." "Why isn't Lettice a better speller? Her father won the state spelling bee in Iowa." One wonders how many teachers have been driven out of the profession by parents' bombarding them with emails, phone calls, and requests for meetings?

Despite the wonderful accolades I receive at the end of a school year, I certainly get my fair share of those instances noted above, as well. Some of my favorites are "Your class is the only one [name] is not doing well in." "You're the only teacher who gave her a 'D.'" (I always like that "gave" part as if the child's study habits and work ethic had absolutely not a thing to do with the bad grade.) "My son says you're picking on him." (I do tend to "pick on" kids who constantly disrupt class -- "pick on" them to leave my class and go to the Time Out Room.)

Point of note: I don't want readers to think I am being unfair to my wife. It's an honest disagreement, but one that has legitimately caused the most consternation between us over the last thirteen years. But certainly, I feel that my perspective on the matter is the right one (else I wouldn't advocate/write about it, natch), and that hers is [partly] responsible for the generation of milksops we are raising today. I am fortunate that I work with a lot of teachers who share my view; however, the problem we all face is that ours is a distinct minority in the realm of education in general.

I am genuinely interested in what our readers think, so comment away.

Posted by Hube at June 10, 2008 11:13 AM | TrackBack