Hand-Off Is Not As Easy As 1-2-3
What an interesting group of investors we were that day!
Thousands of us gingerly toted our most valuable assets into huge concrete vaults and turned them over to well-dressed investment managers about whom we knew next to nothing. We gave them complete control of our portfolio with these instructions:
“Here you go. I’ve nurtured this one-of-a-kind stock for years and watched it grow from infancy to its present (slightly overrated) value. Including all the dividends and capital gains, I’ve practically tripled my original investment all by myself. Now, I expect you to diversify and multiply this treasure and if its value slips by even a notch, I’m holding you personally responsible.
“Your past record is good, according to the agency that rates that sort of thing, but I demand that you excel to even greater heights despite an inadequate budget and a salary that’s nowhere near what you’re worth. I’ll expect reports on your progress every six weeks or so, and I’ll drop by occasionally to give you sage advice on how to do your job. I guess that covers it. I’ve been here five minutes already and I really need to get to work.”
You guessed it; school is back in session.
Hallelujah! Was that not the longest summer ever?
Summer is supposed to be relaxing and peaceful, lying by the pool and exotic vacations. But summer is just plain stressful with the same ol’ workload all day and frantic trips to crowded amusement parks on that rare long weekend.
We sure tried to make it an interesting time for the kids, but they seemed to think that every day was supposed to be a big adventure.
“Mom, can we go play miniature golf today?”
“Mom, can we go to the movies? There’s a great new one starting today. Maybe we can walk, even, because the man on television said that it was at a theater near you.”
“Mom, can we go skating on your lunch break?”
They think ATM stands for Ask The Mommie (for money).
My frugal suggestions of skating at the park or attending story time at the library were met with disdain. When we insisted that they read and do math problems several times a week, they looked at us like we had two heads.
“Do you think Troy Aikman spends the whole off season watching videos and eating Twinkies?” my husband asked them. “He’s working out and keeping his body fit. You need to keep your mind fit so that you’re ready to go when school starts.”
“Can’t we just go punt the football and measure how far it went? That’s math.”
“No,” we replied in unison.
We managed to get a few books read and learn our 4’s and 5’s times tables. But it was harder than pulling teeth, and I know a lot about pulling teeth.
I’ve been counting down the days until they could return to their full-time occupations, and now it’s arrived. Yet as we marched into the schoolhouse, sporting our best T-shirts and new lunch boxes, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of apprehension. So many changes and new faces. Strangers taking charge of our little pumpkins for several hours every day.
We found their colorful classrooms and our eldest son urgently waved me off with a pre-teen’s embarrassment. He didn’t need me. He started chatting with his friends and I was forgotten before I reached the classroom door.
My little one had eyes as big as those of a frightened doe. He carried his backpack in front of him like a canvas shield. He needed me. We found his room, his locker, his desk and his tiny chair. He recognized a few familiar faces and the tension eased from his shoulders - just a bit.
I introduced myself to his teacher. She greeted my son warmly. He smiled shyly and looked down at the ground. I patted his head one last time and gave him a tender glance that was a big hug and kiss all in one. He’d already warned me against gross displays of public affection.
I locked eyes with his teacher and gave her a look that was part petition and part prayer. No words could convey my odd potpourri of emotions: fear, faith, pride and relief.
She smiled back with that great, reassuring teacher smile and said, “He’ll be fine.”
I had to believe her.
xxxx