Boarding schools, independent schools, usually separate children from parents, to foster the maturity and character development that comes with freedom from parental nagging, advice and care.

For better or worse, prep school students, like their literary counterparts Huck Finn, Holden Caulfield and Taylor Greer, ditch their families and head off to forge new, unfettered identities. Having watched myriads of Deerfield students slalom their way between good and bad choices, I was, after fifteen years, a staunch believer in the trial and error system that allowed them to fail a quiz, dye their hair, wear a skirt too short or miss a game winning shot, responsible only to teachers, coaches and themselves.

I had told anxious parents to "be patient," to trust time and experience. Many of the successes that followed were genuine because the student, not a parent, decided it was time to study, to let actions speak more than cosmetics or to simply grow up.

So, when my son, Tyler, and then daughter, Lydia, entered the school, I panicked. How would I balance being a parent, someone genetically engineered to give advice, with my training as a teacher, someone philosophically serene about embarrassing, immature, foolish mistakes? Could I yell, "That's my boy!" when Tyler played a jazz solo or read a meditation or, as Lydia's coach, kiss her when she headed away an opponent's tying shot in the waning seconds of a game or when she made me laugh at her role in a play? Would I acknowledge them in the dining hall or just walk by? What about course choices, friends, discipline cases (oh my!) or (oh, god) a girlfriend? What if, what if, what if....

I pondered, I consulted, I worried. And then, miracle of miracles, school started and each of my children traveled through school trying on new hats, making good and bad choices and treating me openly and fairly, like the semi-intelligent adult that I am.

Over time, through trial and error, under their watchful eyes, I have, independently, learned to be a parent (of a faculty child.) To them I owe a great deal. Yes, perhaps at graduation this spring I will carry a sign that says, "Thank you, Tyler and Lydia, for the education."

When I was in second grade, my family lived in England for a year while my father taught at a British boarding school. He walked me to my elementary school every morning, which was very close to his school, and on the way he used to threaten to embarrass me around my friends by holding my hand while skipping and whistling music from The Wizard of Oz. It worked. I would beg him, between giggles, to stop before we reached the school yard. Walking to campus on my first day as a freshman held the same anxiety.

I tell people that I have the best of both worlds at Deerfield: all the classes, friends, extra-curricular opportunities, and the option of meals, as well as a house with a kitchen and my own bedroom to return to at the end of the day.

I also return to my parents. My roommate is my cat Bobo. I can talk on the phone from eight until ten at night if I so desire. And yet, where curfews and punishments and general morale are concerned, the same rules and regulations are enforced. And I value my parents' advice greatly.

I don't find myself struggling to maintain my life as Lydia the student, the fac-brat, and the daughter. My father, as an English teacher on campus, is not a threat, nor a source of constant embarrassment (as fathers are apt to be to their adolescent daughters). In fact, I think he worries more about being an intrusion on my life than I do about him intruding.

My dad is to me Mr. Littwin and Coach, as well as "Dad-ums." I was on his thirds soccer team for two years and am always his student. He has prepped me for SATs, taken me to museums, recalled medical facts to me from his parents' work, and continuously encourages me to follow my work and ideas.

The most haggling that I get from students on campus is, "Oh, Mr. Littwin's your dad? Does he help write your papers?" But my dad has enough of his own work to do and is happy to see me form my own knowledge and opinions.

In short, he and my Mumma have made home a place that I am happy to return to and pleased to share with friends. And through the years, I've come to quite like my father's singing and whistling.