It's a good thing my kids don't know how utterly clueless I often feel when I'm raising them. If they knew how often I improvise and fumble, how frequently I have no idea what to do, say or threaten to get them to cooperate, I just might lose the slim amount of authority I carry.
I suppose someday the jig will be up my kids will realize my ineptitude and look back and laugh at the phrases I repeat ad nauseam. For example, when I say, "Stop what you're doing or there will be serious consequences," really it means I have no idea what to say right now to get you stop.
I can reasonably fake my way through small day-to-day situations. It's the big ones that worry me, and these often involve Ben, my oldest and my guinea pig as I try to figure out what works and what doesn't. As he prepares to enter adolescence, I struggle to find the right balance between asserting parental authority and extending him autonomy.
As is the case with many almost 12-year-olds, Ben can be petulant as a toddler one moment and show remarkable maturity the next. He taunts Paul by running away with his favorite Lego minifigure, and that same day he surprises me by doing all the dishes while I have his brothers at swimming lessons. (I tried mightily to suppress my worries about washing temperature and ignore the smudges on the blender and the fact that he washed and left half wet glasses that I would've put in the dishwasher.)
My latest dilemma is piano lessons. Ben has been taking private lessons for more than three years now, not an inexpensive endeavor. He and we have invested time and money ... and he's grown tired of playing, whining whenever it's time to go to lessons, majorly slacking on practice time.
Do we let Ben begin to make some life decisions on his own, or is it better for us to step in and act in what we think are his best interests? I picture hauling a complaining Ben to lessons every week for years to come, nagging him to practice, shelling out big bucks for something he doesn't want to do. Then I envision Ben of the future, years after we've given up and let him quit: "Why didn't you make me stick with piano?"
Situations like these arise in nearly every family, I'm certain, but what to do? My waffling was evident. I'd talk to Ben one time and emphasize how much we'd invested in piano; another I'd tell him that if he was no longer interested, maybe it was time to consider giving it up.
Ben was feeling the effects of my dithering. He complained mightily about going to lessons on Wednesday, and as we drove, I broached the subject once more. Ben laid it out for me: he doesn't really like playing anymore, but he didn't want to disappoint Mark and me or his teacher.
Ben's teacher had been noticing a change in Ben, too. My oldest is a natural at reading music, and piano has come fairly easily to him. If he does this well without practicing, we like to say, just think what he could accomplish if he actually practiced. Lately, though, Ben's apathy has been showing. He's been stuck on a particular song for weeks, and everything right down to his posture sends an I-don't-want-to-be-here message.
I usually just drop off Ben at lessons, but luckily I was able to stay on Wednesday. My preferred technique in dealing with tough, potentially awkward situations often involves strained, phony optimism. I half-planned to say to his teacher, "Oh, we'll get this scalawag practicing again, and everything will be fine!"
As I sat in the other room listening to Ben play, though, I decided to try candor. When his teacher had stepped away from Ben, I took her aside. "What do you when your students just plateau?" I asked. "Ben says he doesn't want to play anymore."
I'm sure in all her years of teaching, this has NEVER happened before. It has. All the time. Then Mrs. Anderson hit me with a much-needed dose of tough love and reality. "This happens to every musician," she said. "I tell parents to remember that their kid is a kid and they're the parent, and the parents need to make the decision."
It's the kind of statement that usually would make me bristle and feel defensive. But I realized instantly, she was right.
Mrs. Anderson went back into Ben's lessons and talked him through the situation a bit. She discussed the summer slump that kids often face when it comes to music and the importance of finding a regular practice routine. Ben loves nothing more than a good lecture (and any time an adult talks to him in a serious way, it's perceived as a lecture), and I'm sure he took in her words with good grace.
Ben emerged from his lesson wearing his serious face, eyebrows knit. "Everything OK, Ben?" his teacher asked.
"Yeah," he muttered, as I squeezed his shoulder and told him to smile.
On the way home, though, something amazing happened. "I think I need you and Dad to tell me exactly when I need to practice," Ben said. "And you can't let me say I'll do it later."
We talked about what would be the best time of day to practice, and I was reminded that sometimes kids need to hear important messages from someone other than their parents. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd taken in what he needed to hear.
Going forward, no situation will be exactly like the next. All I can hope is that as I accumulate parenting experiences, somehow I can sew a convincing tapestry that will see me through each challenge. Now Ben, what say we practice some piano?
