four-word friday : ostensibly about college selection (mostly about life)

I've decided that Fridays will be "four-words" day. Oh, why not. How to write a book. How to pack for a trip. You know, that kind of thing. HOW TO CHANGE THE TOILET PAPER ROLL will no doubt be forthcoming soon if current conditions persist in my home.

Each of these guides will, I hope, be useful for doing the very thing on which they are focused (i.e., write, pack, etc.) AND they will be useful if you substitute "life" or "living" or "creating" or "mothering" or any number of other verbs for "writing" or "packing."

Today's "Friday Four-Words"? How to survive helping your child select which college to attend, or how to survive life with a child of any age. Or with yourself. Full service tips. Each one four words.

Emma just picked where she will go to college in the fall. COLLEGE. DID YOU HEAR THAT? MY TINY LITTLE LOVE BABY IS GOING TO COLLEGE. Step back and let me breathe here for a moment. Suddenly I feel very warm and shaky.

I wanted her to go to a small school because that's what I did; the one she picked has 30,000 students. I wanted her to consider my alma mater because that's what I did; it was her last choice. I wanted a small campus environment for her because that's what I had; she is going to the largest school she applied to, a huge school in the midst of a large city. I went to a small Quaker college. She will try out for the 300-member marching band at a very large State university, having chosen the trombone and tuba rather than the flute I suggested. I wished for a Harvard or a Stanford or one of the beautifully pristine small private colleges that offered her full scholarships; she wished for a school that fulfilled her three criteria: computer animation courses, marching band, and an equestrian program. Trust me, it is hard to find a place with all three. She knows so much more about what she wants and who she is than I did at her age. At almost any age. Okay, at every age.

This is all really good information for me, a handy reminder: She is not me.

Repeat that after me: She is not me.

She is not even an undeveloped youth version of me. This is useful information to remember in the case of partners, spouses, children, coworkers, and bosses, even: She is not me. She will not grow up to be me.(And sometimes, if I'm honest with myself, when I encounter people who bother me terribly, I add a little twist to that phrase: Thank god I am not him.)

Knowing that is important. In fact, let's make that step #1:

1. Know they aren't you. Just because you are older than your child doesn't make you the expert in what they want or need. Listen to them before trying to convince them that your path is the best path. It was for you. Not for them. Sure, you gave birth to her and fed her organic free-trade vegetables with a wee curve-handled spoon and dressed her in adorable little tiny sailor suits and kept her safe for all these years and people said all that while "she looks just like you!" and yet, she ALL ALONG was an independent being. ALL ALONG. Like from the moment she popped out into the world. What you gained by being one of only eight slightly hungover freshmen studying Milton's Paradise Lost in Rudy Behar's office in the English Department at Guilford College isn't what she needs or wants. It truly isn't. Watch other people for clues about who they are, not just for clues about how much they are or are not like you.

2. See them right now. Too many of us look at small children as they grow and wonder, "what will they be when they grow up?" rather than pondering, "who is this person now?" They are fully human at even the tiniest of ages. We do a disservice to our children by the anticipation with which we wait for them to emerge. They have emerged. They are themselves, with their own needs and dreams and fears. Sure, teens have brains that aren't fully developed, and for that reason our job is to keep them safe. But not to discount them. Don't anticipate what they will be; explore who they are now. Pay attention to the "now" as much as (more than) the "future."

3. Provide them with options. I have always believed I could do anything. My parents said I could.(There is a wee downside to that, also, if it results in the feeling that you must). I didn't come from wealthy parents–my father was a barber. It wasn't money that would open doors for me, it was the belief that there were no boundaries. Did I want to go to Sri Lanka in high school as an exchange student, to live in a country I had never heard of? Yes, let's find a way to do that. Do I want to study trapeze with Sam Keen? Yes, let's write the man a letter and maybe he will say yes. (He did! He did!). My job for Emma–and for Tess–is to open a big wide door to a big wide world. One that is realistic and hugely imaginative and wild and wondrous at the same time. You want to know why the author of your first grade reading book always puts a pair of spectacles in every painting? Let's find the man in London and call him up and ask. Make possibilities sparkle regardless of circumstance.

4. Just follow their lead. I went to Emma's second grade teacher once. "I'm really worried about Emma," I said. "She is so unnaturally shy. She is terrified of speaking in class. The book report you assigned her is a source of great, immense fear for her. I'm worried about her." "Tell me about yourself at her age," the wise teacher asked. And so I waxed poetic about being on the student council and in school plays as Johnny Appleseed. She let me talk and talk. "Well," she said after a while. "That's your personality and this is hers." Stop trying to make other people into mini-me's.

5. Don't "fix" their story. People change. Children evolve. So do adults. My story of Emma (see #4) was for a long time that she was shy. A summer at camp showed me the ways in which I was pigeonholing her into a story that no longer fit her. Yeah, she's the shy one, not. She's the slight girl who carries a heavy sousaphone during marching band season as section leader, who rides a retro scooter around town, who creates her own graphic novel for senior project, who chooses the huge college. Listen to the story you tell of others. Be willing to change it.

6. Offer help, step back. Applying for college is fundamentally different now. No longer are there big packages of applications on the dining room table–no. It's almost all done online now. Emma handled her applications herself. "Don't you want help doing the essays?" both John and I asked, thinking we needed to step in and give her advice. "No," she said, "I've already done them." "What if there are grammatical errors in them?" John asked me. "Then I guess there are grammatical errors in them," I said. "And she will either get in or she won't because of them, but it will be her own process." Your job is not to save other people, AS TEMPTING AS THAT MIGHT BE. This is easy when the stakes are small; the true test is when the stakes feel big.

7. Let learning be hot. When Emma was 11 and in the fifth grade, we moved to Asheville in November. For a shy child, it was a tough move to a whole new place and school, not helped by the fact that she now had for a teacher the most difficult person I'd ever encountered in that role. It was, quite honestly, hell for little Emma. We celebrated the end of the school year with an "I survived Mrs ____" cake and certificate, it was so bad. "You should move her into another classroom," many people said at the time. I don't socially engineer life for my children, as much as I might be tempted to. Will Emma face difficult people in her life? Yes. Will navigating them be easier because she had to navigate Mrs _____? I hope so, I think so. Was it tremendously difficult not to step in and demand a change? You bet it was. If I felt at any time she was in real danger, you can bet I would have stepped in. But having a difficult time and being in danger are two different things. Learning comes at the edges. Take away the edges and you take away the learning.

8. Lower the high bar. I am an overachiever of the highest order. I admit that. I love to learn and do and see if I can achieve something–not so much for the achievement, but for the thrill of the process. Halloween costumes? Homemade. It's just way more fun. Snacks for class? I like them to be fun. Perfectionism? You bet. I hate misspellings: THE WORD ACCOMMODATION HAS TWO C's AND TWO M's, people. And yet I'm trying to lower my own bar as I've lowered the bar for Emma and Tess. So many parents fret over the success of their children–did they get into AP classes, the National Honor Society? Emma did and refused to join until this last year of school. Not of interest to her. Let it go. Let it go. It's not that you have a bigger and better perspective on what matters–you have YOUR perspective (and, frankly, it's likely old school). Sometimes it helps, and often it doesn't. Sometimes it helps, and sometimes you are trying to fix what was missing in your own childhood, or trying to recreate your own childhood. Know the difference. This is a whole new child. Frankly, I have a very low bar when it comes to my children–it's not that I don't want them to be happy and successful, whatever that means to them. I do. I desperately do, like most parents. But I love them whether they are or not. My bar? Keep them alive. Do whatever it takes to keep them alive. Just keep them alive. That's it. That's a lot. (And yet, sometimes we know that isn't possible, we can't save them–but we must do what we can.) Anything above that? Gravy, pure gravy. Emma's room is a mess? Close the door. She still comes home at night and somehow sleeps in there. Ease up. Perspective is worth 80 IQ points. Let people know you love them no matter what. And step in when they are in real danger.

9. Celebrate with wild abandon. This essay says it all. Buy up cartons of birthday candles and use them! Freely! Daily! With wild abandon! Emma applied to five colleges and got in all five. Sure enough, a "Five for Five" cake arrived at the dinner table. She made her college decision? I immediately ordered sweatshirts for the whole family with that school's logo emblazoned on them. Celebrate way more than needed. Daily even.

Parenting is an exercise in letting go. So is living.