My daughter, Sarah, didn’t have a behavior problem in elementary school. She had a sit-down-be-quiet-and-stay-focused problem. Her third-grade teacher had little patience for Sarah’s hyperactivity and sent her to the principal’s office on a regular basis. I spent a great deal of time on her elementary school campus, helping out in the classroom and attending sporting events. One Friday afternoon, I ran into the principal. Sarah had made multiple trips to his office by then. He made an off-the-cuff comment I remember clearly, and I can still picture the corridor we were standing in when he said, “With some children, you can’t be an armchair parent.”
 
I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded like a reprimand. The principal seemed to think that I sat around with my feet up rather than actively parenting my child.
 
Several months later, I was reclining in front of the television while the kids were playing in their rooms. I heard a clap of thunder and noticed my son had left his gardening toys outside.
 
“Scotty,” I hollered. “Please bring your toys inside. It’s about to rain.”
 
“OK, Momma,” he called back, and hurried out the sliding glass door. I returned to watching my TV program.
 
Within minutes, the heavens let loose a torrent of rain. I hopped up and noticed the yard was empty. I called Scott’s name out into the rainstorm, but he didn’t answer. I hurried to the garage, where I found my preschooler sitting on the concrete floor, taking off his wet shoes. His child-size wheelbarrow, rake, and shovel were lined up to drip dry against the garage wall behind him. My eyes widened in disbelief. My son was barely three years old. He had done everything perfectly without any supervision. I walked inside and plopped on the couch, incredulous. I had only known how to parent Sarah. I had never experienced this ease. As I propped my feet back up, I said aloud, “So that’s what armchair parenting is.”