The first parent-teacher conferences of the year happened this week and man did I get schooled.

As a mother of a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old, I’ve been to more parent-teacher conferences than I can easily count. But, as each one approaches, the part of myself that I consider a recovering perfectionist starts to creep to the surface.

Fears of being judged as a parent and as a person float to the forefront of my brain. MY ANXIETY decides that it’s a great time to show up, sending negative self thoughts into hyperdrive.

Per usual, I respond to these desires to present myself perfectly by attempting to control as much as I possibly can.
My anxious self prepared for this year’s video parent-teacher conferences by checking and double checking our appointment times, testing the software, making sure my background was tidy and presentable, and gathering a pen and some paper for notes.

I was as ready as I could be.

Then I sat, nervously tapping my pen against my notepad as I waited for THE FIRST TEACHER to pop on my screen. I waited for judgement. Are they going to think I’m a bad mom? Are they going to judge my son?

Teacher after teacher said the same thing.
“He’s a great student.”
“He does all his work.”
“He’s super smart.”
“He’s respectful, polite, and participates.”

These are all the things a parent wants to hear — especially this year when more than half of my son’s school hours are being done remotely from his bedroom.

Then each teacher ended with a similar message about him.
“But I can’t read him.”
“He’s a mystery to me.”
“I can’t figure him out.”

Each conference ended with an almost exasperated sigh from the teacher “I hope I get to know the real him.”

I couldn’t help but laugh each time, thinking to myself “You probably won’t.”

These teachers can’t read him because my youngest doesn’t give a flying f*ck about what anyone thinks of him.

He will show up, do his work, and be polite but he will never be phony. He will never try to impress you or make you like him. He will never strike up casual conversation. He simply doesn’t care what you think of him. He doesn’t need anyone’s approval.

And boy, do I wish I could be like him.

As I logged off my computer, I shook my head at myself.

Once again, I had fallen into the trap I set all too often for myself — the trap where I think I need to care what others think of me.
If my 12-year-old were sitting beside me he would have rolled his eyes and said, “Mom, why do you care what they think of you? That’s a waste of time.” 

At the end of the day, my 12-year-old’s view on the world is right and mine is wrong.

PEOPLE’S OPINIONS OF ME DON’T REALLY MATTER.

They don’t dictate who I actually am as a human, a parent, a community member, or a professional. I know who I am. I know how to let the right people see the real me. If people don’t like me, that’s on them.

It turns out my biggest takeaway from this week’s parent-teacher conference has nothing to do with my son’s performance in school but everything to do with what I can learn from him.

(Originally published 12/1/2020 by Filter Free Parents HERE)

Somewhere a long time ago, I began creating color coded school schedules for my children each year.

The truth is, they probably don't need them. They probably don't even look at them after the first day.

I like to say that creating these schedules helps to set my children up for success. But, in reality, I need these schedules more than they do. I love the summer months and extra time with my children but summer’s lack of a schedule leaves me feeling unhinged, off-balance, and scattered.

Comfort is what we crave when we are stressed, anxious, and overwhelmed and for me, comfort has always been found in the beginning of a brand new school year. The structure makes me feel relaxed and in control. The consistency makes me feel calm. The order makes me feel balanced. Memories of 9 solid months every year of being seen, heard, and valued makes me feel safe.

So, as a new school year begins to loom on the horizon, I feel a growing sense of calm. I lean into the task of spreading out backpacks and school supplies on my dining room table. I beam as I type all the important school dates into our shared calendar. I let out a deep sigh of relief as I begin to settle back into a new school year. 

I inhale comfort and exhale chaos.

School is back.

And these pretty color coded schedules with matching color notebooks and folders are a reminder that everything will be ok.

I’ve been here before.

This space between elementary school and middle school is familiar to me for I have walked this road before with my oldest son. This road is a place where childhood really starts to feel finite and the pull of adolescence finds its way into our lives. It’s a short road but one that feels endless at times and is often uncomfortable and scary.

I’ve been here before.

I’m no stranger to closed doors. Once again these closed doors fill the hallways of my home, a home that used to be filled with the sounds of two little boys giggling and their little feet pitter-pattering everywhere. Sometimes I pause outside these closed doors, hoping to hear some piece of the little boy version that once existed. Sometimes I hear it — the childish giggle. But mostly, I hear a deep voice I still haven’t quite gotten used to hearing.

I’ve been here before.

I know the importance of noticing my tone of voice and being mindful of how I say something.
Asking a simple question like “How was your day?” now takes a certain kind of finessing as hormones are starting to surge and just a wrong look can result in eye-rolling and dramatic sighs. 

I’ve been here before.

The sting of not being the most important people in his life is familiar as invitations from his friends now take precedence for him and are preferred over family dinners at restaurants, family trips to the beach, or lazy family days at home. I know eventually the pendulum swings back the other way, and he will start again to enjoy time with the family. This time is only temporary.

I’ve been here before.

My nights and weekends are no longer my own as I now must leave space for my tween to have his own plans. My car has once again become a personal Lyft, available at a moment’s notice to transport tweens to their last-minute, poorly planned activities.

I’ve been here before.

I know to take a deep breath before entering his room as it usually is a total science experiment in there. Frequent conversations about why showering is important and why cereal bowls can’t be left on bureaus now fill my days. I know the time is coming where he will care about the state of his room but that time is not now.

I’ve been here before . . . but not quite like this.

I used to think that my final time down this road from childhood to adolescence would be exciting. After all, I know what’s on the other side of this road, and it’s quite amazing.

I assumed that once I reached this road with my youngest son, I would be relieved to almost be on the other side. 

I was wrong. 

Although it’s an exhausting, smelly, challenging road, there is beauty on this road, especially when you have an awareness that it is the last time you will help a child transition from the wonder and innocence of childhood to the independence and difficulties of adolescence. 

This is a truly special process. 

There is something really wonderful that happens when my tween son lays next to me on the couch while watching TV and lets me play with his hair, just like he used to when he was a toddler watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

In moments like this, there is a synchrony between the little boy he once was and the young man he is becoming.

There are wonder and amazement in watching my little boy become a young man, one with his own political views, interests, and thoughts of the world—a young man I find myself admiring more deeply than I ever thought I could.

There is something truly heartwarming to be able to bear witness to the transition taking place right before my eyes. 

I’ve been here before . . . but this time I’m going to enjoy it and revel in its beauty for it will be gone for good all too soon.

This piece was originally published 08/17/20 on Her View From Home.

Can you feel it?

I know I can.

The tide has come in and the storm is raging again.

Life has returned to the pre-quarantine pace - and I can’t catch my breath.

Every day feels like I’m running a 5k and the finish line keeps moving. On this race route there’s no one handing out free cups of water. There’s no one cheering me on and offering me encouragement. There are no breaks. If I slow to a walk, I’ll surely be run over by the herd of runners around me.

Life is back to how it was and here we are - racing full steam ahead and this week proved that my family and I are very much out of practice for this pace of life.

Bat bags left in wrong cars.

Sports water bottles left on car roofs.

Evenings were spent scrubbing grass stains out of white baseball pants, washing uniforms, and being reminded that our dog has an affinity for athletic cups.

There are no more family dinners. We now eat at 4pm or 9pm or in the car.

Mail gets stacked anywhere there is an open space in my house and the dogs are angry that they have to actually be alone in the house for longer than 30 minutes again.

Last night we even had to have a family meeting to figure out how we all can manage all our necessary commitments next week - (hint: we can’t do it without a clone or two).

It feels like too much and I thought we swore we wouldn’t be here again.

But as I watched my oldest laughing at first base the other night, watched my youngest warming up with his team this afternoon, and watched my husband coaching with his friends again, I realized that while this fast paced life is exhausting, leaves me breathless, and makes me feel completely unprepared most days, it also is a crucial part of my family’s existence.

This pace of life leaves my boys standing together in our kitchen late at night swapping stories of their practices and games.

This pace of life creates connection for all of us.

This pace of life creates opportunities for growth for all of us.

So tonight as I watch yet another game from the outfield, I’ll remind myself that every frantic second of this stage of life right now is worth it because this pace of life is where my family is most happy.

Can you feel it?

I know I can.

On Christmas Eve a 15 year tradition came to an end. It was the first Christmas Eve without an official believer in our house.

But, we still did all the typical Christmas things.

We still hid away all the presents.

We still talked about Santa coming to bring gifts.

We still made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, referred to as “Santa’s cookies” even if we make them in July.

We still waited until Christmas Eve to take the gifts from their hiding spaces and place them beneath the tree.

Much of this year was the same - but it was also very different. My youngest asked if he could watch us to see how we do it all.

He sat, wide eyed on the couch, as my husband and I worked like the amazing team we are - having done this for 15 years now.

Soon the questions started:
“How much did this all cost?”
“How long did it take you to wrap everything?”
“You really wrap everything in the stockings???”
“Is it hard to do all this?”
“How are you able to do this so fast?”

Then he helped me as I put out cookies and milk for Santa and, for the first time ever, our youngest got to enjoy the treats.

My heart ached through it all though. I miss those tiny versions of my boys as they would run outside to sprinkle reindeer food in the lawn, their voices squealing with delight.
I miss those days and there is a profound sadness in realizing that chapter of our family’s journey has ended.

But, this new chapter is truly special too.

This new Christmas is different. But, this new Christmas is still filled with joy, wonder, and love.

It’s still magical.

​ It’s still Christmas.

The first parent-teacher conferences of the year happened this week and man did I get schooled.
​
As a mother of a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old, I’ve been to more parent-teacher conferences than I can easily count.
But, as each one approaches, the part of myself that I consider a recovering perfectionist starts to creep to the surface.

​Originally published on Filter Free Parents. Click HERE for full article.

This morning I was struck with a deep sense of gratitude. As I meandered my way down the hallway in the early morning hours to wake my high schooler for the day, I smiled at the calmness that now fills my home. 


In a normal year, our mornings would be a complete frenzy of activity. Total chaos would rule our day from the moment the 5:00AM alarm on my phone rang until we all finally crawled into our beds at the end of the day. It would be a race against the clock as we scurried around the house each morning trying to get everything done in time for us to leave for the day. 

Originally published on Grown and Flown. Click HERE to read full article.

Yesterday I got to relearn slopes and angles so I could effectively support my 9th grader in geometry. Then I got to develop a tracking system that would work for my 6th grader to help him better manage the sometimes too subtle details of his class assignments. Later I got to help with a story map and reviewing point of view vs. perspective. 


It is a luxury, for sure, to be able to spend this time with my children without having to worry about working at the exact same moment. In my younger days, I actually taught 6th grade math and study skills for middle schoolers. I loved my time as a teacher so this should be my jam. It’s not.

I love being their mom but I hate being their teacher.

​Originally published on Her View From Home. Click HERE to read full article.