I declared to my daughter at the beginning of the school year I was not going to 10th grade this year, I had already been to 10th grade and I was not repeating it like I did with her in 9th grade last year. What that meant for her was I was not going to bug her about her homework or track that she was doing it. She knows my expectations and it’s too stressful for me to ride her all the time about homework.

It has apparently helped her stress level, too. In the car on the way home one day, I mentioned something about how much better it is for me not going to 10th grade and she exclaimed that she likes that I’m not going to 10th grade, because she’s a lot more relaxed this year than last. I didn’t know whether to be elated or deflated. I tend to torture myself over stuff I did in the past, so maybe I was stuck in my mistakes of last year. But I was very happy she was less stressed and at that moment felt like I was the best mom in the world for backing off. I figured she just needed ownership, and by getting too involved I was taking it away from her.

Not only did I quit bugging both my girls about their homework, but I lifted the moratorium on recreational computer usage during the week, telling them when to go to bed, practicing piano, getting themselves up in the morning and they have to make their own lunches this year.

I had given them their freedom; they better not mess it up.

It all felt quite luxurious for me not to have these additional things to worry about. I was there if they needed help, but it wasn’t my responsibility.

I have to admit it kinda killed me not to stick my nose into their business. So when I got a letter from my oldest daughter’s school informing me she wasn’t performing as well as she could in one of her classes, I flipped. I’m sure I looked frightening when I stormed into the computer room and thrust that letter into her face.

She looked at it and calmly said, “I knew about this, and I’ll take care of it.”

I got even more infuriated and told her she just lost her computer privileges during the week, she couldn’t do her homework in her room where I couldn’t see her, she’d be reporting to me every day about her homework and showing me she got it done, and she’d be on a strict schedule every day until the end of the quarter, then we would see if she pulled it together.

I stalked back to my bedroom, mumbling about how I knew I shouldn’t trust her to run her own life, she’s 15, what does she know. My husband was in there, and although I wouldn’t call what he does “active parenting” in these situations, he was there to listen. I rambled on about all of the above.

Then it hit me, I had just yanked the rug out from under my daughter and told her I didn’t trust that she could fix this herself. In five minutes of ranting, I just destroyed whatever confidence she had built up. I didn’t even give her a chance to explain or tell me her plan. What I should have done, I told my husband, was tell her I knew about the problem, give her to the end of the quarter to fix it, and then we would revisit it if necessary. I should have told her I believed in her; I believed she could fix this. Oh, and by the way, she’s getting A’s in the rest of her classes.

So I did what any good parent would do, I pulled on my best parenting panties, and walked back into that room and offered to pay for any therapy she may need as an adult. I told her to forget what I said before, I told her I was sorry, and I told her I had faith in her and believed she could pull this class together.

She thanked me and told me she would remember my offer to pay for therapy.

You’ve heard the saying, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings?” I think every time a parent admits they are wrong, a therapist gets their diploma.

Gretchen is a stay-at-home mom committed to writing about the humor amidst the chaos of a family. You can read her daily blog and reach her at her website.

– livingwithgleigh.com.