Skip to main content

Bragging Rights...Or Wrongs

A social media acquaintance who communicates with frequency and intensity about the awesome abilities of her children, recently launched a boast (no, that’s not a Freudian slip for post) to trumpet her eldest’s latest accomplishments.

Allow me to add a disclaimer right now: I have nothing against other people’s lovely children. I have nothing against their children’s success. In fact, I’d like nothing more than to have everyone in the world be proud of their children’s accomplishments.

But…do we really need to glorify them? Do we need to make every good grade, every high test score, every sports performance, every volunteer act public knowledge? 

I’ve promised myself that this will not turn into a rant, though I suspect that it will take every last ounce of my self-control to contain my indignation at the audacity of parents who inflate their self-worth by proclaiming their children’s achievements as if they were their own.

In my experience, these parents are unaware of the good fortune that has enabled them to over-invest in their offspring. They don’t realize that the “control” they believe they’ve exerted over their circumstances is nothing more than an illusion.

My daughter has not known the luxury of two healthy parents. She’s dealt with loss in its various forms for the majority of her life, shouldering loads that no child should ever have to bear.

Her greatest regret is not that she didn’t get the highest grade on an exam or was cut from a select sports team—it’s that she didn’t get to meet her baby sister while she lived.

To all those parents who seek public affirmation of their parenting skills by bragging, I applaud you for the semi-charmed luck that has protected your family from harm. I won’t rain on your parade by reminding you that the only thing that separates your children’s experience from my daughter’s is a few agonizing twists of fate.

I’ll just sigh and say a prayer—that you may outgrow this childish need to prove yourself at your kids’ expense, and cultivate some compassion in the process.  
Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

My Love-Hate Relationship with Teaching

I have a confession to make, one that seemingly meets the criteria of a mundane mid-life crisis: I love what I do, but I hate my job. I’m a kindergarten teacher by trade. I adore children—always have, always will—and have a natural affinity for the littlest learners. I enjoy watching their growth across a school year, the way they come in green and fresh as newly planted seeds at the start, and leave my classroom as saplings stretching toward the infinite sky of knowledge and understanding. I hate the metrics that are used to define my students’ performance (and my own). I loathe the over-reliance on a narrow band of assessment measures that ignores the intangibles of student growth and extinguishes the joy of learning. I resent seeing children reduced to numbers on a grid in the name of data-based decision-making. I cherish the time I spend with my students in the Zone of Proximal Development. I thrive on the everyday teachable moments that enable me to coach into my stud...
Read more

Happy Cancerversary

Race for the Cure 2010, one month post-chemo. Yesterday marked six years from the day that I received the call telling me that the pathology report from my surgery four days earlier was in, and confirmed that I had cancer…for the second time. It was late in the day, as afternoon gave way to evening, its subtle waning light foreshadowing sunset. I remember marveling at the idea that my surgeon was still at work, reviewing reports and delivering verdicts, at such an hour.  It was spring break for me. I'd scheduled the surgery on the Monday after Easter so that I wouldn't have to take time off for it and, when the call came, I had just returned home from a run which, in hindsight, was either evidence of extremely poor judgment or the strength of my ability to ignore and deny the facts. I sat on the porch, cordless phone to my ear, furiously scribbling notes as I absorbed the news. It didn’t pack the same shock value as the first time I’d received this diagnosis, m...
Read more

Going Solo

I miss my right breast. There, I said it. It’s not often that I allow myself that luxury. It’s been nearly twelve years since I had it. My late breast was warm and soft, lovely really, even if it was a shave smaller than its mate, and parting with it saddened me deeply. I could say that I lost my breast, but that would imply that there was some remote possibility of getting it back. It’s more accurate to say that I removed it for medical reasons, and replaced it for cosmetic ones. If I had known how much the laborious process of reconstruction would hurt, I would have taken a pass on the effort. When the plastic surgeon explained the process of stretching that would precede placement of the actual implant, it did not occur to me that post-surgical skin might rebel against this strain on its capacity. However, once you’ve committed to the risk, you need to see it through to the reward, which is exactly what I did. I tolerated the pain for the eventual trophy—a cohesive sili...
Read more