Living up to Our potential

Report cards came home last week, pages of numbers and letters inside innocuous manila envelopes waiting to bear witness on our children’s fitness as students and our prowess as parents. The papers annoy me, remind me of my joyless student fixation with straight A’s, the potential frustration of seeing all of your efforts reduced to a subjective digit. My husband and I glanced over our children’s report cards privately, noting comments on their effort, making sure their work is done and they are grade-level appropriate, and then we put them away, dishing out a special ice cream for their hard work and moving on to different topics (what they want for Christmas, who hit whom, etc,).

I recognize our great good fortune in living near a marvelous school with dedicated, talented teachers, and raising children who have (thus far) shown some aptitude in the 3Rs and have a personality makeup relatively conducive to sitting still for six hours. As a parent I wrestle with new report card-related issues; how hard to push, how much to help, how much to protest (the 90 minutes of homework required from my 8-year-old each day), just in general how to be in relation to my children and their school. Parents are told that we are responsible for our children “living up to their potential.” It feels like a huge weight and responsibility, but what does it mean?

Here’s the thing: I pursued good grades, a good college, and a good job as if they were the key to lasting joy and happiness, if not recognition and adulation. I cannot determine how I fixed on this path as the way to nirvana; my parents never pushed me that I can recall. They did work quite hard, and each had a good education of their own with plenty of smarts behind it, but I think it was the voice of our culture that I internalized. We are taught that a job title and the accompanying paycheck will not only bring security but happiness. I checked each item off the list, with little resultant joy. When I left the working world to focus on motherhood I struggled mightily with the loss of title and salary, trying to resurrect a meaningful identity out of the ashes.

I wrestled with depression and went to therapy, trying to determine who I was and why I had spent all of my parents’ money on an expensive college education if my salary now was zero and my various job titles included housekeeper, meal-preparer, laundress and driver. One of the stories I recalled vividly at this time was a scene with my father back when I was getting a C in freshman geometry. I sat studying for the final with tears running down my cheeks, pounding his nice desk with my compass. I wanted nothing less than an A, which would require an A on the final. My dad sat to my left, wisely out of range of the compass in my right hand, and said, “You will never be the best. Even world record holders are replaced after a few months, champions at the end of the next season. Let it go and just be the best Laura you can be.”

I rejected his advice, hands down. What new-agey cr** was this? I damn well would be the best; I would prove him wrong! Yet I never forgot this moment, and over two decades later I think I finally understand him. When teachers, coaches, and family urge me to get my children “up to their potential” I have a new reply.

Each of us has a completely unique makeup; the genetics of our DNA, RNA, mitochondria as well as our metabolic rates generate a matchless wavelength of energy. As Crosby, Stills and Nash said, “we are stardust,” and each a unique star at that. Combine our one-of-a-kind wavelength with the lens provided by our individual upbringing and experience, and we have a completely original voice to go with our cool vibrations and energy. The world needs each of us; our best energy fuels relationships, solves problems and builds solutions.

Each person must find the activities that they love, which fuel their energy, so it can be sent back into the world. Of course, we also need to do things that we don’t like. In order to function in a family, a classroom, in society we often need to meet expectations, fulfill obligations on time, and help problem-solve. Yet we can do those things best when we are finding joy in whatever sustains us, be it lego construction (my son), pencil sketches of horses (my daughter), or endless writing in a blog that no one else will read (guess who).

Just as I feel a sense of tragedy when I read of children dying due to poverty and preventable diseases, their voices and talents lost forever to the world, so do I mourn when my friends and acquaintances suffer through depression and self-doubt. The standards of the world are ruthless, reducing us to common denominators – numbers like salary, age, weight and titles like CEO, VP, Teacher, Mom. We may need to function in those capacities but that is not who we are. I feel most alive when I write, go for a long run outside, discuss deep issues with close friends, hug my spouse and my children. I can feel the energy vibrating within and outward and I want to run farther, sing and dance. On these occasions I feel like a star – in the heat- and light-emitting sense as opposed to a paparazzi draw.

I want my children to feel this energy, to function in the world and in society without accepting society’s labels or the trap of thinking that a good college and a good job are the sole requirement for lasting happiness. I want them to hear their inner voice, recognize and embrace their uniqueness and bring their own celestial energy to explore, solve problems, create and love. Somehow I think their report cards fall short of capturing this potential, that lists and rankings are feeble constructs before the star-like radiance of my children. Dad, it took 23 years, but I finally got it.