I like to think I stop short of being a butt-kisser, but it’s possible I do a little of that from time to time as well, especially in classroom situations.
When a teacher or a coach, or a lecturer, or a random person in the elevator makes a request, my eyes are the first to light up and make contact. Whether I can actually help, answer, elucidate or assist is beside the point. I simply can’t resist getting involved.
I am the student in the front row with my hand in the air; the audience member eagerly clapping along, nodding my head or parroting whatever refrain I’ve been asked to repeat; the lady in the library who, overhearing a conversation between a patron and an employee, joins in and makes several unsolicited book and author suggestions.
Annoying? Perhaps. But I’m just oh-so-happy to share my knowledge. I love to participate. I follow directions well. I like to be helpful. I strive to please. Which is why it’s sometimes difficult for me to watch my children take instruction: Because they don’t. At least not the way I would.
Often I sit in the back of my son’s fencing class, ostensibly reading or writing, but ultimately unable to keep myself distracted from the figures in white jackets and black mesh masks thrusting foils at one another, parrying and redoubling. On occasion, the instructor will — as instructors do — offer instruction, such as: “Try to make your advance faster.” “Keep your torso level when you retreat.” “Stay low — really bend those knees.” At which point my eyes immediately seek my son to see if he is complying.
If, for some reason, he is not — if his legs remain relatively straight, say — my body becomes rigid and I watch, waiting, wondering why he’s not doing what he’s been told.
“She said bend your legs. Bend them,” I think, willing him to obey. And when he doesn’t, I press my lips together, resisting the urge to call out to him, correct him, clarify the instructions he’s been given as though English is his second language, and one he can only understand when I am the speaker.
Were I the student instead of the observer, I would bend my legs, exaggeratedly if necessary, to show that I had heard and was responding. If I didn’t hear a “Good, Belinda,” or, “That’s it,” within a few seconds, I would get the instructor’s attention and ask, “Like this?” until I knew I had it perfect. Then, after class, I would go home and practice bending my legs in the mirror, 50, or maybe even 100 times, until I was certain I had it and would not require that particular instruction ever again.
Some people may call such behavior obsessive. I prefer to think of it as thorough.
Then again, I was a perfectionist growing up, an overachiever who pushed myself to unhealthy extremes and self-medicated with a mixture of marathon television sessions and workaholism, so I recognize that my approach to learning may not always be the best. And that’s why, aside from a few missteps early on which elicited glares and sullen behavior from my kids, my bitten tongue has remained firmly between my teeth.
It’s been hard at times to remain unobtrusive, but I work to keep myself in line, resolved never to be one of THOSE parents: The sort that yell at coaches, push their kids too hard and suck all the fun out of what is allegedly recreational activity.
As an over-zealous people-pleaser, it’s been hard for me to take a back seat, but doing so has helped me to learn one of the most important parenting skills of all: Knowing when to shut up.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).