Schools, Lies, and Profiteroles
The relationship between schools and parents is complicated. Independent schools expect parents to accept several roles. Each is distinct, and some conflict with each other: customer, donor, volunteer, advocate, collaborator, and brand ambassador. I have yet to find another business model that expects so much from its customers or clients.
Given this complicated dynamic and ever-present perfectionist parenting, we should not be surprised by stress-induced behavior from parents. When I was a school administrator, there were many team meetings with an agenda item devoted to puzzling out parents' erratic or odd behavior that affected the students, faculty, and administration. We rarely took a hard look at our behavior and policies to find solutions and were quick to blame parents.
When I attended a five-day writing workshop held at Omega Institute, one of our assignments was to write about a lie we told. It was a revelation that the one lie that stood out in my life occurred years ago at a school in my role as a parent:
Señor Branson was a year out of college when my daughter's independent school hired him to teach middle school Spanish. He was eager, engaging, and endlessly fascinating to my daughter and her friends.
I started a job that year after a long hiatus from paid work. Now, I had two jobs, one paid and one unpaid, and some attention to detail waned on the home front. Anna came home from school one Wednesday, and as she unpacked her planner, she gasped and told me that her assignment for Señor Branson was due tomorrow.
"What is the assignment," I asked while making dinner, packing lunches for the next day, and mentally planning for a PTA meeting I was to lead on Friday.
She said, "We all have to make a Spanish dish for our fiesta tomorrow, and I said I would make profiteroles."
I was one of those moms with ingredients on hand for almost anything. Cookies, nachos, seven friends wanting to stay for dinner, no problem. But, profiteroles, probably not. We checked a cookbook. I had many at the time. Profiteroles are a two-day affair involving pastry, cream, and chocolate sauce. You need a degree to make them.
We panicked. We got in the car and drove to BJ's, where they had giant containers of 50 profiteroles in the freezer section and quart containers of chocolate sauce.
She said, "But Mom, I have to make the profiteroles."
"Sorry," I said, "We'll have to fake it."
With the finished profiteroles in hand, we staged the process and photographed it. We took pictures of some raw ingredients, the mixer, and profiteroles on a baking sheet. And my daughter, with streaks of flour on her face, was in all the pictures. I made her an accomplice in the lie.
She took the fake photos and the profiteroles to school for the fiesta, and they were a big hit. The kids loved them, the teachers loved them, and the head of school loved them. I know this because Señor Branson sent me a note telling me how everyone loved them and that he had not tasted anything so authentic since he was in Spain for his junior year abroad. In the note, he wondered if I would come in and teach the whole class how to make them.
I didn't know what to do. I was the PTA president and a member of the board of trustees! I was now an unethical, lying parent who was not only incapable of recognizing a teachable moment to her daughter but crafted the deceit and made her my wing-woman in it. I had to tell Señor Branson. I sent a message to the school that I wanted to meet with him the next day. I hardly slept that night.
The next day at school, I looked up into the face of the tall, impossibly young, and delightfully handsome Señor Branson and apologized for my lapse in judgment and that we did not make the profiteroles. I explained that Anna mismanaged her schedule, I was overwhelmed with my new job, and we panicked. I was sorry that I lied, and I was ashamed.
He said, "You could have told me the truth. I would have understood."
He paused and said, "Do you think you could bring more profiteroles from BJ's, though? They were delicious."
I spent a lot of time in perfectionist parenting mode before I knew it had a name. I wish I felt empowered by my children's schools and the societal zeitgeist to feel confident as a good-enough parent. We learn perfectionism from our parents; it's generational, and I'm reminded of that when I see it manifest in my now-adult children. Having realistic goals and benchmarks is different from perfectionism. As school leaders, I hope we can foster confidence, build access to knowledge and networks, and create a safe environment for students, teachers, and parents to work together to find the right balance.
School leaders must create boundaries, rules, and policies that frame and uphold the school's mission and philosophy. They must also ensure that the school can deliver on its promises and that parents are clear about their role(s). It is best to approach those policies with grace and understanding for the unusual demands we place on the people who buy our outstanding program and who parent its most precious beneficiaries.
The author, Jill Goodman, is a consultant working with independent school leaders to advance their school’s mission, enhance their processes, and bolster their skills. Learn more about all services here.
