Christmastime Questions

Remember when yearbooks had captions like "Most likely to succeed?" Today, students are awarded more modern honors like "Best Tweeter." Kids campaign for these prizes and results were recently announced.

Apparently, one of my daughter's oldest friends, also a high school senior, was robbed! 

I've known this lovely young lady since ... well, since she was born. Today, by all accounts, she is a proficient — and prolific — Twitter poster. (She also wears a penguin costume when she goes on vacation. Really. But, that's another story for another time.) Over Christmas break, she tweeted this:

"If I had a dollar for everyone who asks me where I'm going to college, I'd have enough money to go to college."

We know how she feels.

At our annual tree-trimming party last week, we were concerned that our hyperactive new puppy would be underfoot (or up a tree). My daughter immediately stepped in and offered to take him for long walks, to the dog park, and to visit her grandmother (my daughter's, not the dog's). I was impressed. This seemed like a very mature and selfless thing to do.

Then I realized that she saw it as a win-win.

The dog would be contained (and entertained). In fact, she suggested bringing him back to the house for a few minutes every hour so people could meet him. We may have nicknamed him "Spawn of Satan" (we're on rug repair number two right now), but he's also absolutely adorable and affectionate. But, being out of the house would be better all around. 

Meanwhile, my daughter would have a perfect excuse to dodge what has become a positive barrage of questions about the C-word.

College.

No one's fault, really. She's eighteen; she's a high school senior. It's the end of December. The oh-so-logical query on every grownup's lips is ...

"Where are you going to college?"

There are variations, naturally. "Do you know where you're going?" is a common, casual version. 

"What are you doing next year?" is more politically-correct; after all, not every kid goes to a traditional four-year school. 

Then, there are the more enlightened adults who preface their interrogation with an apology ... "I'm sure you're tired of hearing this ..." or "You probably don't want to talk about this ..." or even "Sorry, can I ask ...?" 

And, they proceed anyway.

So, dog-sitting was a smart dodge on my daughter's part. 

I, meanwhile, am happy to brag about her accomplishments. She's been accepted at three of the four schools to which she's applied — and awarded generous merit scholarships. ("See?" I tell her, smugly, "All that hard work paid off!" Cue: eye roll.) 'Not sure what's holding up the final one; oddly enough, it was the least competitive of the bunch. Regardless, she's narrowed it to two, and week after next, we'll be visiting one of them to try and get closer to a decision.

She's quick to remind me that she has until May to make up her mind. And, despite my own impatience, we are heading into 2016 with exciting options. Graduation, summer vacation and first semester freshman year will be here before we know it. While I look forward to knowing what she decides, I don't want to rush any of it.

Besides, I can probably think of other things to do while I wait.

Like training the new puppy.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here. 

A Long, Slow Look at College Decisions

Often I see glimpses of my husband in our teenage daughter. Her natural athletic ability, for example. Her sense of humor. How fast she drives. Some of these attributes are good and some ... not so much. Some make me pull my hair out. 

But, I digress.

Other times, I see myself in her. I take pride in her creative writing, in her diligence and determination. Her obsessive appetite for particular TV programs. Sadly, she's inherited my sweet tooth as well. 

But, again, I digress.

Then, there are situations in which I watch her and think "Who are you?" and "How can we possibly be related?" 

We're going through one of those now as she hones in on the college decision that she'll (and we'll) be living with for the next four years.

When I was a senior, my college prep counselor (who knew me btw; he was one of my math teachers) took a look at my transcript and my SATs, asked what I wanted to major in, and made a single suggestion. "Tufts has a great drama program and they love early decision applicants." I went, I saw, I applied. They said, "Yes." I said, "Yes." And we were done. Signed, sealed, delivered before Christmas my senior year. One thing, one very big thing, crossed off my list.

This was 1979, and early decision was still a fairly new idea. Forget about all its modern permutations: early action, rolling admissions, restrictive early action (WTF?), as well as plain old vanilla regular decision. 

Everything is much more complicated nowadays, although with most schools accepting the "Common App," there's a lot less paperwork. Still, it's mid-December and a compulsive young person (such as myself 35 years ago) can already know where she or he will be going.

Not my daughter.

She applied to just four colleges (less than most of her peers in our high-achieving little town; her very focused intended course of study made the universe much smaller). Her applications were complete in late October, neatly within any early action or rolling deadlines. She was almost immediately accepted into two schools, which happened to be her first choices, at the time. I say, "at the time," because times have already changed. Now, we're waiting to hear from the other two. And, my daughter (not a particularly patient young woman under normal circumstances) seems perfectly content to wait.

I would be pulling my hair out! 

Don't get me wrong, I completely understand — and even support — my daughter's thoughtful consideration during this important time of change and choice. After all, chances are she will spend a substantial chunk of her formative young adult years at whatever fine institution of higher learning she chooses. Then there's all the associated fallout: friends and significant others, where you live and what you do. I have never attended a Tufts reunion, but my decision to go there affects my life every day.

Nevertheless, my seventeen-year-old self was way too eager to debate, contemplate, ruminate or meditate (Hmmm ... I seem to have missed my calling as a middle-aged white rapper). My daughter is taking her time.

She has an equestrian scholarship application due tomorrow, but no other paperwork or tests to worry about. In essence, the admissions ball is not in her court at the moment. Once she hears from her other two schools, we may have to do some additional campus visiting (bake-off style, perhaps). But, there's no rush.

You see, she has until May to make her decision.

I just hope I can last that long. 

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.

Hit Submit

Last night, my daughter finished her college applications. 

This is a very big deal. 

After multiple "Senior Parents" meetings at the school (and many weeks of procrastination), I received a draft of her essay while I was in New Orleans. It was rough, but powerful. And I was particularly moved when she mentioned me (the essay was about being a feminist and I was cited as one of her role models ... sniff, sniff). 

I gave her just a couple of suggestions and when she completed her second draft, she shared it with her guidance counselor and a favorite middle school English teacher. I, meanwhile, forwarded it to my college roommate, her Ivy League-educated daughter, my poet sister and my mother (also known as the Queen of Grammar and the Princess of Punctuation). 

The feedback was positive and helpful. A third draft was a mere 28 words over the legal limit. Not a problem! As an advertising copywriter, I have years (and years and years) of experience making big ideas work in small spaces. Within minutes, the essay was, as Goldilocks might say, "Just right." My daughter cut-and-pasted it into the infamous Common App, and we proofread it.

And proofread it.

And proofread it again.

For many years, I've proofed my daughter's papers. But, the stakes were understandably higher last night. God forbid she submit her application with a typo and some persnickety admissions officer notices it and rejects her and then she never ends up going to college or getting a job or starting a family or owning a home or becoming a productive citizen of this great nation of ours. (Omg.)

There's no question that I helped my daughter with her application essay. First of all, I nagged. I am an accomplished nagger, a virtuosic nagger, a connoisseurial nagger; I've had eighteen years experience (my husband might argue more than that, actually). I also made suggestions, some of which she took to heart, some ... not so much. I distributed said important document to select friends and family. And, I proofed.

I did not, however, write the thing.

"Of course not," you might protest. But, let me assure you ... I was sorely tempted. All that time when homework and concerts and horse shows (and One Tree Hill, wtf?) prevented her from hunkering down and writing, I had the four questions (they're called "essay prompts") in front of me. I write most of the day, most of my days, and a 650-word essay would be a piece of cake. But, I resisted. Here's why:

• It would be plagiarism and cheating, which would set a lovely example ... if I want my daughter to plagiarize and cheat.

• It would send a message to my daughter that I don't think she's capable of completing a compelling application. Nice way to promote self-confidence. Not.

• It certainly wouldn't encourage the independence that she wants — and will need come fall at whichever fine institution she chooses.

Yes, I have been known to help my child with her schoolwork ("help with" are the operative words there). And, I'd like to think that I've now helped with the application process (I've certainly pulled out my credit card a lot lately — sending scores, sending transcripts and sending the applications themselves all had fees attached). But, she didn't get any kind of "pass" on her essay. The words those (possibly persnickety) admissions officers will read are absolutely hers. I think they represent her authentic voice. Had I written the essay, it would be neither authentic nor hers.

Very proud of my daughter today.

And now, we wait.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  
 

Uncommon App

Since my now teenage daughter was a tiny little tyke, people — older, wiser, well-meaning people — have warned me that time was not just going to fly, but that it would accelerate, gaining speed and moving faster and faster, blurring by, each year after year, every milestone after milestone.

This past weekend was particularly fast-paced, blurry and milestone-ish.

On Thursday, the two of us said good-bye to the husband/father (and the puppy) and headed to the airport. Friday morning, we toured a college — not just any college, mind you, but one that is currently tied for first place on my daughter's short list (a little "too short," according to her guidance counselor). We were there for about three hours, sitting through a PowerPoint presentation, walking the campus with a student guide, and finally meeting with the director of the school's impressive equestrian facility and my daughter's potential coach.

This was not my daughter's first college visit or even her second or third. But, it was different. 

For example, as the group of us (four prospective students with more respective parents) set off across campus, my daughter was up near our guide not falling behind with me and my sprained ankle. When we went through the equestrian center, she walked ahead with the coach, answering and even asking questions. Our friend, my BFF and the already "been there, done that" mother of three college graduates herself (my Sherpa on this unnerving climb and much appreciated), hung back with me. This wasn't our show. And we knew it.

Back at the house, with remarkably little prompting, my daughter went online and started the "Common App."

The concept for the Common Application began forty years ago. Representatives of fifteen colleges met to explore the benefits of creating a single application that would be considered by multiple schools. Today, supported by online technology, the Common App is "common" indeed. It's used by nearly a million students to submit millions of applications to more than 500 participating institutions.

For seniors (and mothers thereof) it's also a bit of a boogeyman. I was thrilled that my daughter was starting the process, but wondered what she (with me hovering) would encounter.

Each college she's applying to has its own set of questions at the beginning. Most of these are straightforward (Do you have a parent or grandparent who attended? What do you plan to major in?), but some are open-ended and will require more thought and careful proofreading (What first attracted you to this school?).

The Common App itself compresses a lot of information into objective little character-count-limited bits and bytes. This is efficiently designed for this digital world of ours, but it is woefully inadequate if you're trying to stand out as an individual beyond "most this" and "best that." There is so much I wanted admissions officers to know about my utterly uncommon daughter that simply doesn't have a place on the Common App.

For example, she can click "Add Activity" and type in "Coaching younger riders at horse shows," but she runs out of space long before she can explain all that it entails. And there's certainly no opportunity for me to add what I think matters most. Like how much she cares, how kind she is or how much they admire her. Or the time my daughter was in first place (headed for a honkin' silver trophy too) and she was disqualified on a technicality. She was not only composed and respectful to the judges, but she stood on the sidelines and cheered a girl she had mentored on to victory.

There was also the time that she kept her head when a younger rider suffered a bad fall in the woods. Wouldn't that demonstrate her character, her wits and her compassion better than a maximum 100-character (including spaces) activity description?

She was able to add her annual community service work for a local organization that delivers school supplies and backpacks to needy kids. But, I longed to call someone (or all the someones) in Admissions and tell them about the time she contacted the head of the non-profit organization to suggest that they add "student's favorite color" to the information they provided backpack donors. She saw no reason why a girl who loved blue should be stuck with a pink backpack, no matter who was buying it for her.

I don't have an answer. The Common App saves everyone — students and institutions alike — time and money. But with so few schools requiring (or even offering) one-to-one interviews anymore, I feel like we're missing the heart of the matter. 

The hearts of our senior girls and boys.

Oh well, we can't stop to mourn the loss or even to reflect. 

You see, we're moving on to the essay.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

In Her Own Sweet Time

After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically. 

I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.

I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.

Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.

All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.

To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.

A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.

(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced  — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)

Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"

By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far. 

The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.

She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.

In her own sweet time.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

 

More Than One Way To Serve

Besides horse shows and houseguests and a single, quick family vacation, this coming summer will be all about college admissions.

Believe me, no one is looking forward to it less than my daughter. (Except maybe me.)

We need to visit more schools, work on essays and create my daughter's first résumé. 

Say what?

I put together my first résumé about six months after I graduated from college. I had won a fellowship which included a paid internship at a New York publishing company, so I did my real job hunting a little later than my classmates. Anyway, I was twenty-two and had actually worked for half a year. My daughter is seventeen. What is she supposed to put on her résumé? (Actually, when I was seventeen, I did have a résumé, but it was just because I was pursuing acting work.)

According to the website InLikeMe.com, my daughter's
résumé should include:

• A heading: that's the easy part: name and address
• Her objective: college acceptance and merit scholarships
• Key stats: class ranking, GPA, SAT and/or ACT scores
• Education: high school, AP and Honors courses
• School activities: basically ... well ... none, but I assume we can address the past 12 years of horse lessons, training and competitions
• Honors and awards: by year
• Enrichment activities: travel, hobbies
• Work experience: include special duties or recognition
• Other: they encourage us to find a "hook" or "wow factor"
• References

None of the above is particularly daunting. But, there is one other item, nestled in between "Honors and awards" and "Enrichment activities."

Community service.

So now we're looking for a volunteer opportunity, a formal "service" project that she can list on her college and National Honor Society applications. She needs to find something to which she can donate "at least twenty hours" of her time. And she'll need a letter of recommendation and signature from someone in charge.

I find this extremely irritating and superficial. Most of the teens I've talked to are contributing time to a cause for the very two reasons I've outlined above. For those reasons — and pretty much only those reasons.

Service is important, don't get me wrong. But, there are lots of ways to give back.

When we first gave my daughter an allowance, we were pretty generous: $10 a week. (I think I earned about 35¢, but milk was probably a nickel and we probably walked to school barefoot, in snow, uphill, both ways.) With that $10, however, came stipulations. She had to save some of it and donate some of it. She made donations to everything from animal rescues to cancer rides. Often, if there was something that really moved her, we would match her donation.

As a family, we traveled to New Orleans a few months after Hurricane Katrina. We worked in a relief station in a town called Aribe, which was utterly destroyed. Not only did my daughter — then quite little — serve, but she got to know some of the storm's victims. And she worked her tail off.

Every year since before she can remember, my daughter has helped us make school backpacks and Christmas stockings for needy children in our area. In fact, she took the exercise so to heart that she contacted the president of the organization and suggested that he add each child's "favorite color" to the age and gender information we already received. As a kid herself, she thought it would be terrible (tragic even) if a girl who liked blue got a backpack in pink.

She sponsors a child in Indonesia and writes to her often, including paper dolls and stickers that can be sent flat through the mail. (We were warned early on that if we sent actual 3-D packages, our sponsored child's family would have to pay exorbitant import duties.) Thanks to the sponsorship (which, believe me, is less than my daughter's Frappuccino habit), the girl gets to go to school and is hoping to become a teacher.

She also adopted a young officer in Afghanistan through an organization called Soldier's Angels. For two years, my daughter sent him a letter every week and a package once a month (for some reason, beef jerky was always one of the requested items). When he finally returned home, he sent her a dog tag with her name on it as a "Thank you."

Through the same organization, we adopted a soldier's family one Christmas. Together, we looked up grocery stores near their address and bought a gift card so they could enjoy a holiday feast. We stuffed stockings and picked out gifts for the two children (a little girl and a toddler), and included lots of decorations, treats and trinkets in the box we sent as well.

My daughter is also generous with her time when any classmates need help. (Between you and me, she should be paid for all the un-official Physics tutoring she's done this year.)
 
And, I haven't even listed (quite honestly, because I can't) how many walk-a-thons, cancer rides, horse rescues and school fundraisers we've contributed to. Most recently, my daughter donated to a group that lets inner city kids experience horseback riding. When she was younger, she helped the same group create its "Read to Ride" program.

Bottom line. My daughter has served since she was very small and continues to do so when and how she can. Either with her money or her time. The thing is, when it comes to time, she is more than fully committed these days  — between schoolwork; SAT, ACT and AP tests; two part-time jobs; and training at the stable 5-6 days a week, it's very hard to find free time for a regular volunteer gig. But, if I added up all the hours she has spent putting together stockings, backpacks, reading lists, letters to Indonesia and packages to Afghanistan, the number of hours would be significantly more than twenty. The only problem is that none of the above exactly fit the very prescribed idea of "service" when it comes to college applications. There's no one to write the official recommendation letter. 

So now, we're shopping around for a service gig for the summer. Something with horses, of course. Or children. Or horses and children.

Expecting teens to serve isn't what's bothering me. We should all serve when and how and as we can. It's the limited definition that's my issue. Mahatma Gandhi said that "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." So I'll look on the bright side. My daughter will find herself this summer, assuming she finds the opportunity and — here's the real challenge — finds the time.

Any chance her teachers would forego summer reading assignments so she can serve?

I didn't think so.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

The Upside of Downtime

My teenage daughter has managed to keep her grades high through the past three years — between concerts and cookie dough, riding, competing, Gossip Girl and texting, texting, texting, I don't know how she does it.

Ask any high school parent these days and I'm sure you'll hear the same thing. Kids today have more homework than we did. Way more. Way way more.

They're also expected to excel at a sport (or in many cases multiple sports). Whether you're in the volleyball club or a varsity team, this equates to a huge time sink. Some of my daughter's classmates who participate in school athletics have practice every day after school and meets or games every Saturday and Sunday.

My daughter didn't join any school teams because she already spends an average of 30-35 hours a week at the stable. (It killed us when a well-meaning gym teacher once told her that riding isn't a sport. Excuse me, Mr. Man, but why don't you try posting up and down in a saddle for an hour or carrying 50-pound water buckets. Sheesh!)

Kids are also expected to "serve," to give back to the community. I'm not a mathematician (thank goodness my daughter hasn't needed my help with pre-calculus this year), but if you add up the hours they're in class, plus the hours they're doing homework, plus the hours they're running around with a hockey stick ... well, I don't think there are any hours left.

Experts advise that teens need 9-10 hours of sleep (as adults, we need only 7-8). My response to this?

Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Even if homework is done by 10 or even 11 o'clock, my daughter needs at least a little while to connect with her friends or unwind with a half-hour of New Girl. Her father and I try to explain that she should go right to bed, but I can't blame her for wanting a bit of time for herself.

Most afternoons, I'm able to pick my daughter up after school. "How was your day?" I'll ask. More often than not, she doesn't want to talk about it. She thinks it's all "so annoying."

I think it's just that she's "so" exhausted.

Supposedly, all this extra work and activity and stress is supposed to be preparing our kids for college. Supposedly, they'll know how to study; supposedly, they'll know how to manage their time.  

Here's what I suppose ...

We're pretty much burning our teens out before they even start college. When they're alone in their dorms and suddenly have the option to goof off, when there aren't any moms or dads nagging them about their work, I worry that they're going to simply check out for some much needed downtime.

Doing nothing, relaxing, reading for enjoyment rather than for an AP test. My daughter and her friends don't get enough discretionary time. "It's just one more year," everyone mutters under their breath. But it's not. It's — hopefully — five more years. At least.

We've got to give these kids a break — or they're going to break.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

High Stakes

Several years ago, I complained to a coworker about a particularly late night I had spent helping a particular daughter with a particular science project.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because she wouldn't have gotten it done otherwise."

"So?"

"So, she would have failed."

"So, let her fail."

This left me speechless. It was a completely unacceptable concept for me (and absolute proof that the aforementioned coworker was not a parent).

In hindsight, maybe, I should have let her fail. The stakes in third grade weren't so high. Today? Oy vey. It feels like any little hiccup on any quarter's report card will mean the difference between attending a respectable university and becoming a productive member of society. Or wearing a batik skirt, Birkenstocks and hitchhiking cross-country following the Grateful Dead.

Except these days, she would wear something from Urban Outfitters and follow Imagine Dragons or Walk the Moon or, her personal favorite, Magic Man.

I can't begin to tell you how tired I am of the never-ending mantras of my fellow terrified parents ...

"Junior year: this is the year that really counts."

"It's harder to get into college now than when we went."

"Your son/daughter simply has to take the SATs twice plus ACTs (and three subject matter SATs and at least two APs)."

To say the stakes are high — or, at least, that we perceive them to be — is the understatement of the year. And, if I've learned anything so far about this whole college application process, it's that there is no room for understatement. Your child must be the best, the brightest, the biggest thing since sliced bread. A scholar, a leader, an athlete, an active and compassionate volunteer.

And, failure, is absolutely not an option.

After years of micromanaging my daughter's homework, I've stepped back. (My new and improved attitude coincided with many "I'm not a kid anymore!" protests.) Now, we have an agreement. It's a quid pro quo thing.

The quid includes riding her horse every day, competing in equestrian events (many of which involve long distances and heavy entry fees), going to concerts, and watching her favorite TV shows: Pretty Little Liars, New Girl and Dance Moms.

The quo is a little simpler. She has to keep her grades up. 

My daughter would argue that I have unreasonable expectations where grades are concerned. But, I honestly don't. I want her to continue to make the honor roll, but if that means excelling in some classes and coming in around average in another, that's ok. As long as the net net is good, I'm good.

Sometimes I worry that I've run out of steam right when I need to push her the hardest. But, she needs to do some of her own pushing now. I can't email her teacher or call her guidance counselor every time I think she's received an unfair grade on a paper. My daughter has to advocate for herself. Stay after class, have those awkward conversations. She's seventeen; these aren't things I can do for her anymore.

Besides, she'd kill me if I tried. 

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Junior Parents Night

I have to confess that I haven't always been a big fan of all the rules and regulations, policies and procedures at my daughter's high school. I've rolled my eyes at the dress code. I've complained about the number of (more accurately, dearth of) women authors on the English department reading list. I disagreed when they revoked the add/drop period. I despaired when they fired the arts administrator and used the money to install surveillance cameras.

So, you can imagine my confidence level as I attended "Junior Parents Night" last week.

But, guess what? I was pleasantly surprised.

The school auditorium was pretty full, with maybe 200 or so concerned junior parents. Make that, very concerned. Very, very concerned. We were there to hear about ... the college admissions process. OMG.

The guidance department ran the meeting, which lasted precisely 90 minutes (methinks they had done it once or twice before). There were lists and charts, standardized test schedules, reassuring anecdotes, and demonstrations of the online college search tool that each of our sons and daughters could access. There was even some humor.

The audience was having none of it. Not even when we learned that "Jane Junior," with her average GPA and lackluster SATs, could still choose ten schools to consider: two "safety," two "reach," and six "probable." Truly, looking around the crowd, I was taken aback by the sky-high level of anxiety and abject terror of my parent peers.

And we're still months away from applications and as much as a year away from actually receiving acceptances — or, gulp, rejections.

I wasn't feeling great, and would have bagged a less important event. But, my mommy-guilt got the better of any physical ailment. After all, if I skipped Junior Parent Night, I probably wouldn't be prepared to guide my daughter and then she probably wouldn't get into college and then she'd probably wind up on some reality show with the other beauty pageant moms who lived in her trailer park.

The probablies were positively terrifying.

Well, I rallied (as we moms do), and I'm glad that I did. Not because I now feel prepared to single-handedly run my daughter's college search. But, because I now feel like I don't have to.

The guidance department really seems to have its you-know-what together. The process starts next week. Juniors will set up their online accounts, receive their official (work-in-progress) transcripts, and fill out their "brag sheets." They'll take SATs and ACTs in May and June. Over the summer, they're expected to write drafts of their essays and visit campuses. By the fall, just like "Jane Junior," they'll have a list of their safeties, reaches and probables.

My jobs, which will include planning trips and writing checks, are much fewer and less mission-critical than I thought. 

And, I'm relieved.

So, in conclusion, I'm grateful to have been pleasantly surprised by my daughter's high school.

Now, if we could just get some women authors on the reading lists ...

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Working Girl

My advice to newlyweds. Wait a few years longer than your best friends to have children. Let those intrepid souls learn the ropes — and make the mistakes — for you. Then, you'll have a better idea of what's in store.

A few years ago, all of the parents I knew were freaking out, falling over themselves, turning one-handed backflips to make sure that their high school students had outstanding "community service" on their résumés.

Okay, stop the press! 

Résumés? Back in the 70s, the only high school students I knew with résumés were the ones pursuing a career in show business. (And, growing up in New York City, I crossed teenage paths with several of them: Diane Lane, Ben Stiller, Cynthia Nixon, Phoebe Cates.) The average everyday teen would have had a fairly lean curriculum vitae. My own would have included babysitting, babysitting and babysitting. 

What can I tell you? My career path was limited, but consistent. Back to what I was saying.

All of a sudden, stellar grades, varsity sports and student government weren't enough. The most selective schools expected applicants (in all their spare time, right — see previous sentence) to have volunteered. And, I mean, volunteered big!

Spending an afternoon at a soup kitchen? Not enough! Your aspiring Ivy Leaguer had to organize a four-week, six-county food drive, single-handedly solicit Fortune 500 corporate sponsorship, design a public service ad campaign, write a guest column in The Boston Globe, and get invited to appear on Oprah (or Ellen, at the very least).

Or, they had to start a movement focusing on some serious social problem and leveraging a group of like-minded peers. Then they could use social media to attract members across the country, accumulating posts and pictures and shares and "likes." (Stats they would be sure to regurgitate on college applications.) Extra credit for alliterative or rhyming names such as, "Ballerinas Against Bullying," "Home Schoolers for Housing," or the "Jock Sock Drive."

And, say "bye bye" to family vacations. Your future grad of Harvard, Yale or Princeton had to spend her summer building houses for indigenous peoples in Peru. In 110-degree weather. Carrying water buckets from the next town. Five miles, uphill, both ways.

Having been sufficiently warned by my trailblazing friends, I thought we were in fairly good shape. Since sixth grade, my daughter has worked with a local organization that introduces inner city kids to horseback riding. She created a book list of appropriately horsey titles so that participating students could read and earn points toward riding. For her senior project, in a couple of years, she's planning to work at a local therapeutic riding facility, helping special needs participants gain confidence and coordination. These are carefully chosen activities that demonstrate passion and commitment, a willingness to work hard, and focused experience that can be carried over into her proposed course of study. 

I know, blah blah blah.

But wait! Now, all of sudden, the colleges are looking for work. Like work work. Actual, paid, minimum-wage, burger-flipping after school jobs. Uh-oh. 

But wait again! Lo and behold, my daughter came home one day and announced that she had found a job. She and one of her BFFs are splitting a part-time retail position. She's working every other weekend at a designer consignment shop about a five-minute walk from our house. 

Wow. It's a little weird that I didn't have to do anything to make this happen. It's a little weird that she's going to be helping customers and stocking shelves and ringing up the register and opening the store and closing it up at the end of the day. It's a little weird, but I'm proud of her.

And, just think how good it will look on her résumé.