Book Description

Report cards can be such a source of pride. Or shame. When students and their parents have that big revealing moment, it determines the joy or deflation for the next several weeks.

All A’s? Fantastic! There’s ice cream or cash or some kind of reward for you. Maybe it looks more like a musical scale, A, B, C, D and F, which certainly keeps things interesting. Maybe it’s been a rough quarter, and it’s all F bombs. A siren should go off when that envelope gets opened. Hopefully it doesn’t come as a surprise, and there’s a plan in place to help the poor kid out.

What’s the point of a report card anyway? Does any job application anywhere – ever – ask for your GPA? Once you get out of school and get the diploma or degree or certification or whatever – it doesn’t matter one single bit.

I love the phrase, “C’s get degrees.” Because it’s totally true. This kind of transcript doesn’t pair well with a scholarship application. This kind of transcript won’t get you admitted to Harvard Law. But killing one’s self for A’s, particularly outside of academia, is just plain silly.

What does this have to do with parenting?

One of the most important endeavors anyone tackles does not require a degree or any minimum GPA whatsoever. How we impact the ones we birth and/or raise is profound. Will they be productive, self-sufficient, contributing-to-society adults? Will they be serving time behind bars? Will they live in our basement until they are in their forties?

Sometimes we can tell that we have parented well. Other times it’s not so clear. Either way, it’s not like there’s a mom school and we get report cards. There are times when that is a good thing, like when you haven’t managed to sign the parent folder for several days and their lunch is straight up Lunchables and Twinkies. Other times, when the little darlings are shining brightly and helping a neighbor without being asked, we want the damn report card, don’t we?

A couple of years ago, my oldest child moved exactly one thousand miles away to become a nanny for three little girls. Not only did this reveal her readiness to test her wings, it also showed her how challenging the raising of children could be.

When my birthday came around last summer, it was the first time she had not been here to celebrate with me. The combination of a very tight budget and a new sense of appreciating her momma resulted in an unbelievable gift.

In my birthday box, she hand wrote the reasons that she loves me as her mom. Three hundred and sixty-five little slips of paper, all uniform in size, folded in half and in half again. One for each day for the upcoming year, each telling its own note of gratitude.

An argument ensued regarding whether I would show enough restraint to only open one each day. I’m happy to report that almost without fail, I followed the one-a-day plan. On a few occasions I would miss, and then would double up as soon as I realized the error of my ways.

What I began to realize as I unfolded these daily treasures, is that I had succeeded. Here were little nuggets of memories, traits, lessons, experiences and other remembrances she had written out. Some were funny, others serious. Some I had completely forgotten. Others, actually many of them, I had remembered differently than what the note said. Her perspective was so different! Her memory was usually positive, while my own was often tinged with guilt.

As a mom, I rarely felt as though I did enough or had done enough or would be able to do enough for my kids. Ever. I think most moms feel this way. Self-doubt floods our thinking, and regrets often haunt those of us who have graduated the school of parenting.

Here was a giant collection of “grades”, mostly A’s. I have two daughters, but this report card came from the first. The one who made me a momma first. The one who helped me figure it out as we went along. The one who challenged me the entire way. The one who decided I should get an A.

Side note: daughter number two bought me a lovely Tiffany band engraved with the words “I love you”. Appreciation was beautifully shown in the way that works best for her, and I wear it proudly each day.

Here is a collection of the best and most poignant of the slips I received in my “report card” box. My hope is that if you are still enrolled in the School of Mom, you’ll find some encouragement for the remainder of your enrollment.