Why I call myself a "Tiger Mom"



Hayride with the kiddos, October 2011

 Even as a young mother at 19, I knew I wanted my son to be great. I also set out to prove to the world that all teenage mothers were not irresponsible, incapable “children raising children.” I was a mother on a mission to shatter a stereotype, and determined not to become a statistic. Shortly after giving birth to my son Miles in 1996, I promptly moved out of my parent’s house, and began my journey into super-motherhood. I was armed with an iron resolve and an arsenal of books spouting philosophies ranging from Dr. Spock, to "Ferberizing," to attachment parenting, to potty training in a day... not to mention "Girlfriend’s Guides", "What to Expect" manuals, yoga for babies, "Baby Einstein," the Merck Manual and the list goes on.  I boasted 10 years of sibling-rearing under my belt, had already experienced my share of sleepless nights, vomit in hair, and poopy diapers. But I didn’t just want to raise my son. I wanted to cultivate him. I wanted to carefully develop his mind into a super-processor, and convince him that he was capable of any and everything he put his mind to. To achieve said goal, I thought it best to subscribe to a variety of techniques and methods until  I started seeing results and then weed out the ones that didn’t work.

As a result, my son ended up with toys bearing only black, white and red colors based upon research saying these colors stimulated infant brain development. He also had gross motor development toys, electronic toys that taught babies about cause and effect, musical instruments, chunky books, toy cars,  imaginative play sets, easel and paint sets, sand art, pots and pans, trikes, wagons, blocks, toys that taught ABC’s, writing, math, flash cards, workbooks, and even a bath time doll to teach him how to be nurturing. Not to mention karate lessons at 3 years old, a personal computer in his bedroom at 4 years old, piano lessons at 5 years old, soccer lessons at 6, and every video game console on the market by the age of 7. By the time he was legally required to enter kindergarten he was reading chapter books on a third grade level, a feat I had accomplished all by myself, and he knew how to run network cables through a building thanks to his father’s IT expertise. All who met him could not believe how articulate, intelligent and well behaved he was, with parents barely 25 years old. 

By 2001, I was pregnant with his baby sister, and in 2003, a second sister joined the family. His two female siblings were born 5 and 7 years his junior, and in 2004, I took the three of them on a 6 month excursion to Israel.  This was followed by a divorce, and needless to say things began to get very complicated, very fast.  All of a sudden I was a single working mother of three, receiving public assistance, arranging long distance visitations with Dad; and then, needing to choose a free public school in the District of Columbia, which was ranked 51^st in the nation for education.  Along with public school came the issue of peer influence. Almost instantly, fashion was a huge concern, and there was a new social competition that was previously a non-issue in our household. In public schools, and on the soccer fields of our nation’s capital, we encountered the sons and daughters of politicians, lawyers, doctors, professors, diplomats and other highly paid professionals. We learned that Washington, DC is what’s considered a “company town” and that there are cliques or “social circles” to be navigated, invited into or ostracized from. The kids’ birthday parties were not celebrations of another year, but opportunities to impress other parents with your entertaining savior faire. Overnight it seemed all of my applauded teenage efforts were looking like feeble attempts to “keep up with the Jones’s” (or the Kardashians for that matter).

Well, I am not one to be outshined, so I kicked it into high gear- enrolling the kids in all sorts of extracurricular activities ranging from chess club, to dance class to art lessons. Just as I was on the brink of being a helicopter/overscheduling/soccer mom, or giving it all up and becoming an austere family of monks, Amy Chua released her notorious memoir, The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and I devoured it like a vulture mom. What I learned most from Chua’s memoir, was that despite all of her antics and seemingly over the top ambition, the driving force behind her actions was an intense love for her children, and an unshakable desire to push them to excellence. Her words reminded me of my 19 year old self, staring down into the eyes of my first born and dreaming of the day I would watch him recite his inaugural oath as the umpty-umpth president of something or other.

Remarkably, Chua’s book helped me rediscover my passion for parenting. I was reminded of the awesome power and responsibility of being charged with creating new people. A parent can turn a child into something great, or destroy a life. Or even worse, through indifference a parent could break a child’s soul. Tiger Mother inspired me to keep pushing for excellence. Not to allow the pretentious, seemingly better off parents discourage me from aspiring to greatness for myself, and those whose lives I have been entrusted with directing. Feeling empowered and encouraged, after putting her book down, I promptly enrolled both daughters in the local youth orchestra program, sought out high achieving public charter schools, and informed my son that “C’s” on his report card were no longer acceptable if he expected to wear clothes bearing designer labels.

But what most inspired me about Amy Chua, was her bottomless well of motivational energy. When I get tired at the end of a long work day, and don’t feel like pushing a daughter a little harder on her cello, or giving another some extra multiplication practice, or demanding my son read two extra chapters of his textbook, I just think of Amy, the real tiger, with enough fire and drive to argue with her girls late into the night over homework, practice or chores. Her vitality and determination has made her daughters confident, brilliant and successful.  Those are traits every parent desires for their children, whether they are homeless, or billionaires. I will never again feel guilty about denying them a passing fad in favor of an excursion to a museum or cultural event; or skimping on birthday party favors, to add extra padding to their college funds. I can see the bigger picture now. The tiger mom never gave up on her cubs, and I refuse to give up on mine.