Beating the Bully

By Nichole Giles

By now, you’re probably wondering how I fared in the battle against “The Program,” and the nefarious contract I was expected to sign. So I thought I’d give you all an update.

After my conversation with the producer in which she insisted that I have to sign this contract, I didn’t hear from anyone for nearly two weeks. I continued to send both my girls to their rehearsals—because I believe that once you start something, you need to be prepared to finish as long as you are physically able—and have given a lot of thought about the obligations to which I’m willing to adhere, and which ones I absolutely oppose.

Then, two days before another rehearsal, I received a phone call in the middle of the day. As is usually the case, I was working on my brilliant novel—you know, the one that will someday be a NYT Bestseller—trying to make up for a morning that was lost to other issues of interruption, when the phone rang. When I realized who it was, I minimized my document and looked at my watch. I had exactly ten minutes before elementary school pick up time. Sigh. One of these days I’ll learn to ignore the doorbell and let voicemail pick up.

But this particular call needed to be taken. And if my kids ended up walking home, at least I would have this thing resolved. So I spoke calmly, and candidly, pulling out a copy of the contract and clearly stating which parts to which I would agree, and which I would not. I offered that, since they claim the other document I signed is legally binding, it should be sufficient and they don’t need more on that subject. I agreed to sign a liability waver, and an acknowledgement of rules and professional conduct. I also offered to personally write an amendment to their contract, and sign that.

But, the bully got her back up and threatened that she didn’t think they would take an amended contract. She was sure that this contract was the only contract they would take, and if I didn’t…well, she didn’t know what would happen. But she was going to consult with the big bad city attorney. (Smile, we know that person too, several of those people in fact.)

But I remained calm, clearly stating my purpose in protecting myself and my children, and informed her that the terms I outlined were the only ones to which I would agree, and if the producers couldn’t accept that, then they were welcome to remove us from The Program. (By now, I had decided to have both girls finish the semester simply so they understand that it isn’t okay to quit something before finishing.) What I didn’t point out, but am sure she understood, is that in the event of their removal, I would no longer be responsible for paying the dreaded fee that started this fight in the first place—thus, I would win.

Essentially, her back was in a corner. She told me she’d take it to a “committee” and get back with me.

Amazingly, the conversation lasted approximately eight minutes. I made it in time to pick up my children and as I parked my car in front of the school to wait, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but took the call anyway—suspecting it might be the same woman again.

It was. In an amazingly quick conversation (we’re talking less than five minutes) with…the producers, directors, and the city attorney, a decision was reached. I was free to amend the contract in the areas I had specified, as long as I signed the parts I had agreed with, and turned it in this week. Interesting.

I smiled, agreed, and let her know I’d send it with my girls to the next rehearsal.

So. While my daughter will continue with The Program through December, she is doing so by the directive of her mother and not her producer. Though a contract will be signed, it is being amended into a contract I can be comfortable signing, and will bind me only to the end of this semester—minus dreaded fees. We were able to reach a compromise.

And I feel like I won a major battle. Because not only did I stand up for my children and myself, I did NOT allow myself to be bullied into doing something I didn’t want to do, or signing something I was uncomfortable with. And, as I suspected, the bully’s threats proved unwarranted and empty. She capitulated to every change I requested.

In the end, I was the last woman standing. And that, my friends, is a liberating feeling!

Careful of Contracts

By Nichole Giles Last spring, my kids participated in an extracurricular program that required an enormous amount of dedication (including giving up their spring break for rehearsals) and quite a bit of tuition. They loved the program, and I—as a mother—loved that they were so dedicated and worked so hard for the end performance.

The people who ran the program very obviously loved the kids, and made sure all their hard work was gratifying in the end. Each participant came away having grown exponentially. And since I’d had children in the program for two previous years, I jumped at the chance to save a (supposedly) much coveted spot in the same program for this year. Unfortunately, the people in charge have moved the sign up deadline earlier each year, until this time they asked us to pay a non-refundable deposit and sign a contract of intent in April, even though the fall semester didn’t start until September.

At the time, we were riding on the performance highs, and my children were sure they wanted to continue into the next year. But a lot can change in five months.

This August, my daughter started junior high and all the different classes—and the consequent homework—had her feeling overwhelmed. She expressed to me that the idea of continuing in a program that requires so much of her was more than she could handle. So, I approached the program producer and informed her that my daughter was giving up her spot.

Now, a little background. I’ve always been a huge advocate for this program. Five or six families have enrolled their children (all more than one child) on my recommendation. I was even the parent volunteer coordinator for last year’s production. When other parents have complained about the amount of time and dedication required of these kids, I have made a point of reminding them how much our kids are learning about life by participating.

But I’m not one of those parents who will force her children to do something they don’t want to do, or that requires more than they are able to give. Which is what I told the producer. (Also, I was fine with forfeiting my non-refundable deposit.)

And I was floored when she informed me that in order to pull my daughter, I’d be required to pay a withdrawl fee equal to the amount of tuition costs for the entire semester. “Excuse me?” I said. Because frankly, I didn’t remember signing anything other than a little sheet of paper requesting a spot for the 2008-2009 year. And also, because the year hadn’t started yet, and they would have had plenty of time to pull from that long, long waiting list they’ve always bragged about in order to fill her spot.

“Well,” she said. “If you can fill her spot before rehearsals start, you won’t have to pay the extra fee.”
Of course, I argued. What happened to that oh-so-long list that was the reason we all signed our children’s lives away last APRIL?

Apparently it’s long gone. Interesting.

But, because I’m stubborn, I refused to pay the fee and told my daughter to buck up and deal with it until December, at which point my supposed “contract” would be void.

Until…

The third week of rehearsal, the very same producer called me at home, carelessly—and dare I even say cheerfully?—informing me that they need me to sign yet another contract because…they can’t find mine. Hmm. So, once again I argued. This time, I refused to sign another contract, while she insisted they DO have my “contract” of intent—but not a contract of continuance. We bickered back and forth for twenty minutes, me refusing to sign anything that will bind me to pay or my children to work, and she insisting that I am required to sign a new contract in order for my kids to continue, but if they don’t, I owe the fee. In the end, she sent me copies of all the contracts—including the one I supposedly signed in April (because those supposed contracts conveniently didn’t have carbon copies for the parents) and I am supposed to get back with her by next rehearsal.

Now, here’s the thing. This is a city run program, not a private one. I write my kid’s tuition checks to the city, not the program. And had I realized any of this before I sent my children to three rehearsals, I wouldn’t really have a problem because the original paper isn’t a contract. But now that’s irrelevant. I’m refusing to sign the other, much more binding and complicated contract—because this is a children’s program, not a Broadway production. Here’s the problem. Do I now tell all my children that even though they’ve attended three weeks worth of rehearsals, we’re quitting? Or do I plan on having them finish the semester, knowing that the producer might kick them all out because I won’t sign their lives—and my money—away? I don’t like that contract.

I feel like I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I can no longer pull just one of my kids out. It’s all or nothing now. And the worst of it is, part of the reason I refuse to sign that stupid contract is because they tried to bully me into it. I’ve always signed it before, just never five months in advance, and never worrying that my kids would be exhausted before the program even started.

I haven’t figured out the solution yet. I suppose I’ll have to have another chat with the producer this week. I hope we can work out a compromise with the contract, because I’m not out to burn the program. I’m just playing the mother’s part, and attempting to do what’s best for my daughter. It’s really too bad the producer doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about that. I used to believe they actually cared about the welfare of these kids.

The bottom line is, whether you’re signing a business paper, an intent to start Karate, soccer, or some other activity—heck, even a note to the teacher—make sure you not only read and understand every line, but that you keep a copy of what you signed. You never know when someone you like is going to turn into a bully.

Songwriter on the Interstate

By Nichole Giles

The other day I got stuck in traffic. I’m not talking about a little bit of rush hour traffic in which you slow down to thirty or forty miles an hour, but good-old-fashioned-road-construction traffic in which you come to a complete stop and then inch forward slowly as traffic ten miles ahead of you bottlenecks into one lane. It’s a good thing I wasn’t in a hurry.

I was on my way to a conference, where I was staying the night—by myself so I could get some writing done—and the sun was out and my convertible top down, so I was in a pretty good mood. I popped in my Nickelback CD and cranked up the volume to deafening, hoping I wasn’t disturbing the people in the cars around me.

I was singing along, tapping to the beat on my steering wheel, and basically rocking out, when something ahead of me caught my eye. I couldn’t tell for sure at first glance, but it looked like someone had the neck of a guitar sticking out the driver’s window—which was down. I sped up, hoping to get closer because, well, I was curious. As I got closer, an arm came out, and fingers pressed the strings.

“Hm,” I said to myself. “Is that guy really playing the guitar while he’s driving?”

As luck would have it, the traffic in my lane moved forward at a little faster pace than the traffic in his lane, and eventually I caught up to the European compact with the guitar/hand sticking out. So, I turned off my music—for a minute—to see if I could hear.

Not only was the guy playing as he drove, but he was also singing at the top of his lungs. No exaggeration. He was two lanes over, and I could make out faint chords of an unfamiliar tune. It sounded sort of Vaudeville-ish, but I might have been partially deaf thanks to Nickelback. Anyway, being that I was on my way to a writer’s conference, I had writing at the front of my brain, so it occurred to me that the guy might be a songwriter. After all, I had a piece of paper anchored under my leg and a pen in my empty cup holder in case I needed to quickly jot down a great idea. So, I couldn’t fault him for writing a song as he was stuck in traffic.

But, just to be safe—knowing how involved writing can be when the mood is right—I sped ahead until I couldn’t see him in my rearview anymore. Because even though I understand how important it is to get that epiphany down on paper the moment it hits, I didn’t want to be in that guy’s path when he hit the gas to keep up with traffic.

I might have ended up Vaudeville toast, with a side of squished Mustang on the side.

The Secret Life of Socks

By Nichole Giles

Do you ever wonder where all your kids’ socks go? It seems like I buy new packages of socks every couple of months, and every time one of my kids cries, “Mom, I can’t find any socks!” I wonder if all the socks in the house have escaped to sandal wearing communities. Wouldn’t you if you were forced to be the barrier between feet and shoes? Ick.

So, as we were buying school clothes this year, I—once again—bought everyone several new pairs of socks. But it was no use. Two weeks into the school year, my daughter was putting on her shoes and I heard that all-too-familiar phrase. “Mom, I don’t have any socks!”

“Yes you do,” I told her. “I just bought you ten pairs!”

“But there are none in my drawer and none in the clean laundry.” (I suppose it’s important to mention here that I only fold my never-ending mountains of laundry about once a week—thus at some point, we end up digging through them for odds and ends, like socks.)

I sighed. “Go get some of your sister’s then.” What is a mother to do? I was frustrated enough to rebel against having to buy more new socks, and was even more convinced that the socks have some kind of secret night life in which they escape one-by-one, and occasionally in pairs, to live a better life. After all, they’ve seen what happens to the old ones in our house. Can you say, puppet factory?

Fast-forward another week. The kids are in school, and I’m on a fall cleaning kick. One of the things I have been meaning to do (since last spring) is get my carpet cleaned. So, I had scheduled the cleaning guy to come on a day when everyone was in school and my husband was home to help me move furniture. It turned out to be a fairly busy morning, with a few neighbors stopping by, and the phone constantly ringing. But Gary was still home, so I grabbed him and we hurried into the family room to move the couches and the speakers.

Under the loveseat we found a pile of about ten socks. I shook my head, hauling the socks to the laundry room and vowing to have a chat with the kids after school. Then, we moved the larger couch, and found another pile of twelve to fifteen socks. I set this stack on the stairs (so I could finish moving the furniture before taking them to the laundry room) and grumbled some more.

Then we moved the speakers.

Oh my gosh! Actually, there was nothing behind the speakers. But moving them away from their position next to the entertainment center revealed a space between furniture and wall that was crammed with…you guessed it…more socks. There were two speakers, therefore two openings, and also, two more piles. Both of these piles were larger than either of the other two—meaning in fifteen minutes of moving furniture I had solved the mystery of somewhere around thirty to forty pairs of missing socks.

My grumbling turned into anger as I realized what happened. It wasn’t the socks revolting at all, but the kids who left their socks on the floor, and then when asked to put them away, crammed them in the nearest available hiding space. No wonder no one had any socks! There had to be a year’s worth of missing socks in that room alone.

I consoled myself with the smug knowledge that I had, in fact, solved one of life’s big mysteries. Now, if only I can figure out what keeps happening to the batteries in the remote control…