Now that school has started, I'm faced with similar decisions every day: Do I lobby to get Josh the teacher he wants for AP Environmental or step back? Do I rummage through Ryan's backpack for papers I need to sign or let him get a zero if he doesn't follow through? And the big one this week: Do I follow up with the mother who threatened to go to the dean if Ryan calls her kid a mean name again (which he denies) and try to keep her calm, or do I let the school's anti-bullying system take its course?

Deciding when to step in and when to keep away is a daily dilemma for today's conscientious parents. This is newish stuff. Our mothers didn't follow our progress in their wombs through books like What to Expect When You're Expecting. ("Now he has a pinky!") They didn't suffer over decisions like when it's okay to slap us or when to turn off the TV (never was fine) or whether to feed us fruit juice-sweetened cereal instead of Cheerios or if we should be driven to school because the middle school bus is too scary. They cooked, they cleaned, they asked,"Did you do your homework?" and they went about their lives -- and left us to ours.

I've been thinking even harder about these decisions since receiving comments about my last blog entry. My friend Jeri  jumped on parents for living their kids' lives for them, while my cousin Rona (yes, same name) staunchly defended mothers being very involved in her kids' business. A key topic was"helicopter" parenting, a term that refers to mothers and fathers hovering even when their young adult offspring leave for college. These parents might go so far as to call the school if the child is having roommate issues. A recent New York Times article article used the term "Velcro parents." The point: Colleges have separate orientation events for parents for the sole purpose of ripping them away from their inbound freshmen. But talking every day? Texting every hour? We called home once a week during my college years, when phone rates were high, so I assume it's best to forgo communication for a few days at a time when my boys are away. Is that true? Just because that's how I grew up, when there was no alternative?

I've always pondered, too seriously for it to be healthy, when to step in and when not to. But to have such strong reactions to the H word! Jeri's reasoning is 100 percent sound. Let 'em flop and learn, baby. But Rona's kids seem amazing -- well-adjusted and close with their parents yet fully independent. So who's wrong?

Wimpy as it sounds, I think the answer's in the middle. Will kids become more independent if we leave them the heck alone? Surely. Will they feel loved and gain self esteem if we butt in when they need support? Yup. All the area in between is gray, and individual. Every mother I know gets involved to a different degree, and every mother I know pooh-pooh's other mothers' decisions. "I would never let my child jump in the mud." "I would never stop my child from jumping in the mud." "If Johnny is failing English, let him fail. He has to make his own way."  "I heard the 10th grade English teacher is bad so I'm pulling Johnny out every afternoon so he can take the class at the community college."

I make my own decisions every day, never too extreme, as far as I can tell. It's tough: If I don't nag Ryan to study for his tests he might not, and then he might get into crappy high school classes and become friends with kids who aren't college bound and ... . Then again, no one said a word when I let my middle school work go. Oh, there were Fs! Big fat red ones! Then in ninth grade I started caring on my own and worked hard forever after. Shouldn't Ryan have the chance to do his own caring? But considering he's in Florida public schools, is backing off worth the risk?

I'll bet you folks have opinions and lots of them -- not about my sweet Ryan, I'll handle that one thank you, but about helping versus hovering in general. Bring it on!

www.RonaGindin.com

If Josh gets into an ace university, it's only because A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian didn't catch my interest. I'd avoided reading a friend's borrowed Admission Matters for two months, passing over the intimating tome for novels, memoirs and the occasional People magazine. It sat on my coffee table week after week, brushed aside by not only me but also my upper education-bound son and his impressively educated father. Me? Why should I read it? I did my job as a parent, I reasoned. I'm done. Josh is a good kid with a good future. If he wants to get into the Ivy League, let him figure out the finer details.

Oh, the nasty looks I've gotten for saying that! Oh, the curt little lectures I've heard! "You've got to read the books!" parents of former teens admonished. "Take him on the road! Force him to see the campuses!" And, unspoken, "Gather the paperwork! Fill it out! Run it by an expert! Buy the recruiters diamonds! Sleep with them if you have to!"

Apparently getting into college is no longer just the high school senior's job. Now the effort is a family affair.

Granted, the whole process is tougher than it was when we were kids. Competition is stiffer for the best schools, and seemingly every other A student in America has been privately tutored since two years before they took the PSAT and now have new tutors to see them through the application process. Josh has earned his way up the academic ladder on his own -- by studying -- and I'll support him in any way he wants. But only the obvious stuff. Want me to drive you to community college so you have a solid shot at valedictorian? Want me to pay for an online SAT course? Heck, I'll even cook you a nice breakfast the morning of the exam and I'll sharpen your pencils. But until my stack of to-reads ran short, I refused to do more.

Here's how I see it: I put in the efforts up front. I refrained from drinking while I pregnant. Wine and coffee -- both taboo. I breast fed for 10 months even though I suffered excruciating pain for more weeks than I care to recall. I stocked the house with kiddie books and read them all he wanted -- and he sometimes wanted 40 in one sitting. "You can watch TV the rest of your life," I reasoned. "Be there for him now."Jigsaw puzzles, Candy Land, Trouble ... I may have taught him games too well, because I can't even once keep up in Scrabble Scoring Anagrams. I sat through years of school meetings and basketball games. We baked and we swam and we talked.

And then he was gone, pretty much. Josh is responsible, he gets good grades, he volunteers, he holds a job. I'm done, right? Now it's time to enjoy each other's company, occasionally wrestle over the remote control, and hope for happy Sunday dinners when he can pull himself away from his friends.

So why does everyone think I'm the one who has to get this kid into college? If he can pull off grades better than I ever had in classes harder than any I ever took, shouldn't he be reading Admission Matters? Apparently even the authors don't think so. While they pretend to write for kids, they frequently address parents directly, such as when they suggest that we old-timers leave certain documents out where our teens might happen to come across them.

I succumbed out of boredom and now find myself intrigued. The book has excellent insider tips. I'm making mental notes of what to tell Josh and plotting when to ante up the information so he'll be most likely to absorb it. I even Xeroxed three pages last night -- twice, one set for him, another for his best friend.

I guess I'm not done after all. If you catch me ordering his textbooks in Fall 2011, hurl the "helicopter" word at me and admonish me to spend all my excess parenting energy on my other son. I still have an excuse -- and the desire -- to run his life! Although I am so very tired.

www.RonaGindin.com

Putting away bulky All-Clad pans following a recent dinner party, my fingers came across a layer of goo. Not goo, really. Grime. Grease. Whatever the word, my shiny stainless steel über-cookware felt unclean. I suddenly felt a surge of dread. "I washed serving dishes at Norine's barbecue yesterday," I remembered, sickened. "Now she'll know."

Ten bucks says she's in on my hidden horror by now. I'm sure Norine discovered the truth the following morning when she went to place her colorful ceramic platters in a cabinet. No question about it, the hostess picked up her kitchenware and found it oddly unwashed, even though she saw me working diligently at the sink.

I have a dirty little secret: I can't wash dishes.

I do technically wash dishes. I turn the water on steamy hot. I squirt liquid soap onto a sponge. I lather and rinse and flip pieces over and lather and rinse some more, and I keep at it until I am 100 percent certain that the pot, ladle or cake plate in question is indisputably sanitary.The problem is, once the squeaky-clean item in question has sat on a counter for a day and I return to it, I realize I did a lousy job.

Norine won't be the first friend to discover the cause of my domestic shame. I am quick to take up sink duty at any gathering. That way I am clearly helping out; if someone else gets to that position first, I have to conjure up ways to assist, to find forks in need of carrying, to seek out trash cans that need emptying.  I'd rather not scurry around pathetically looking to look helpful.

But, when it comes to dishwashing, I am a loser. I'm sure my friend Nancy knows it. She once served my husband and me a wonderful dinner -- on fine china yet. Sincerely glad for her hospitality (we slept in her guest room that night, too), I bolted into the kitchen and had my way with what were surely her wedding treasures. Hot water, soap, lather, scrub, rinse, repeat. I have no doubt that all five sets of plates were rewashed, by hand or dishwasher, the moment we left. Nine years later, I can still imagine Nancy standing in her kitchen and telling her husband, "I'm sure Rona washed these dishes but they're ooey," and then taking her thoughts to the logical next step: "I wonder if she does everything half-assed."

Thank goodness for my KitchenAid dishwasher, which handles most of the burden for me. If only my shiny white miracle machine could handle my entire load and those of my friends, I'd be set. But when I cranked out a soup/three entrees/vegetable/dessert meal for six on Saturday night, when Norine hosted 15 of us with a glorious spread for a July 4 celebration, when Nancy cooked and served a splendid salmon repast for five, dishwashers couldn't handle the load. Some items, generally the biggest ones, simply need a good swish in the sink. Unless I'm the one doing the swooshing.

Back at my house, once I recovered from my panic at Norine learning my homemaking weakness, I touched the pans and, again, felt the familiar sense of ugh. Then I unceremoniously stuck them on top of my other pans in the cupboard. No one but me will know, since I'm the only cook here, and after another use or two I'll run them through the KitchenAid.

If my guests ever find out, they might never join us here for another meal -- even if I do promise my signature swordfish empanada or rosemary chicken. Ssh. Don't tell.

www.ronagindin.com

Ha! I just found myself on the other side of the "thank you" issue -- twice. End of story: I will not make any fuss.

First, in front of three friends, my son J asked me if I'd pay for him to order the gang dinner from Papa Johns. Sort of put out that I feed these (very nice) kids regularly since they always hang out at my house, I said, "Um, er, well ... sure, if you chip in." J jokingly offered up a dollar. His friends sat there mute. Kept their eyes down. Looked at their poker chips. Not one said, "Here's five bucks."

Either they don't have the money to spare, which is possible since they're un- or underemployed high school boys, or they didn't get my hint -- which was aimed at them. I agreed to the pizzas since I was running out and couldn't put up a pot of spaghetti (plus I'm a sucker for making these guys happy; I adore them all), but I do wish someone other than just J would have thanked me for the $40-plus indulgence. To be fair, all the boys regularly thank me for hosting them and for other meals. I suspect they kept mute in this situation because I sort of asked for cash. And, I left the house right after the conversation; they may have expressed gratitude when the pies arrived or as they finished chowing down.

I learned a lesson here: If I wanted them to chip in, I should have been straightforward.

Then, I remembered that I never received a thank you note from someone. I gave a 13-year-old girl a small but thoughtful bat mitzvah present in March and never heard a word back.

The story's a bit more complex than you'd think. Her mother and I used to be friends but now are not. The girl shared her celebration with the son of a dear friend of mine, so my family was invited to the bash by the boy's family, not hers. I gave him a generous gift and bought her a necklace as a token of good will.

It is customary for b'nai mitzvah kids to churn out thank you notes in the weeks after their big days. I'm certain the girl sent appropriate correspondence to those who wrote her hefty checks. I think she should have kept her pen out and kept to her task until she showed gratitude for every item she received. To be clear, I do not blame the girl but her mother. Can you imagine a teenager who would willingly take on an effort like that without parental insistence?

I was obligated to give the delightful young woman nothing yet went out of my way -- a 45-minute drive! -- to find a pretty item with religious significance. Her mother tends to return gifts (Don't ask me about the preschool years. Oy, do I have stories to tell!), so maybe the mom brought this one back to Scott Laurent Gallery and found the price didn't justify a written recognition. It wouldn't be the first time: After our friendship had waned, I once gave the mother an inexpensive but pretty gift for a birthday get-together and never found an envelope with her return address in my mailbox. I'm sure she saw the Owen Allen wrapping paper, cashed in the cute little compact make-up mirror (it was only $3, but it was adorable and she wouldn't have known the price if she'd just kept it, plus we had barely any relationship at that point), and deemed the token purchase unworthy of any effort at a thanks. Can you imagine?

Thanks for nothing.

www.ronagindin.com

P.S. I know J shouldn't have asked for the pizza in front of his friends. He doesn't usually do things like that so I'm letting it ride.

"Shame on you!" my friend reprimanded her daughter at a kid's soccer game recently. "Walk behind people's chairs, not in front of them." WHUH? Once again, I discovered that I have bad manners. I've been to dozens upon dozens of soccer games in the last 13 years, and it never once occurred to me that I would obstruct parents' views by strolling by as they as they cheer on their goalies and defenders. It's common sense, right? Not to me.

Although my parents are no wild animals -- they seem to have the basic laws of etiquette mastered -- I seem to have been raised without a clue. So when my son R didn't say thank you to friend's father for giving him a ride to party (see All Manner of Bad Manners), I was disturbed, but not as much as my peers would have been. This is par for the Rona Gindin course.

I clearly remember my first indication that I'm a social retard. At 4 years old, I was eating dinner at a neighbor's house."Rona!" her mother scolded. "Chew with our mouth closed!" WHUH? I asked her to explain and learned that it's proper to keep your lips closed while chewing. At home the next evening, I caught my father with a glob showing and shared my newfound knowledge. "Gina's mother is right, you should chew with your mouth closed," my mother explained. "We're too old to start now, but you're not." And so I never really tried.

Fast forward six years. I was 10, eating my lunch at a picnic table at the South Shore YMCA, when my counselors began laughing. Hysterically. "Look at how she holds her fork!" they guffawed. "It's like she's using as shovel!" WHUH? Somehow, my folks never noticed that since I began using utensils I'd never positioned them correctly in my hand. I grabbed the stem with my fist, overhand, and got to work.

I was no better at conversation. At 13, a friend saw a grown-up she knew. "How are you, Bonnie," the woman asked."Fine, and you?" Bonnie responded. WHUH? That's what you're supposed to say? I had never once uttered more than "Good" in that situation. How do people know these things?

I corrected each etiquette error as I learned it without much ado. Once I began attending business meals, however, I noticed what a dining dunce I am. Turns out there are rules for where to put your napkin when you leave the table, how to butter your roll, which spoon to use first if more than one is set on the table. WHUH?

Knowing I'm at a disadvantage, you'd think I'd have insisted on my sons following proper protocol from age 2. I meant to. I get tired, though, and worn out from bigger battles, and now they're teenagers with the table manners of baboons. The 17-year-old has begun figuring out what counts as decent behavior himself. Here's to hoping the younger one takes on the burden of caring at some point too. Just as I'm about to brush a hand away for picking at the family-style platter with two fingers, I'll realize I just plunked a piece of food in my mouth the same way. Feet on the chair? Oops, look at mine. You get the idea.

It's a blessing to me that Americans have gotten more lax about manners in general; I'd be screwed otherwise, and so would my boys. But to some degree it's important to use decent behavior in society.

Where's the line? I think we can all agree that "please" and "thank you" are essentials, and that it's offensive to see the food in people's mouths. But a guy standing every time a gal does at the table? Placing a knife just so on the plate between bites? What manners are essential, and which are optional? Where do you draw the line? I'm certain you draw it farther to the right than I do, but I want specifics.  And lessons.

www.ronagindin.com

On a warm spring evening in front of a friend's house, I hurried with my 13-year-old into the car and shut the door. "Did something happen at the bar mitzvah?" I asked. He calmly said no and asked why. "B's father just called Daddy over to talk privately and he looked somber," I explained. "If something's up, I'd rather hear it from you."

R was as clueless as I. When my husband returned to the car he asked that he and I speak privately later.

Here's the mystery: R didn't thank our friend for driving him a long way to and from a party.

Here's the twist. The man, M, punctuated the conversation with this: "I will never drive R again."

At first I was furious at R, of course. How could he not blurt out a "Thanks!"? Doesn't that come automatically after 13 years of over-eager parenting? Other adults have long told me how polite he is with them, but then again he has reached a hormone-fueled snarly stage. To find out if his impudence is universal, I did a sneaky mom thing. I e-mailed a mother who'd had him over earlier in the day asking her to tell me, honestly, if he'd thanked her for driving him home from a soccer game and for the spaghetti lunch she'd served the boys. She replied with an enthusiastic yes.

R didn't act appropriately, for sure, so we instituted a punishment that fit the crime: We had him write M a thank you note, which I promptly mailed.

But was the to-do necessary? How would others have handled it?

As a parent of two teenage sons, I've had many years of boy visitors. Most thank me often for everything from a glass of water to a weekend sleepover. But some are rude. I've had the occasional child beg me to buy him a toy, harass me for limiting Wii time or make jokes at my expense. I stood up to each one calmly and kindly and the problem subsided.

How would I have handled a free-rider like R? First of all, I'm not positive I'd notice if one kid didn't say thank you one time. If I did, I might say playfully, "Hey R, say thank you."

In this case, R didn't say it when he arrived at the party and he says now he can't even articulate why. When they got back, my husband and I happened to have been waiting outside. As the car doors opened, we strolled over with enthusiast thank you's and how-was-the-bashes, so R may have just been thrown off -- and M was clearly mad from R's lack of manners four hours earlier.

How would you handle this? Would you ban a child from your Toyota for life? Quietly let the parent know to work on his offspring's manners? Reprimand the boy? Approach him nicely? Or shrug off the entire non-event?

Be honest. Battle it out below. I'm darn curious. And I want comment activity on my blog.

www.ronagindin.com