‘90s FAMILY : Hey, a Mom Can Dream, Can’t She?

For parents of school-age children, this is the season of resolutions. It is in early September, not early January, when we review the last year and promise anew, however unrealistically, to do better as parents.

When my son and daughter head off to school on Thursday, they will no doubt have made their own silent pacts. I suspect their vows to themselves for the new academic year are modest: to avoid a trip to the principal’s office, to keep pencils (preferably sharpened) in their backpacks, to hang on to their backpacks, to remember their homework, to keep Mom at bay when they’ve messed up.

I imagine that they harbor, as well, their own Panglossian expectations for the year about to unfold: Their teacher won’t yell, there will be more pizza and fewer vegetables on the cafeteria’s lunch menu, tests will be easy, homework will be fun.

I remember that optimism, as bright as the new shoes I wore on my first days. Anything is possible in September. Honors as smartest-kid-in-the-class are up for grabs. So too is title of class clown.

My hopes for my children are far more modest, certainly more mundane. They’re good kids; they do well at schoolwork, they won’t (I hope) get into fights during recess or mouth off in class.

Sure, I hope they continue to take pride in their expanding skills and knowledge. Last year my daughter began first grade frustrated by her struggles with even the easiest Dr. Seuss books. By June, she could read “chapter books with no pictures.” Her broad smile when she finished that first of those big books still lingers in my mind’s eye.

Mostly, I know their progress will be less dramatic. I hope they take note and more importantly, take pleasure.

But my resolutions for myself--my goals for my behavior as their mother--seem to grow more grandiose with each September. I will read to my children each night, I swear it. This year I will not waver on our no-TV-or-friends-before-homework-is-done rule. I will remember to praise them more than I criticize them. We will finally get their bedrooms shipshape--and keep them that way. I will volunteer more at their schools. I will jealously guard weekends as family time when we will do meaningful, educational things. Like visit an art museum.

However, inevitably, late nights at work and late soccer practices crowd out our family reading time. After the first few busy weeks of school, my children bolt out of the house on Saturday morning, longing for time with their friends rather than with us. And Christmas vacation usually wreaks havoc with the television rule and with my dictum on clean bedrooms. By January, my resolutions become personal and far more modest. I’ll read a book a month. I’ll exercise at least twice a week.

But in September anything is still possible for parents. Anything. Even to believe that my children are smiling as they head out the door to school.