I was a good mother tonight. I was the type of good mother than can drive a teacher crazy. I was the type of good mother that says to her kid, “Don’t do this homework.” I couldn’t help it. The teacher is responsible for the part of the kid that should be learning. I’m responsible for the whole kid. Whatever this assignment was for the part of the kid who is learning to write, it was a destructive assignment for the whole kid.

There really was nothing wrong with the assignment for most kids. The sixth grade does journals and obviously I’m not opposed to journals. This journal demonstrates that. No, the problem was that my kid was just not emotionally ready for the assignment. Not yet. Writing can be a catharsis but only if one is ready to think about a painful subject. There’s nothing wrong with letting painful subjects percolate and that’s what Day-Hay needs right now—her own time in which to let things percolate.

The assignment was to write five or six sentences and begin with “If I were President of the United States, I would deal with the terrorist attacks by...” Miss High Anxiety is having enough trouble dealing with the terrorist attacks themselves. Thinking about what happens next makes her feel panicky. The whole concept of war, whether a new type or not, upsets her (and many of the rest of us). She was horrified when the teacher suggested that they should be reading headlines and keeping informed. It’s all she can do to keep reasonably calm.

I was surprised when she chose to come to synagogue with us tonight. She could have gone to dance class. I know she’s struggling with why bad things happen to good people and I’ve been trying to let her approach God and religion on her own timetable too. There’s a time to push and a time to give space and my instincts tell me she needs hugs (or blown kisses which she’s often more comfortable with as she is not a hugger) and lots of space.

It’s hard to watch one’s child struggle. It’s even harder not to jump in and flail around trying to fix it. I just keep repeating to myself that I have to give her the gift of time and space. Sometimes that’s the hardest gift to give. But tonight I could do something for her. I could call and leave a voicemail message for her teacher, asking that the teacher give her time and space—and an alternate assignment. So I did.

I’m feeling like I did the right thing. Parenting teens and tweens rarely gives one that feeling. I think I’ll hold on to it a while. I’d better. It may help me not hold on to Day-Hay too tightly.

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