Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  And yet she refuses to be defined by the fate nature dealt her. Unlike her old man, who didn’t get “religion” about exercise and proper eating until later in life, Leila is on a regimen of exercise and mostly sensible eating that will hold her in good stead down the road.

  For high school, she chose to leave her predominately white private school for a public school filled with economic, racial, geographical, religious and ethnic diversity. Some kids at her new school have tried to pigeonhole her because of where she lives and who her parents are. Her response? “You don’t know me just because you know where I live. Don’t try it!”

  My older daughter, Courtney, has also worked very hard to avoid labels. When she was in middle school, her mother, Alice, and I were concerned because her grades were slipping. We hired tutors and got her extra help, but Courtney still struggled. After having her tested, we discovered she had an auditory processing problem. Courtney needed to break up information into smaller, digestible chunks.

  As time went on, we moved her from public school to a smaller private school and then another. After a while, she began to act out. Her label was “troubled student with learning issues.” The story could’ve played out in predictable ways, and for a while, it did. Difficulties at home, failing grades, a couple of episodes of running away. It was one of the most painful times of my life. I felt guilty for not being there for her because of the divorce, and that led to much soul-searching about what I could’ve done differently.

  Was Courtney’s label going to doom her to a life of educational and emotional failure? Her mom and I, and ultimately Courtney, refused to accept that label.

  After extensive research, therapy and discussion, Alice, Deborah and I all agreed that an Outward Bound–like experience in Maine followed by a therapeutic boarding high school was what Courtney needed. It was a gut-wrenching choice. For eight weeks, Courtney would be living in a tent with other girls, doing heavy-duty therapy, team-building exercises and soul-searching.

  I picked her up from her mother’s house on a Friday and told her on the drive back to my house about the plan and the timeline and that we needed to do something drastic if we were going to alter the path she was on. I was braced for an explosion, an eruption of denial and anger. Instead, she started to cry and said, “Okay, I want to do it.”

  The two of us flew from New York to Boston and then on to Bangor, Maine.

  While we were waiting for our connection, I had to use the bathroom. I was so worried Courtney might bolt. She seemed calm and accepting of the plan but given half a chance, might she try to put some distance between herself and the person taking her to an unknown fate?

  I asked a nice lady at a concession stand to keep an eye on her while I popped into the bathroom. That felt like the longest whiz I’ve ever taken. When I came back out, Courtney was gone. My heart sank. Where could she have gone?

  “Don’t worry. She’s in the bathroom,” said the concession lady.

  Sure enough, out came Courtney right on cue. I started breathing again.

  Forty-five minutes later, we were on our way to Bangor.

  When we landed, I rented a car and drove twenty minutes to the program’s headquarters, where I handed my daughter over to strangers to begin a journey with an unknown destination and outcome.

  After filling out forms and doing her intake interview, Courtney was relieved of all of her personal belongings. All she would wear for the next eight weeks were sweatpants, sweatshirts, jeans and T-shirts. No makeup, no iPods or cell phones. We were leaving our daughter in the hands of strangers who would hopefully help Courtney change her label from “troubled dropout” to “high school student with a hopeful future.”

  On her program graduation day, after a tearful reunion, we watched her get a certificate, and I could see the pride on my daughter’s face. She had set out to do something, albeit not of her choosing, and had accomplished her goal.

  DEBORAH

  The greatest lesson Nick (he’s thirteen and now insists on Nick) has taught me as a parent is to understand, acknowledge and embrace who your kids are versus who you want them to be. I have to let go of the notion of what is ideal for me and accept what reality is. Yes, I’d love for him to be a calm, easygoing kid who makes friends easily, has no trouble completing his homework and follows directions without resistance or anxiety. (Does that child actually exist?) But he is the beautiful child who was gifted to us, and I glow each time I see him. Sometimes when Nicky’s therapists talk to us about his capabilities, about how in some areas he is progressing and others not as much, it can be hard to accept. As parents, we all want our kids to soar. No one wants to hear their kid is below his age level or challenged in any aspect. But over the years, we have learned to meet Nicky where he is . . . and to accept him for who he is. And who he is is great! Right now he is obsessed with tae kwon do, movies and travel. He loves watching baseball and doing all kinds of physical activity. He is the first one to join me for a run through the park on a Saturday morning. We are learning how to nurture Nicky’s many interests with the hope that they lead to other exciting accomplishments for him.

  The same philosophy holds true for Leila even though she’s a completely different kid. She has a keen intellect and excels academically. She is not excited join me for a run in the park, or for any grueling physical activity for that matter. But she is passionate about theater and the arts. This is important to her, and therefore it must be just as important to us as her parents to help Leila become the best she can be too.

  I plead guilty to occasionally pressuring our kids . . . and then worrying about it. I want to push them to be their very best but of course without stressing them out. Like every other mom, I fret over whether I am raising our children well and the thought of adding to their concerns or insecurities breaks my heart. I wonder especially if I am too critical of those crop tops Leila likes to wear, or whether I am cracking the whip too hard on homework. I know I’m the kind of mom who can convey approval or disapproval with a single glance—that “look.” Am I too judgmental? Does she resent me for making her play volleyball last year? Will she always remember the time she burst into tears as I corrected her math homework?

  On the other hand, I think it’s good to set the bar high; I want both of my children to know that I expect them to have big goals. I want them to work hard and to aspire to great things because I know they have it in them. I have encouraged both kids to participate in sports, not because I expect them to be stars on the team but because I truly believe that team sports build character and discipline.

  But I also want them to be happy. And finding that balance is one of the most difficult parts of parenting. Some days I think I’ve nailed it . . . and on others I feel like I’ve ruined their lives. So I remain a work in progress every day, as do they.

  What I know for sure is that I have to listen to my kids. They don’t want me to label them any more than I want someone else to. They know who they are and I need to trust in them.

  It has not been easy . . . but I am trying to take cues and learn to button it up a little more—to keep my opinions to myself.

  I am trying to learn it with my husband and my children so they can be who they need to be and who they feel like they are and not who I want them to be.

  What a valuable lesson.

  Sometimes we have to get out of the way and let our children become who they feel they are.

  We don’t always realize it, but in our quest to shape our children into competitive, high-achieving people, we are often labeling them . . . casting them in the light we want to shine. In this era of praise parenting, we also have a tendency to create “positive” labels as our way of socially stamping our children in a way we want others to see them.

  But what I have discovered is that as hard as it may be to surrender our goals for our children, it represents the biggest vote of confidence in their abilities. I’m reminde
d of the movie The Breakfast Club, in which five students serve a Saturday detention together. They all come into it with preconceived ideas about one another because of the various cliques they come from; there’s the jock, the brain, the bad boy, et cetera. After spending the day together, they learn that each of them is much more than a stereotype. And to me, that is the biggest lesson for not labeling our children. We may miss out on knowing their true potential.

  DEBORAH

  Jumping into the Lake of Life

  Before his first birthday we knew that something was different about Nicky. On baby playdates, he mostly sat quietly, while the other babies scampered about. He cooed but he also drooled quite a bit more than other babies. We knew from our experience with Leila that by now he should be busier and pulling up.

  “Don’t worry. He’s just taking his time,” my mother-in-law, Isabel, consoled. “Albert was late to walk and talk,” she offered, “and look at him now!”

  We wanted to believe she was right. By eighteen months, Nicky was a cheerful, happy boy but still wasn’t walking and was uttering only a few words. We decided to begin testing, to find out what was happening with our sweet little guy. The doctor ordered a battery of tests, including hearing and cognitive exams. He also prescribed therapy to help develop Nicky’s low muscle tone in case he simply needed a physical jump-start. After several months, we were finally given a diagnosis of pervasive development disorder. In other words, Nicky was not autistic but was a slow developer with his motor, language and processing skills.

  By Nicky’s fourth birthday, when he entered preschool, he was walking and laughing and enjoying the company of his sister. But he still spoke very little and watched his classmates more than he interacted. It was wonderful to see him progress, but silently, we ached at his ongoing limitations. When other little boys rambunctiously jumped off the steps at school, or scaled the jungle gym, Nicky stepped back, frightened about navigating any uneven terrain. At a gym party, he ran and rolled around but never climbed the stairs to the slide or crawled through tunnels. Our boy would sometimes tremble at the top of a narrow staircase, frozen in midmotion.

  Nicky’s life now revolved around speech therapy, physical therapy and occupational therapy to help him button and open and twist with his chubby little fingers. We were blessed to find wonderful therapists, including a high-energy OT specialist named Lori Rothman. Lori, with her red hair, quick, toothy laugh and direct manner, was a godsend. Within months, she had coaxed Nicky to play on a tire swing in her gym and to try zipping up his coat. She was positive, encouraging and determined. In that New York way, Lori didn’t mince words. She believed in gentle truth and honesty. So it meant the world to us when one day she declared, “Your son is so determined and driven. That will take him far.” Then she said something that brought me to tears.

  “Don’t give up for a second!” she said. “He’s going to college and he’s going to do well in life! I just want you to know.” Lori often ended her sentences with “I just want you to know.”

  Over the years, it has been difficult and often painful watching Nicky strive, stumble, get back up and then achieve. It was heartbreaking for me to admit that he would not follow his sister into a competitive New York elementary school but would need to be admitted to a school for special needs. On more than one occasion I broke down in tears, mourning the things that Nicky may not be destined for. Let’s face it—we all have dreams for our kids tucked away in our minds. But Nicky has taught our family that dreams can morph into other magical and rewarding realities. Al was clear about that from the beginning. We simply have to have faith, and as Lori advised, not give up for a second.

  By the time Nicky was ready for kindergarten, Al and I had wrapped our minds around the idea that we would always be his advocates but that Nicky would chart his own unique path. We found a wonderful school for him that would turn all of our lives around. The Parkside School serves kids with special needs from all over the city, regardless of need. In this warm, happy building filled with loving teachers and therapists, Nicky thrived, learning to read, write, deliver book reports and even steal the show while participating in his first school play. Each day Nicky happily bounded up the stairs to claim his place in the school line. Was this really the same kid who was afraid to jump down two small steps at preschool?

  There were other successes over the years too—accomplishments that made Al and me incredibly proud. For example, Nicky became a skilled competitive swimmer. Then he discovered tae kwon do, which Leila had been taking. He wanted to do that too, and he has succeeded wildly. In fact, last summer he realized his longtime goal: he earned his black belt!

  Of course, there have been bumps along the way. Sometimes Nicky grew frustrated when he couldn’t write as quickly as he wanted or spit out his times tables, but he was making great progress, and most important, he was always determined. It didn’t occur to him that he couldn’t do what the others were doing. He always remained determined to keep trying.

  Despite his challenges, Nicky has been blessed with steely determination. One thing we’ve noticed is that he suffers from bouts of vertigo. When approaching a steep escalator or narrow staircase, he can become paralyzed. It once took him ten minutes to make that first step down, but once he did . . . he was filled with confidence and pride. “I conquered my fear,” he said later. Nicky longs for success more than anyone I’ve ever seen.

  I will never forget one particular Labor Day weekend at our country house. We had escaped the oppressive summer heat that had fallen over New York City most of the summer.

  Leila and Nicky have always looked forward to the time we spend together at the upstate house. It’s the only time all four of us are together with no outside distractions or obligations. It’s also the place where so many of life’s “firsts” have happened for our children: where Nicky first ran barefoot through the grass as a toddler on the front lawn and where Leila learned to ride a bike in the driveway and to swim in the pristine lake just down the hill.

  Although our home isn’t on the lake, our neighbors and friends Bill and Maggie do have a charming cottage that sits right next to the water. It’s a sweet community that reminds me of small-town Georgia, where people leave their doors open, kids can skip down the gravel driveway and you can hear cackling laughter late into the evening. Across from Bill and Maggie’s place is a beach club. Don’t let the name fool you. It’s basically a shack with a lifeguard stand and a sandy shoreline the homeowners’ association brought in to make a beach.

  (Side note: In the sixteen years we’ve owned that home, Al has never been in the lake. He thinks lakes are, and I quote, “squishy and icky!”)

  I mentioned that Nicky is a terrific swimmer. But that’s in a pool, not in the lake.

  It was no different on that warm Saturday afternoon in September. The hot summer days were giving way to cool, crisp mornings. Maggie and Bill had invited us all over for a last hurrah: a barbecue and a boat ride, the last of the summer. A final dip in the cool, fresh water sounded heavenly. Al had no interest in the boat or a dip, so he stayed behind to help guard the charcoal and the grill!

  Although Nicky loved swimming in a pool, he’s always been skittish of the vast depth of the lake. He had gotten in only once, lowering himself gingerly into the green water from the boat ladder as he clung tightly to a foam noodle.

  But today was different.

  Just as I was about to jump, he called to me to wait. After several starts and stops, my sweet, nervous guy had decided it was time to conquer a fear.

  He would jump in.

  He grabbed my hand, and together we plunged into the cold, refreshing water and bobbed up together, grinning and basking in the glow of success and cheers from everyone on deck.

  We were all shocked and happy. Nicky had leaped confidently into the water! Then he insisted on doing it again—plunging unaided into the eighteen-foot-deep lake.

  The m
ore he jumped, the more he wanted to do it again.

  When we got back to shore, we all felt triumphant. I also had a very special photo for Al that Leila had snapped, a shot that will remain dear for the rest of my days. Leila had caught the precious moment when Nicky and I jumped. It captured the essence of who Nicky truly is—a curious, brave young man jumping into the lake of life with abandon.

  Of course we take great pride in all of our children. But there is something so inspiring about Nicky’s sheer determination. Although he struggles in school, he is a hard worker who always does his best and never gives up. Even though reading came slowly for him, he’s now reading books like The Hunger Games alongside many of his friends. We learned early on to never say never when it comes to our son. We’re committed to nurturing him along his path and to doing our best not to get frustrated with his limitations.

  But what brings him and us the most pride is his mastery of tae kwon do. Nicky has aspired to become a black belt ever since he started the program five years ago. The kicks and forms haven’t always been easy. Nicky’s muscular strength wasn’t great when he began. But he was determined, always practicing his moves at home . . . often startling us with his loud “kiya!” He goes to class three or four days a week and has earned—really earned—belt after belt. He’s now just months away from his prized black belt!

  It can be hard as well as disappointing to watch your children struggle, because you want only the best for them.

  But we have learned to nurture each stage of his development until the next success comes along. It hasn’t been easy, but we’ve learned patience and acceptance. Our children can teach us many things, but the greatest lesson our son, Nicky, has taught us is to accept and embrace our kids for who they are instead of who we want them to be. It’s a simple lesson but sometimes hard to do. So often we mistake our goals and expectations for those of our children, losing sight of who they are and who they were meant to be.