Lessons Learned from Typewriting Class

It was the summer of 1977 when my mother enrolled me in a typing class at my elementary school.  While neighborhood kids were spending their days “boogie boarding” in the Pacific Ocean, I was schlepping a green, 1960s Smith Corona typewriter to a typewriting summer school class.  (Today they would have called it Typing Camp.)

My mother had career aspirations for me long before I ever conceptualized that I’d have to earn a living one day and, to her, learning how to type efficiently would give me some competitive skill sets.  After all, she envisioned that I would become a secretary and work at some conglomerate and wear skirt suits with pantyhose everyday.

Looking back I can hardly blame her for trying to push me towards a path of dictation and memo writing.  She grew up in an era where most women didn’t enter the workforce and the few who did had limited roles.  Becoming a secretary was a big deal.

Like my mother, I push my own child to do some things she wouldn’t necessary take the initiative to do herself.

It started out benign.  We had regular nap and feeding times.  When solid food was introduced, we tested out her likes and dislikes.  Guacamole was often substituted for peas, hummus for carrots.  (Syd had eclectic taste buds.)  As she moved from infant to toddler, the need to socialize her became important.  Despite the tight neck grasp and sobs she’d give me when I’d push her to become independent in a group, I knew the benefits outweighed the brief trauma.

It was my job.  There were boundaries.  The word “no” was spoken literally and not a free ticket to whine or nag until a different decision was made out of sheer exhaustion on my part.  It was a true dictatorship.

As Syd grew into a full-fledged kid, my job became harder.  She was thinking more logically and beginning to take more ownership over her decisions.  It’s a hard transition for a parent to loosen the reigns and allow their kid to suffer negative consequences.  But life works that way.

When Syd was around 8 she asked me why I was so strict with her.  I told her that in the next few years she would morph into a tween and then a teen.  She would become skilled at eye-rolling and talking back.  Her hearing would wane, the truth would get stretched and she’d be compelled to do some idiotic things because her friends were doing idiotic things.  My added job responsibility was to prepare her to make sound choices.  I had 26 years on her and my experience outweighed her naivete.

My parental duties are much different now that Syd is 14.  In less than two years, she will be driving and in four years she will be heading off to college.  She knows how to cook a balanced meal, wash her own clothes and go to bed when she’s tired.  She knows right from wrong and the value of a dollar.  If I threw her out into the world all on her own today she’d flounder, yet not as badly as some.

That’s how I know my job is still far from over and even though she’s no longer that cute little kid who would rather lay in my arms over anything else, she still needs to be pushed.

My job now is to prepare her for her life ahead, after all, she will spend more time as an adult than she did as a child.  Her childhood lessons are to provide a foundation enabling her to use those skills, knowledge and talents throughout her life.

Larry Winget, author of “Your Kids Are Your Own Fault: A Guide for Raising Responsible, Productive Adults” believes that parents shouldn’t simply raise kids, but create adults.  He suggests we imagine the perfect 30-year-old and work our way backwards when we teach our kids values and skills.  (Read more.)

That’s exactly what my mother was trying to do for me.  There was not one chance that as a 4th grader I would willingly opt to spend my summer typing.  If anyone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, “secretary” wouldn’t have made the list. (I didn’t even know what a secretary did then.)

While my mother had no accurate sense of what path or profession I would choose, she did have the foresight to know that I needed a variety of skills; some of which I would never learn in school.  She, too, had 26 years on me and her experiences far outweighed what I had yet to learn.

My parenting style is still that of a dictatorship, but Syd has a greater understanding of why I push her.  She contributes to the household and earns her money running her businesses.  And one day when she’s off on her own and creating a life for herself, my hope is that I’ve prepared her well.

That’s my job.

(Thanks Mom!)

Melissa

Biz in a Boxx

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