Our son was intelligent; that I was sure of. Ever since he was very young, he had exhibited an ability to grasp relationships, to understand his environment, to speak clearly, to be creative, and to remember and retell jokes. But school was another matter. He didn’t enjoy it or seem to grasp its importance. 

I had been a teacher, and it was easy to take on feelings of responsibility for making sure this child didn’t jeopardize his future by doing poorly in school. So I hovered and prodded, lectured and encouraged in every way I could think of. Homework times were stressful and disappointing. Privately, I wondered if our son was afraid that if he got good grades, his dad and I would put pressure on him to go to college. 

This situation—which was probably as distressing for our son as it was for me—prevailed for some years, until it became unbearable. At this point my husband told me he felt it was time to insist that our son, now well into high school, take responsibility for his schoolwork without my constant supervision. I agreed, but didn’t think I could find any words or arguments that I hadn’t already used over and over again to explain this change to our son.