Teaching Children Responsibility - Part II

Let me repeat what I shared yesterday by saying that I am lucky to have two wonderful children who love school. Both are A/B students, excelling in what they love and doing well in other subjects. But as they are now 10 and 11, I began to think I was doing them a disservice for picking up where they sometimes left off.

My son, Jamie, can be best described as Christopher Robin: Sweet, kind hearted, funny, empathetic to a fault. He is also a perfectionist who would rather not do his schoolwork if he thinks he will make a mistake and disappoint someone.

Highly organized, Jamie came home from school last week, minus his study guide AND textbook for an upcoming test, three days in a row. While he was able to memorize the necessary state capitals, the actual southeastern states’ locations were sketchy (except, of course, for Florida).

WE could have easily gone to the Internet and printed a study guide. WE could have pulled-out the family globe, or any other reference guide from my office bookshelf.

Gritting my teeth, sitting on my hands, I did nothing. Jamie diligently studied his capitals, but did not take any extra steps to help himself.

He caught me watching him study at the kitchen table, looked up and said, “I’m doing my best, mom. And that’s what counts, right?”

Christopher Robin, you are wounding my soul. I nodded and immediately left the room, a knot in my stomach. I knew this test was going to go poorly, and he would be crushed. “I am teaching him to be independent and responsible, you cannot always save him.” I repeated this pointless mantra, and felt no better.

The morning of the test, Jamie continued to study the capitals, and had found a map of the United States in his daily agenda. He stared at the map from the time he woke up until he put on his coat, and I wished him luck as he left, unbeknownst to Jamie, to his first hard life lesson.

The after-school news was sad. “Mom, I want you to know I tried my best.” My husband and I sat down and waited. “I got all my capitals right, but I had a hard time with the states. My score was 58.”

My husband leveled his gaze at Jamie, and asked if he really had tried his best. “Did you do EVERYTHING you could to get a great grade? I know you didn’t, because if you had, you would have scored 100.”

Jamie looked at the floor, out the window, and finally back at us. A few futile attempts at justification later, he admitted he could have done better.

“Is a 58 a C?” he asked.

“No, Jamie, a 58 is an F,” I explained, starting to feel that stomach knot again.

“So if I get a hundred on my next state test, I’ll be getting a B, right?”

God, mathematical averaging sucks. “No, Jamie, you’re going to need to do your best on all the next tests to maybe get back up to a B. You have some hard work in front of you, but I know you’ll do it, and we’ll help you,” I explained. “But, Jamie, YOU will need to do the work.”

Jamie left our room, head hanging, and I know tears were shed out of eyeshot. I looked at my husband and stated this obvious, “That sucked.”

“Yep,” he said, nodding in agreement. “But I guarantee it won’t ever happen again.”

And as I write this, Jamie is pounding away on his computer, unprompted, researching factoids about Abraham Lincoln for an upcoming history project.

So as I lay my head on my pillow tonight, I will sleep comfortably, feeling like a great parent, if for just this moment.