Tutoring Kids Quotes

Jamie: Please don't pretend like you know me, ok? Landon: But I do, I do. We've had all the same classes in the same school since kindergarten. Why you're Jamie Sullivan. You sit at lunch table 7. Which isn't exactly the reject table, but is definitely in self exile territory. You have exactly one sweater. You like to look at your feet when you walk. Oh, oh, and yeah, for fun, you like to tutor on weekends and hang out with the cool kids from "Stars and Planets." Now how does that sound? Jamie: Thoroughly predictable, nothing I haven't heard before. Landon: You don't care what people think about you? Jamie: No.

Fourteen Kids, Two Dads, One Mom, Two Nannies, Two Tutors—and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

that the more children are read to, the higher their test scores are—sometimes by as much as a half a year’s schooling. This was true regardless of a family’s income. He goes on to say that reading aloud has proven to be so powerful in increasing a child’s academic success that it is more effective than expensive tutoring or even private education.

You are so much more than you let on—but in a way that makes you priceless.” Priceless? Don’t you dare cry, Zahra.  “You’re selfless, caring, and willing to go above and beyond to help those around you. You tutor kids for free, and you bring a grumpy old man bread and cookies. And the selfish part of me wanted to steal a piece of you for myself. You reminded me of what it was like to not feel so damn lonely all the time, and I didn’t want to lose that.

What the hell just happened?” Jesper asked. He was leaning against the railing, his rifle beside him. His hair was mussed, his pupils dilated. He seemed almost drunk, or like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. He always had that look after a fight. Helvar was bent over the railing, vomiting. Not a sailor, apparently. At some point they’d need to shackle his legs again. “We were ambushed,” Wylan said from his perch on the forecastle deck. He had his sleeve pushed up and was running his fingers over the red spot where Nina had seen to his wound. Jesper shot Wylan a withering glare. “Private tutors from the university, and that’s what this kid comes up with? ‘We were ambushed?’” Wylan reddened. “Stop calling me kid. We’re practically the same age.” “You’re not going to like the other names I come up with for you. I know we were ambushed.

Finally, it was clear that the real innovation in Korea was not happening in the government or the public schools. It was happening in Korea’s shadow education system—the multimillion-dollar afterschool tutoring complex that Lee was trying to undermine. I realized that, if I wanted to see what a truly free-market education system looked like, I would have

If you have no arms To hold your crying child but your own arms And no legs but your own to run the stairs one more time To fetch what was forgotten I bow to you If you have no vehicle To tote your wee one but the wheels that you drive And no one else to worry, “Is my baby okay?” When you have to say goodbye on the doorsteps of daycare or on that cursed first day of school I bow to you If you have no skill but your own skill To replenish an ever-emptying bank account And no answers but your own to Satisfy the endless whys, hows, and whens your child asks and asks again I bow to you If you have no tongue to tell the truth To keep your beloved on the path without a precipice And no wisdom to impart Except the wisdom that you’ve acquired I bow to you If the second chair is empty Across the desk from a scornful, judging authority waiting For your child’s father to appear And you straighten your spine where you sit And manage to smile and say, “No one else is coming—I’m it.” Oh, I bow to you If your head aches when the spotlight finally shines on your child because your hands are the only hands there to applaud I bow to you If your heart aches because you’ve given until everything in you is gone And your kid declares, “It’s not enough.” And you feel the crack of your own soul as you whisper, “I know, baby. But it’s all mama’s got.” Oh, how I bow to you If they are your life while you are their nurse, tutor, maid Bread winner and bread baker, Coach, cheerleader and teammate… If you bleed when your child falls down I bow, I bow, I bow If you’re both punisher and hugger And your own tears are drowned out by the running of the bathroom faucet because children can’t know that mamas hurt too Oh, mother of mothers, I bow to you. —Toni Sorenson

So she’d tutored Willing on printing the alphabet, since they didn’t teach handwriting in school anymore. Most of his classmates couldn’t write their own names. This was progress? But that was an old-fashioned concern that kids considered drear.

He hired me on the spot for forty dollars a week, in cash. I was thrilled. It was my first real job. Babysitting and tutoring and doing other kids' homework and mowing lawns and redeeming bottles and selling scrap metal didn't count. Forty dollars a week was serious money.

We’re told that parents push their children too hard to excel (by ghostwriting their homework and hiring tutors, and demanding that they triumph over their peers), but also that parents try to protect kids from competition (by giving trophies to everyone), that expectations have declined, that too much attention is paid to making children happy. Similarly, young adults are described as self-satisfied twits—more pleased with themselves than their accomplishments merit—but also as being so miserable that they’re in therapy. Or there’s an epidemic of helicopter parenting, even though parents are so focused on their gadgets that they ignore their children. The assumption seems to be that readers will just nod right along, failing to note any inconsistencies, as long as the tone is derogatory and the perspective is traditionalist.

I'd hoped for someone who was remarkably intelligent, but disadvantaged by home circumstance, someone who only needed an hour's extra tuition a week to become some kind of working-class prodigy. I wanted my hour a week to make the difference between a future addicted to heroin and a future studying English at Oxford. That was the sort of kid I wanted, and instead they'd given me someone whose chief interest was in eating fruit. I mean, what did he need to read for? There's an international symbol for the gents' toilets, and he could always get his mother to tell him what was on television.

You can take a kid to a thousand lessons and offer them the finest tutors, but that’s not the objective of a parent. Your main task here is not to impart skills. You do not exist to make your kids marketable to the corporate world. You are here to shape character as securely and fully as you can before they leave your home.

Since the 1980s, a growing body of research finds that mattering—the feeling that we are valued and add value to others—is key to positive mental health and to thriving in adolescence and beyond. “Mattering” offers a rich, almost intuitive framework for understanding the pressure assailing our kids—and how to protect them from it. It is as profound as it is practical. It doesn’t involve spending more money on tutors or coaches or adding another activity to an already overpacked schedule. Instead, it offers a radical new lens for how we as adults—parents, teachers, coaches, and mentors—see our kids and communicate to them about their worth, potential, and value to society.

Once they arrive, affirmative action kids are generally left to sink or swim academically. Brown (University) offers plenty of counseling and tutoring to struggling students, but, as any academic Dean will tell you, it's up to the students to seek it out, something that a drowning minority student will seek to avoid at all costs, fearing it will trumpet a second-class status.

Thank you, Sick Husband, because what I mistakenly thought was just your cold with a minor fever is apparently something closer to onset Black Plague with a side of liver disease. According to your indications, you’re presenting pandemic symptoms from Europe, circa 1300 AD. We should alert the CDC! I mean, sure, I pulled off carpool, dinner, homework tutoring, and four kids’ practices last week when I had strep and the flu, but you just stay in bed with your scratchy throat. We don’t want to infect the children.

Is motherhood really optional when you’re a perfectly normal woman married to a perfectly normal man? When I was in college, I took on a volunteer position at a literacy organization and tutored teen mothers. It was hard work and tended to be disheartening, as the young women seldom earned their diplomas. My supervisor said to me over espresso and croissants, “Have a baby and save the race!” He was smiling, but he wasn’t kidding. “If girls like this are having all the kids, and girls like you stay childless and fancy-free, what’s going to happen to us as a people?” Without thinking, I promised to do my part.

Only date people who respect your standards and make you a better person when you’re with them. Consider the message of the movie A Walk to Remember. Landon Carter is the reckless leader who is skating through high school on his good looks and bravado. He and his popular friends at Beaufort High publicly ridicule everyone who doesn’t fit in, including the unfashionable Jamie Sullivan, who wears the same sweater day after day and gives free tutoring lessons to struggling students. By accident, events thrust Landon into Jamie’s world and he can’t help but notice that Jamie’s different. She doesn’t care about conforming and fitting in with the popular kids. Landon’s amazed at how sure of herself she seems and asks, “Don’t you care what people think about you?” As he spends more time with her, he realizes she has more freedom than he does because she isn’t controlled by the opinions of others, as he is. Soon, despite their intentions not to, they have fallen in love and Landon has to choose between his status at Beaufort...and Jamie. “This girl’s changed you,” his best friend yells, “and you don’t even know it.” Landon admits, “She has faith in me. She wants me to be better.” He chooses her. After high school graduation, Jamie reveals to Landon that she’s dying of leukemia. During her final months, Landon does all he can to make her dreams come true, including marrying her in the same church her mother and father were married in. They spend a wonderful summer together, truly in love. Despite Jamie’s dream for a miracle, she dies. Heartbroken, but inspired by Jamie’s belief in him, Landon works hard to go to medical school. But he laments to her father that he couldn’t fulfill her last desire, to see a miracle. Jamie’s father assures him that Jamie did see a miracle before she died, for someone’s heart had truly changed. And it was his. Now that’s a movie to remember! Never apologize for having high standards and don’t ever lower your standards to please someone else.

drank in the vision of his mate. The sole woman to make his bear and the man he was, whole. The aching gape in his chest filled with hope. Then it occurred to him, she didn’t remember the geeky teen with glasses, bad haircut and braces. The image of him as a super skinny kid with clothes that fell off his gangly body wasn’t really going to get in his way. He could seduce Nita as the man he was now. Bigger. Stronger. Self-assured. He was the Chief of the Stone Bear Clan. He knew his body had changed. He knew women wanted him. Hell, watching lust flare in Nita’s eyes while he’d been on the floor had been unreal. He didn’t have the self-esteem issues now that he did back when he wanted to ask her to the movies but ended up offering to tutor her instead. Though that had been one of the best mistakes he’d ever made.

What, I wonder, does the reader know of large families? More important, how much can he stand hearing on the subject, from me? I must say at least this much: If you're an older brother in a large family (particularly where, as with Seymour and Franny, there's an age difference of roughly eighteen years), and you either cast yourself or just not very advertently become cast in the role of local tutor or mentor, it's almost impossible not to turn into a monitor, too. But even monitors come in individual shapes, sizes, and colors. For example, when Seymour told one of the twins or Zooey or Franny, or even Mme Boo Boo (who was only two years younger than myself, and often entirely the Lady), to take off his or her rubbers on coming into the apartment, each and all of them knew he mostly meant that the floor would get tracked up if they didn't and that Bessie would have to get out the mop. When I told them to take off their rubbers, they knew I mostly meant that people who didn't were slobs. It was bound to make no small difference in the way they kidded or ragged us separately. Но, питам се, какво знае читателят за многочислените семейства? И което е по-важното, ще изтърпи ли не друг, а аз да му обясня този въпрос? Мога да кажа поне следното: ако си по-голям брат в многочислено семейство (в което разликата между Сиймор и Франи е горе-долу осемнайсет години) и сам си поел или някой е имал непредпазливостта да ти възложи ролята на наставник и опекун, почти невъзможно е да не се превърнеш и в надзирател. Но дори надзирателите се произвеждат в различни форми, размери и цветове. Така например, когато Сиймор кажеше на близнаците, на Зуи или Франи или дори на мадам Бу Бу (която е само две години по-малка от мен) да си събуват галошите, преди да влязат в апартамента, всеки от тях възприемаше думите му така: не се ли събуете, ще оставите стъпки по пода и после Беси ще трябва да се трепе с парцала. А когато аз им кажех да си събуят галошите, те го приемаха като обида: който не се събува е палачор. Оттук произтичаше и разликата в начина, по който те се шегуваха с него и с мен.

In 1987, a rich donor in Philadelphia “adopted” 112 black sixth graders, few of whom had grown up with fathers in their home. He guaranteed them a fully funded education through college as long as they did not do drugs, have children before getting married, or commit crimes. He also gave them tutors, workshops, and after-school programs, kept them busy in summer programs, and provided them with counselors for when they had any kind of problem. Forty-five of the kids never made it through high school. Of the sixty-seven boys, nineteen became felons. Twelve years later, the forty-five girls had had sixty-three children between them, and more than half had become mothers before the age of eighteen. So what exactly was the “racism” that held these poor kids back that could have been erased at the time and created a different result for these children? The answer is none. Social history is too complex to yield to the either/or gestures of KenDiAngelonian propositions. What held those poor kids back was that they had been raised amid a different sense of what is normal than white kids in the burbs.

Reader's Digest (Reader's Digest USA) - Clip This Article on Location 56 | Added on Friday, May 16, 2014 12:06:55 AM Words of Lasting Interest Looking Out for The Lonely One teacher’s strategy to stop violence at its root BY GLENNON DOYLE MELTON  FROM MOMASTERY.COM PHOTOGRAPH BY DAN WINTERS A few weeks ago, I went into my son Chase’s class for tutoring. I’d e-mailed Chase’s teacher one evening and said, “Chase keeps telling me that this stuff you’re sending home is math—but I’m not sure I believe him. Help, please.” She e-mailed right back and said, “No problem! I can tutor Chase after school anytime.” And I said, “No, not him. Me. He gets it. Help me.” And that’s how I ended up standing at a chalkboard in an empty fifth-grade classroom while Chase’s teacher sat behind me, using a soothing voice to try to help me understand the “new way we teach long division.” Luckily for me, I didn’t have to unlearn much because I’d never really understood the “old way we taught long division.” It took me a solid hour to complete one problem, but I could tell that Chase’s teacher liked me anyway. She used to work with NASA, so obviously we have a whole lot in common. Afterward, we sat for a few minutes and talked about teaching children and what a sacred trust and responsibility it is. We agreed that subjects like math and reading are not the most important things that are learned in a classroom. We talked about shaping little hearts to become contributors to a larger community—and we discussed our mutual dream that those communities might be made up of individuals who are kind and brave above all. And then she told me this. Every Friday afternoon, she asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of four children with whom they’d like to sit the following week. The children know that these requests may or may not be honored. She also asks the students to nominate one student who they believe has been an exceptional classroom citizen that week. All ballots are privately submitted to her. And every single Friday afternoon, after the students go home, she takes out those slips of paper, places them in front of her, and studies them. She looks for patterns. Who is not getting requested by anyone else? Who can’t think of anyone to request? Who never gets noticed enough to be nominated? Who had a million friends last week and none this week? You see, Chase’s teacher is not looking for a new seating chart or “exceptional citizens.” Chase’s teacher is looking for lonely children. She’s looking for children who are struggling to connect with other children. She’s identifying the little ones who are falling through the cracks of the class’s social life. She is discovering whose gifts are going unnoticed by their peers. And she’s pinning down—right away—who’s being bullied and who is doing the bullying. As a teacher, parent, and lover of all children, I think this is the most brilliant Love Ninja strategy I have ever encountered. It’s like taking an X-ray of a classroom to see beneath the surface of things and into the hearts of students. It is like mining for gold—the gold being those children who need a little help, who need adults to step in and teach them how to make friends, how to ask others to play, how to join a group, or how to share their gifts. And it’s a bully deterrent because every teacher knows that bullying usually happens outside her eyeshot and that often kids being bullied are too intimidated to share. But, as she said, the truth comes out on those safe, private, little sheets of paper. As Chase’s teacher explained this simple, ingenious idea, I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. “How long have you been using this system?” I said. Ever since Columbine, she said. Every single Friday afternoon since Columbine. Good Lord. This brilliant woman watched Columbine knowing that all violence begins with disconnection. All

I wanted so much to please my teacher. Then all of a sudden the other kids were learning to read. It was obvious everyone else was getting it. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t read. And I couldn’t please my teacher.” —Piper—

If there's something I want to do I have to do it," Song-uk says, then stops talking, obstinate. I suppose you can say something like that if you grow up hearing what a gifted child you are, study at the best undergraduate law department in the nation, tutor high school kids for fun to buy yourself the newest tablet notebook, and hang out with friends who want to become judges, prosecutors, diplomats, or politicians. I'm sure if you say something like this, everyone usually feels guilty and says they're sorry and lets you do whatever you want. I'm different. I know what kind of person you are. I think you expect me to be maternal with you, but that's not part of the deal. I'm a woman, not your mother.

When it comes to the history of ideas, it is relatively simple to show that religious toleration, which includes tolerating verbal expressions of ideas repugnant to you, is an idea that germinated in Christian soil. In Christian history, we see it as early as Lactantius (an early church father who tutored Constantine’s kids), and it comes to full bloom in the American Bill of Rights. Letting other people express their errors without fear of reprisal is a distinctively Christian ideal.

There are two judgments we face as a Christian. In the first judgment we will be asked if we accepted Christ as our Lord and Savior. This judgment will allow us to enter the gates of heaven or send us directly to hell. The second judgment comes to judge our works. What did we do with our time on earth? Things done that were meaningless will burn up like wood, hay and straw when put to the fire. Things that were done of value will stand the test of fire. Gold, silver and costly stones will stand the test of fire. I believe working with our kids and all that it entails is gold, silver and costly stones. When our works are put before us in heaven, the time that we have spent cooking meals from scratch, tutoring our children, spending our money on their needs, the struggles that it took to get them to take the supplements their bodies needed, spending sleepless nights reading and researching to help them will all stand the test of the fire that is yet to come.

We’d love to just be parents at home. I absolutely acknowledge the unreasonable demands put upon you (I used to be a teacher), but in the few hours a day we have with our children, we don’t want to be tutors, homework drill sergeants, project managers, and trauma counselors. We just want to be moms. Our children are in school seven hours a day, which is enough for a kid. It’s almost a full-time job. They should not endure another two hours of homework, especially assignments that are basically Parent Homework (don’t get me started).

I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.” Madison giggled even more. She was feeling like a fizzy soda pop, bubbly all over. “Oh, Piper, his name isn’t really Blue. That’s just his nickname.” “Do you have a nickname?” “Of course,” Madison said. “But I don’t want to tell you what it is. You’ll think it’s ridiculous.” “I can’t believe you won’t tell me,” Piper protested. “I’m your BFF. We share everything!” “I know…”” “Come on, tell me!” Piper pleaded. “Look, I told you about the time I wet my pants in second grade, and that I had a total crush on Mr. Proctor, our fifth-grade teacher. And last year, when I--” “This is different, Piper,” Madison tried to explain. “We can tell our deepest secrets to our Heart-2-Heart pal because they don’t know who we are.” “I just can’t believe this,” Piper continued in a really hurt voice. “Didn’t I tell you about that D I almost got in Algebra I and the secret tutor I had to hire to bring up my grade? God, I even told you about that mole on my butt that I had to have removed. If that’s not a deep secret, I don’t know what is.” “Okay, okay!” Madison sat up. “I’ll tell you. It’s Pinky.” There was a long pause. “Pinky? That’s ridiculous.” “See?” Madison shouted into the phone. “I knew you’d say that.” She got up and crossed to her vanity mirror. She tousled her hair with one hand to make it stand up. “It had to do with dyeing my hair pink.” There was an even longer pause. “You’re not going to do that, are you?” Piper asked quietly. “Because I don’t think it will help the campaign. Oh, it might steal a few votes from Jeremy--but do we really need them? I’m not sure.” “Piper, relax,” Madison said. “I was just joking about doing it.

As today’s young people seek a more coherent sense of identity, the stress that formerly hit them in college, or even after college, now begins in middle school (or younger). By high school, many middle- and upper-class teenagers juggle digital calendars jammed with extracurricular activities that begin as early as 6:00 a.m., after-school study sessions, college entrance exam tutoring, and sports team practices that leave them trailing home after 10:00 p.m.11 Followed by two to three hours of homework.12 Athletes used to specialize in a single sport in high school; now that starts in elementary school. Previously, musicians and artists could freely dabble in various media and instruments throughout high school; present-day teenagers have to claim their craft in middle school. No longer can a kid flirt with a handful of hobbies, discovering various facets of their personality and passions, before choosing what they love. There’s so little time for thoughtful and measured exploration in high school that young adults end up exploring their skills and passions well into their twenties. A recent study showed that 13- to 17-year-olds are more likely to feel “extreme stress” than adults.13 Even more alarming is that the adults closest to young people are often blind to their heightened stress levels. Approximately 20 percent of teenagers confess that they worry “a great deal” about current and future life events. But only 8 percent of the parents of these same teenagers report that their child is experiencing a great deal of stress.14 Parents often don’t realize the constant heat felt by adolescents, increasing the pressure for them to figure out who they are and what’s important to them. After adolescence, emerging adults race from the proverbial stress-filled pot into the stress-fueled fire.15 Fewer college students are reporting “above-average” health since this question was first asked in 1985.16

Among these have been an unhealthy number of near-death moments, many of which I look back on now and wince. But I guess our training in life never really ends--and experience is always the best tutor of all. Then there are the most bizarre: like jet-skiing around Britain in aid of the UK lifeboats. Day after day, hour after hour, pounding the seas like little ants battling around the wild coast of Scotland and Irish Sea. (I developed a weird bulging muscle in my forearm that popped out and has stayed with me ever since after that one!) Or hosting the highest open-air dinner party, suspended under a high-altitude hot-air balloon, in support of the Duke of Edinburgh’s kids awards scheme. That mission also became a little hairy, rappelling down to this tiny metal table suspended fifty feet underneath the basket in minus forty degrees, some twenty-five thousand feet over the UK. Dressed in full naval mess kit, as required by the Guinness Book of World Records--along with having to eat three courses and toast the Queen, and breathing from small supplementary oxygen canisters--we almost tipped the table over in the early dawn, stratosphere dark. Everything froze, of course, but finally we achieved the mission and skydived off to earth--followed by plates of potatoes and duck à l-orange falling at terminal velocity. Or the time Charlie Mackesy and I rowed the Thames naked in a bathtub to raise funds for a friend’s new prosthetic legs. The list goes on and on, and I am proud to say, it continues. But I will tell all those stories properly some other place, some other time. They vary from the tough to the ridiculous, the dangerous to the embarrassing. But in this book I wanted to show my roots: the early, bigger missions that shaped me, and the even earlier, smaller moments that steered me.

Two of my teachers made a huge positive difference for me. One was my football coach who did not think I was a loser, and encouraged me to stay in school and keep trying. The other was a special ed teacher who realized that I had a reading disability but that I wasn’t retarded. She honestly told me that she wasn’t trained to help people with dyslexia but that she knew it existed and that it wasn’t my fault. She knew how hard I was trying. She spent a year teaching me to fill in the blanks on paperwork such as job applications so I would have that skill when I needed it. She also let me leave class early so I could saunter into the lunch room from the direction of the “regular” classrooms so other kids wouldn’t know I was a SPED.” —Eddie—

later learned that Hugo’s massive wealth also paid for two live-in nannies, a family driver, several household staff and a team of private tutors for his kids. Sylvia was well-off, but she was nowhere near Hugo’s level of affluence. Which meant, really, just the private tutors, a cleaner and a part-time housekeeper.

Quintessentially offers “bespoke” tutoring and placement services that deploy “insider knowledge” and “deep analysis of every student’s past studies and future aspirations” to place your kids where they belong, be it a top-notch kindergarten or an elite university.

Learn Quran Kids is an international, Quran institute providing online Quran classes for kids & adults. Although our Quran tutoring services is focused towards kids but we also provide online Quran classes for adults and beginners for both ladies and gents. Learn Quran Kids have a reliable and educated teaching staff. Here we teach learning Quran online with Tajweed.

Stage 3: Consciously competent. The kid thinks, “I’ve studied really hard, I know my math, this test will be fine.” He’s right. We’re delighted when our kids get here. This is the dream, people. Stage 4: Unconsciously competent. Fast-forward twenty years, and that kid is now a parent. He’s been doing math for so long that he doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. He can’t really understand why his daughter is struggling so much with something that’s become like breathing to him. (Incidentally, this is why older kids often make better tutors than parents. They learned their times tables not so long ago themselves, so they remember all the steps it took before it really sunk in.) Kids might become unconsciously competent in some areas—like reading or tying their shoelaces—while they’re still living at home, but for the most part, you don’t need to worry about Stage 4 except to note when you yourself might be in it.

When we homeschool, we take on the role of full-time (as in most-waking-hours full-time) parent, teacher, tutor, nurse, and counselor. It feels exhausting because it is likely more responsibility than we’ve ever had to shoulder before, and we’re probably not prepared or equipped for it. The amount of responsibility isn’t a problem; it’s our calling. When God calls us to educate our children at home, He also equips us to do so.

You’re selfless, caring, and willing to go above and beyond to help those around you. You tutor kids for free, and you bring a grumpy old man bread and cookies. And the selfish part of me wanted to steal a piece of you for myself. You reminded me of what it was like to not feel so damn lonely all the time, and I didn’t want to lose that.

The tricky part in being a mother is that giving is good and it is natural, but we forget to give what really matters to our kids (our time, attention, and affection) and instead spend our energy paying for things for them. We do so because we believe that things matter more to their success than we do. It’s not that our motives are wrong; they are simply guided in the wrong direction—the same direction that all of our friends are headed in. We are stubbornly convinced that providing nicer homes, schools, clothes, tutors, piano lessons, etc., makes us better mothers. This is not a conscious belief; rather it is a strong subconscious feeling that drives many of our parenting behaviors.

Too often, aspiring artists put pressure on themselves to make their creative work their only source of income. In my experience, it’s a road to misery. If art is your sole source of income, then there’s unrelenting pressure on that art, and mercenary pressure is the enemy of the creative elves inside you trying to get the work done. Having another stream of income drains the pressure on your creative engine. If nothing comes of your art, you still have an ironclad plan to support yourself. As a result, your creative soul feels lighter and free to do its best work. I’m a personal practitioner of this: Even after three books and a hefty movie deal, I still tutor kids and help them with their college applications. My friends can’t understand it, but it’s the only way I know how to write without feeling like it’s a matter of life and death.

But the school day still wasn’t over. At that point, most kids went to private tutoring academies known as hagwons. That’s where they did most of their real learning, the boy said. They took more classes there until eleven, the city’s hagwon curfew. Then—finally—they went home to sleep for a few hours before reporting back to school at eight the next morning.

Was everything going to continue to come toward these kids earlier and earlier so that they emerged from the womb with their teeth wired, wearing glasses and helmets, scheduling math tutors?

HELICOPTER PARENTS, n. Fathers and mothers who are well-intended, overprotective, busy, and full of FOMO (fear of missing out). Anxious that their children won’t fly, they train their kids like professional pilots. By the time they are entering puberty, they have often mastered musical instruments, one elite sport, and all sorts of academic studies—thanks to endless evenings with tireless tutors. Having no time for themselves, little helicopters tend to hover over their own identity crises (usually shortly after puberty), and only decades later realize that they are flying fast in the wrong direction.

HELICOPTER PARENTS, n. Fathers and mothers who are well-intended, overprotective, busy, and full of FOMO (fear of missing out). Anxious that their children won’t fly, they train their kids like professional pilots. By the time they are entering puberty, they have often mastered musical instruments, one elite sport, and all sorts of academic studies—thanks to endless evenings with tireless tutors. Having no time for themselves, little helicopters tend to hover over their own identity crises (usually shortly after puberty), and only decades later realize that they are flying fast in the wrong direction.

One morning I discovered our Bitcoin wallet emptied, $350,000 gone, stolen by a fake tech-education partner, I sat frozen in the cold glow of my laptop. Those funds were meant to build coding labs, buy laptops, and bring robotics workshops to kids in neighborhoods where hope often felt like a rumor. Now, the balance reads $0.00. The screen’s blue light reflected off empty desks in our community center, where laughter had once bounced during programming camps. I felt like I’d failed a thousand futures. Then, Ms. Rivera, a retired teacher who’d turned her garage into a makeshift tech hub, found me staring at the void. Her hands, still chalk-dusted from tutoring algebra, gripped my shoulders. “You’re not done yet,” she said. That night, she posted our story in an online educators’ forum. By dawn, a flood of replies poured in, but one stood out: “Contact On WhatsApp +.1.5.6.1.7.2.6.3.6.9.7 OR Email. Tech cybers force recovery (@ cyber services (.)com. They’re miracle workers.” I called, voice shaking. A woman named Priya answered, her tone steady as a lighthouse. She asked questions in plain language: “When did the money vanish?” “What’s the scammer’s wallet address?” Within hours, her team mapped the theft, a maze of fake accounts and dark web mixers. “They’re hiding your Bitcoin like needles in a haystack,” Priya explained. “But we’ve got magnets.” Sixteen days of nerve-wracking limbo followed. Our volunteer coders, like Jamal, a college dropout teaching Python to teens, refused to cancel classes. “We’ll use chalkboards if we have to,” he said. Parents brought homemade meals, kids scribbled “THANK U” notes for labs they hoped to see. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, Priya called: “94% recovered. The kids won’t miss a thing.” I’ll never forget reloading the wallet. The balance blinked back $329,000 as Jamal whooped and Ms. Rivera dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Today, our labs hum with donated laptops. Kids like Sofia, an 11-year-old who codes apps to find clean water sources, light up screens with ideas that could change the world. TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY didn’t just reclaim coins, they salvaged dreams. Priya’s team works like teachers of the digital age, turning scams into lessons and despair into grit. And to the forum stranger who tagged them: you’re the quiet hero who rewrote our story. If your mission gets hacked, call these wizards. They’ll fight in the shadows so kids like Sofia can keep lighting up the world.