A Parent Report Card

I dropped my daughter off at school crying yesterday. It was one of those judgment calls where a parent has to decide amidst many plausible alternatives, which is the best course of action. She had asked me to write her a note excusing her from P.E. due to an ankle injury of mysterious and unknown origins. I decided against writing the note. Although I stood strong in the face of tearful pleading, I was plagued with uncertainty as I drove off.

I delegated the making of lunches to my 10 and 6 year old and the strangest thing happened. All of the sudden those wretched school lunches fit for livestock were now a fine option. They were an easy win over the drudgery of making sandwiches and filling water bottles. They haven’t had a lunch from home in weeks. As I contemplate this shift, this could be a clear stroke of genius on my part. I have literally saved myself several hours per week in shopping for and making lunches. I have saved my ears another several hours a week in complaints over the content of said lunches. “I’m sick of lunch meat. You always make us the same stuff. I don’t really like sandwiches anyways.” On the other hand, if I’m totally honest with you, as I contemplate my children stabbing their straw through the BAG of milk at school and eating greasy corndogs and a cookie, I feel negligent and my heart aches. I wonder if I’ve shirked an important part of nurturing my children. I’m haunted by an image of a lovely mom in an apron handing each child their home-made lunch as they skip out the door just after receiving a soft kiss on the forehead. I’m not that mom.

From the rising of the sun to its eventual setting, parenting is inundated with choices. Some choices are easy. “No, you cannot have ice cream for dinner.” Many choices require significant insight and judgment or perhaps soothsaying and foretelling. Not a day goes by that I can’t envision some questionable decision that I make showing up on the proverbial couch. “Well, you see Doctor. I was 6 years old when it seemed as though my mom just stopped caring. One day, she was packing me a delightful lunch and the next day she wouldn’t do it anymore. It was like I didn’t matter to her.”

As I contemplate these parenting conundrums, I long for the days of report cards where someone who was wiser could assess my performance and provide me with specific and objective feedback. My performance, effort, and skills were evaluated in many different categories and I knew. I knew if I had done a good job, I knew where I needed to improve, and I knew that my teacher recognized that I was doing my best. “A+ for effort!”

I love my kids. What I wouldn't do for a little reassurance that my mistakes are not catastrophic and that everything is going to turn out OK.