Today’s guest post comes from Holly Abbe, who says she is a terrible gardener, but loves fresh tulips. She can make a perfect apple pie, but despises washing dishes. And while you will rarely find her organizing her home office, she finds great joy in organizing musical numbers and planning family outings. There is nothing she enjoys more than reading chapter books aloud to her children as they snuggle under their covers at bedtime. Thank goodness she is surrounded by a patient (dish-doing) husband and five lively children. When she is not mothering, baking, singing, or writing, you can find her teaching as an adjunct professor of English at Northern Virginia Community College.
My daughter bounded off the bus and burst into the house waving a white sheet of paper like a victory flag. “It’s a writing contest!” she announced, her face flushed with excitement. She shed her backpack and coat quickly, letting them fall in a pile on the floor while I looked over the form. Then she hovered at my elbow reading aloud the highlights: “Contest. Word count. Theme. Trophy!”
Now before I continue, there are two things I must confess. First, I’m a control freak. Of course, my desire for control has its limits. It does not, for example, leak into the realm of a perfectly ordered and perfectly tidy home (unfortunately). But when it comes to planning my life, making decisions, and all things regarding my five children, I really like to be in control. Second, I’m an adjunct professor of English, which means when it comes to writing and reading, I’m extremely hands-on.
So as Madi and I reviewed the rules for the writing contest, you can imagine how excited I became. My heart pumped, and my mind raced. I was all over it! The theme was: “Together We Can.” Oh, I had so many great ideas. A witty story line. Catchy character names. And an ending that was sure to wow the judges.
While I outlined the perfect story, Madi stared at me blankly. Then she went to her backpack on the floor and pulled out her well-worn notebook whose green cover was hidden behind an array of doodles and horse stickers. She opened it to a middle page and handed it over. It was the beginning of her story—a fiction piece about two friends, Peanut Butter and Jelly, who were entering a debate contest together. I read her first couple paragraphs and thought (thank goodness I didn’t say it out loud) No No No, this will never work. I tried making some simple suggestions, but Madi had her mind set on her original idea. Next, I tried some less subtle tactics, asking leading questions that I hoped would help her see the folly of her story line. She wasn’t moved. And then, I’m ashamed to say, I actually stormed off—as in, stomped upstairs, went to my room, and brooded.
After a few moments of indulgent pouting and juvenile fuming, I had a moment of clarity. I found myself thinking about the first story I ever wrote. The story was titled “The Pretty Pink Princess,” and it was just as awful and unoriginal as it sounds. But to my parents’ credit, they did nothing but offer praise and encouragement. Their actions warded off the worst possible kind of Writer’s Block: self doubt. Sitting there on my bed, I realized I had some parental repenting to do.
I returned downstairs and apologized to my daughter. I asked her to read aloud what she already had written, and I chose to offer words of encouragement and praise, just like my parents had done years ago. Madi worked hard on her story for the rest of the week. She wrote and edited and wrote some more. Ahh, it made my writer-mother heart swell.
A few weeks later, we attended the awards ceremony for the contest. As Madi stood in a line with the six other finalists, ready to read her entry aloud, she twisted the paper in her hands nervously. I was nervous too. I tried to prepare myself for whatever the contest outcome might be. Her story was good. But what if, just what if, Madi did not win the contest? Could I accept her loss and squelch the horrible “I told you so” feeling? Could I be adult-enough, or better yet, compassionate-enough, to be proud of my daughter and her accomplishment without a trophy? I sure hoped so.
Finally, it was Madi’s turn. She approached the podium and began to read…tentatively at first. She recited the first joke of the story—when Jelly insults Peanut Butter by saying, “At least people aren’t allergic to me!” And the audience responded with hearty laughter. I watched with joy as Madi’s confidence began to grow. Her shoulders straightened, and her voice became strong. She read with inflection and expression. And I found myself forgetting about trophies and focusing on something much more important. There was my young daughter, reading a story she had written by herself, reaping the reward of her work. Not a physical, glittery reward, but the priceless reward of self esteem.
I shuddered to think how close I had come to robbing my daughter of this moment. While stepping back as a parent was not easy for me, it was exactly what my daughter needed in order to step forward. I knew then that the outcome of the contest didn’t matter at all. I leaned forward in my seat to take it all in. I listened to the sound of my daughter’s voice as she read the last lines of her story, and I relished her smile—full of shining confidence—as she looked up and proclaimed, “The End.”
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