Many moons ago, when my daughter and I were traveling with another family, I was scolded by the other mother for "Never saying 'No'."
I thought at the time (and still think today) that this was a bit unfair. I know what "No" means. I know how to say "No." I have said "No." Really. I've said "No" a lot. A lot. A real lot.
Just not as often as I might have. Or, maybe, not as often as some other mothers do. Trust me, when it mattered, I said "No."
Fork in electrical outlet? "No!"
Knife in reach on the counter? "No!"
Running off a curb into traffic? "No! No! No!"
What I didn't do was say "No" for no reason. Our marvelous pediatrician gave me great advice when my daughter was turning two. (Actually, he gave me great advice many times, many many many times, but this one is germane to my essay here.) He said:
"Here come the terrible twos. She'll be testing you all the time now. And, you're going to have to say 'No.' But, don't say 'No' unless you're going to stick with it. If that means you say 'Yes' 98% of the time, that's ok. But, once you say 'No,' you have to see it through. If you say 'No' and she cries for 45 minutes and then you give in, all you've taught her to do is to cry for 45 minutes."
Needless to say, that little speech scared me straight. And, I particularly liked the saying "Yes" part.
The thing is, my daughter was an easy child. She rarely disobeyed. She rarely threw a tantrum. When asked to describe her with one word on her kindergarten application, I chose "compliant."
(Excuse me now while I shake my head with wonder about how things change ...
Still shaking ...
Still shaking ...
All right, I'm done.)
She may not be as easy as she once was — and I may find myself saying "No" more than I used to — but, I still think that if I can help her pursue joy, I should.
Thus, I recently found myself doing a three-day roadtrip to New York and Providence with her so she could see her favorite band. This was neither convenient, nor easy, nor inexpensive. But, it was important to her. It made her happy. All in all, we had nearly twelve hours together in the car, which gave us ample time to talk about upcoming senior year activities, new horses at her stable, and questionable decisions made by some of her friends. We ate junk food and sang along to the cast recordings of Spring Awakening and Hamilton. We were roadies together, like Thelma and Louise but with a happier ending.
And, as much as saying "No" might have taught her a lesson, I think fulfilling her request taught her something too. Like, how going out of your way to make someone you love happy is worth doing. When she heads off to college in just under four months, I want her to think of her mother as someone who said "Yes" more than she said "No."
Unlike Thelma and Louise, we made it home safe and sound, exhausted and happy. You guessed it. We were safe and sound; I was exhausted.
She was happy.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I'm a worrier. My friends, family and especially my husband will tell you that's an almost laughable understatement. In the best of times, I lie awake in the wee hours of the morning, worrying about how I will manage to do all the wonderful things I've committed to doing. In the worst of times, the worrying extends both earlier and later, and I've been known to sleep not at all.
When you have a baby, there are exponentially more things to worry about. For some mothers, the anxiety starts before the offspring even arrives. I was surprisingly serene during my pregnancy despite the death of my dad and twenty weeks of all-day morning sickness. I think I somehow knew that my balanced well-being would benefit my baby. There were plenty of sleepless nights at the end, but that was more from swollen ankles and a bulging belly than nerves.
As mothers, we have to push our worries aside or we can't function at all. Let's face it, the world is a very scary place — as we are reminded every single night on network news. Abductions. School shootings. Hit and run drivers. Children-in-peril stories are constantly in the headlines. Here in the Boston area, we've had months of Baby Jane Doe, now known as Baby Bella, the poor little toddler whose body was left on a harbor island beach.
Popular culture doesn't help either. Besides the more realistic dramas like CSI, there are Zombie Apocalypses, Blood-Sucking Vampires, Sorority Serial Killers and even Shark Tornadoes. Now, do I really think that a vampire-zombie-shark is going to attack my daughter and her sorority sisters? No. But, still the atmosphere of doom and gloom, and reason to worry is palpable.
Of course, the less special effect-y worries started early. At just three days old, my daughter had an eye infection. ("I'm a horrible mother," I wailed.) A year or so later, we woke up to what sounded like a dog barking in her bedroom, and I ended up spending a good portion of the night with her out on our porch, wrapped in down comforters. Again, croup isn't exactly the stuff that horror films are made of, but it was horrible enough for me.
We've had it pretty easy, actually. Despite my daughter's predilection for jumping over logs on the back of a horse, we've had no broken bones yet and only a couple of "possible" concussions. She either failed or passed the concussion test by so slim a margin that the results were inconclusive.
These days, I worry less about equestrian accidents and more about my daughter's newfound — and much cherished — autonomy. She drives (carefully and with her phone on airplane mode, so she says) and she goes to concerts with friends out-of-town or even out-of-state. She stays up (and sometimes out) much later than I do. She has a whole life that I'm not a part of.
And, if I think too much about it, I'm going to worry myself to death.
So, I try not to. I remember my own adventures at eighteen. (Eighteen? OMG.) I think about the world and the odds and the fact that most people are good and kind and would help a couple of teenagers if their car broke down or they lost their wallets or ... or ... or ...
Mostly, I try not to think about it.
Having a child is the greatest act of faith you can commit. As Elizabeth Stone famously said, "It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
I've learned to count on my daughter's intelligence and good judgement. And I have to believe that the world is essentially a benign and benevolent place (zombies and vampires and flying sharks aside). I try not to lose too much sleep. Well, no more than I would lose otherwise.
Motherhood used to be a matter of vigilance. Now, I guess it's a matter of trust.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I've said it before. My teenage daughter is a groupie. It's official.
Actually, it's been official for quite some time.
She started going to concerts a couple of years ago. Mostly, she goes to hear bands that I've never heard of at venues I've never been to. In fact, when one of her bands makes it big (like Imagine Dragons did after they were covered on Glee — oh, and won a Grammy — or like Walk the Moon has with "Shut Up and Dance With Me"), it irritates her to no end. Suddenly ticket prices soar; suddenly it's harder to get autographs, drumsticks, playlists and selfies; suddenly her bands play at 21 and up clubs where she can't go.
The horror!
Recently, the concerts have become bigger — I'm sure she would argue "better" — experiences. For example, we had the all-day vigil outside the House of Blues; and our mother-daughter evening in Boston. Now, she's crossing state lines.
This past weekend, my daughter and a bestie went down to Providence, Rhode Island to see a band at some waterfront venue somewhere. This concerned me. I've pretty much, almost, sort of gotten over my fear of her driving. But, going to and from her stable is one thing. Driving on highways to another state is ... well ... another.
Luckily, my husband pointed out that driving to Providence on a Friday in the summer would not be a very good idea. You see, in between Boston and Providence is this peninsula called Cape Cod (you may have heard of it). The highway I was so afraid of would be a parking lot, and they would get there at about half past never.
Hooray for public transportation!
The girls left our town later than they had planned (but earlier than they would have if I had insisted that my daughter go change into a different tank top that didn't showcase her bra quite so much). They drove to the nearest T station, got on a train to Boston, and then took the commuter rail down to Providence. By now, my daughter knows that frequent texts and a selfie or two go a long way toward calming my nerves. She sent a picture of the two of them enjoying a particularly nutritious South Station breakfast: pretzel bites.
By all accounts (and a handful of text messages), their day in Providence was great fun. They found "the cool neighborhood" with its own Urban Outfitters. They got elaborate henna tattoos on their hands. And they arrived at the concert venue two hours early so they could snag and save front row seats. The last train back to Boston was at 10:40 pm and they were to be on it. No excuses, no kidding. They had to catch that train on pain of death. (Really. If my husband or I had to drive two hours to rescue them, heads were definitely going to roll.)
Despite the looming curfew, they had a wonderful time. They met the band and got autographed CDs. And, they made the train. They were home by about 1:00 am. I was already asleep upstairs. My husband was asleep with the puppy on the couch.
As is my way these days, I reminded myself that I was fairly autonomous at my daughter's age. In fact, I was younger
than she is when I went to visit colleges. A high school classmate and I
took Amtrak from New York to Boston, and stayed with an older girl from our school in
Harvard Square. I took the bus to Tufts, and toured the campus by myself, hitting all the
important things — the arena theatre, a dining hall, a dorm, the library — then took the bus back. On the next and last day of my visit, I
went into Boston, where I fell in love with Beacon Hill and Faneuil Hall and the Charles River and the North End. I applied to Tufts early decision and didn't look back.
I realized a while ago that my daughter's life is more exciting than mine these days. While she was in a state of bliss in, oddly enough, the state of Rhode Island, I realized that I might also be in a state.
A state of agitation.
A state of anxiety.
A state of emergency.
Then I decided that it would be better for all involved if I took a little trip to the state of acceptance. It was a much better place to be.
I just wish they had henna tattoos there.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I have a thing about personal space. It's very important to me, which is a bit ironic since I grew up in New York City. In NYC — unless you're a Vanderbilt, a Rockefeller or a Rothschild — personal space is hard to come by. From a real estate perspective, that is.
It's even harder to negotiate on public transportation at rush hour.
Prior to my recent high school reunion, some of my classmates posted their favorite (and especially not-so-favorite) memories. Many of them commuted into Manhattan each day from one of the other boroughs. Most of us remember the perverts on the 1970s subways who used the crowded cars as an excuse to crowd their private parts up against high school student bodies. In seventh grade health ed, one of the first things we learned was how to stay safe. One particular teacher explained that all the inappropriate touching masked a deep desire for anonymity. These creeps counted on our doing and saying nothing to draw attention to them. Her suggestion? If we found a man's hand suddenly groping our ass, we should grab it, hold it high and loudly ask "Whose hand is this?" She assured us the man — and his hand — would soon slink away.
Thankfully, I never had to resort to that tactic. But, I certainly had my share of close encounters in those days.
These days, as an adult who can control her environment most of the time, I cherish my space. If you're a friend or family, a colleague or classmate, I will very happily hug and kiss you. But, if you're some stranger in a sweaty subway car, please please please keep your distance. Please.
So you can imagine how happy I was to find myself on the floor of the TD Bank Garden last night. When we arrived at 7:30, there was still a semblance of breathing room. By the time the headlining band started at 9:30, not so much. Very soon we were packed like proverbial sardines. There wasn't any groping going on (at least none that I noticed and certainly none aimed at me — not a surprise, really, since I was about 25-30 years older than the average concert goer).
But, there were other indignities.
Let me back up for a moment and explain how I happened to be there. My daughter had plans to see Imagine Dragons (a favorite) with a bestie. However, said bestie had a conflict and suddenly my daughter was stuck with two general admission tickets. She texted everyone she could think of, but no one was available at such short notice. So, she came to me with Plan A.
"I could go by myself," she said. "I'd be safe."
My immediate answer was no. She immediately transitioned to Plan B.
"Would you go with me?"
As countless people have observed, I'm just a mom who can't say no. We ate a quick dinner, fed the dog, and headed to Boston.
Which leads me to the aforementioned other indignities.
Over-the-Top Parking — One we got into town, we passed a lot a couple of blocks from the Garden. I pulled in, thinking it would be a deal. "$40, thank you," said the young attendant. "$40? No thank you!" said I. My daughter shot me the first of many 'Please don't embarrass me' looks. We ended up under the Garden for $45, which was slightly more convenient. In addition to paying the additional $5 though, it probably took us an extra 40 minutes to negotiate the traffic around the venue after the show. Ugh.
The Special General Admission Entrance — Once we parked, we had to leave the Garden to go back into the Garden through a special entrance. We then walked up 5 or 6 flights of stairs (which felt like 7 or 8) to get our wristbands. "How are you tonight?" asked the jovial wristband guy. "Winded," I quipped. "There's oxygen on the next level," he quipped back. Our little exchange earned me another look.
Warm-Up Bands — My daughter was very excited to see the first of the two opening acts: Halsey. And, she was really very impressive. But, the second band was less so. Actually, that's not entirely true. I was impressed with the way the lead singer seemed to channel a howling chihuahua.
(I don't think I was the target audience. But, in my defense, I was also not the only middle-aged mother there.)
Sticky Floors — Neither my daughter nor I bought so much as a soda, but I think we carried an entire keg home on the soles of our shoes.
Weapons of Facial Destruction, a.k.a. Hair — This was truly the most annoying part of an evening that (let's face it) wouldn't have been my first choice (or second or third). A young woman next to me had her pretty blond hair in a high ponytail. That's her business, right? It's a free country, right? The problem was that every time she turned to look at the stage or the crowd or a friend or ... well ... pretty much anything, that ponytail whipped across my face.
In all fairness, Imagine Dragons were terrific! They put on an excellent show and were genuinely happy to be there. Such nice, appreciative boys, I have to give them credit even if my feet were killing me by the time they got to the handful of hits I recognized. We left about 11:00 and rolled sleepily into our already sleeping town at about 12:15 a.m.
As I've said, it wouldn't have been at the top of my list, but I survived. Like Imagine Dragons, I found myself feeling appreciation too.
I may not have been at the top of my daughter's list, but I enjoyed (most of) my time in her personal space.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
We have a phrase we use at ad agencies: "Project creep." It's when you think you understand the parameters of a project, establish a budget accordingly, and then as time goes by, the project ... well ... creeps. It grows; it morphs; it evolves; it changes.
And never in the agency's favor.
So, you think you're designing a six-page brochure for a software client. Then, halfway through, they remember to tell you that the center page is actually a centerfold, meaning there are four extra pages. Or a healthcare client neglects to inform you that the flyer you're writing has to be translated into Spanish, Mandarin and Creole. Or a financial services client reminds you that there need to be eight versions of that direct mail piece and they're sure they mentioned it at some point to someone. But, in all of the cases above, the budgets and schedules remain the same.
This is what we call "project creep."
In truth, I've experienced a lot less "project creep" since founding my own agency thirteen years ago. There are so few of us and we work so closely with each client that less creeps through the cracks.
But, I was reminded of "project creep" the other day.
We have a deal with our seventeen-year-old daughter. She has a handful of favorite bands and loves going to concerts, many of which are on school nights. She would, of course, absolutely die, if she missed Magic Man or Walk the Moon or Panic at the Disco, so we've agreed that she can go to their concerts. Provided:
- All homework is completed
- She and her friends pay for their own tickets and "merch" (band swag they sell at the venue)
- She maintains her Honor Roll GPA
- She gives us not one iota of grief getting up the next morning
Going to concerts used to mean that we or some other parents took the teens into town or picked them up afterwards (and there were times when we were somehow on duty both directions, wtf?). But now, with their freshly minted licenses in hand, the kids drive themselves. Not all the way into Boston (I've been driving 25 years and I find parking there daunting), but to the nearest public transportation.
And, that, my friends, is where the recent "creep" crept in.
We had agreed that she could see some band she loves at the House of Blues. It was actually a weekend gig, so it should have been simpler than usual.
Mais non.
The day before the show, we suddenly learned that our daughter and her BFF planned to leave the house at 4:45 am so they could catch the very first train into town at 5:20 am so they could be on line outside the House of Blues by 6:00 am.
As you've probably guessed, the concert did not start at 6:00 am. Or any time near it.
The reason for the pre-dawn departure was that the first two people in line with disposable cameras were going to win a once-in-a-lifetime prize. The band's official photographer was going to take those cameras backstage and snap all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime candids of the band before, during and after their set. The only way our girls could win this once-in-a-lifetime contest was if they guaranteed their place at the very head of the line, so of course they had to be there as early as humanly possible.
It was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In a "project creep" sort of way.
We said, "No."
"But you said I could go!" she protested. "You knew about it! And I always go early and stand on line!"
She had a point. We did, indeed, say she could go (to the concert). We did, indeed, know about it (the concert). And she did, indeed, always go early and stand in line — early like four hours before (the concert).
Not EARLY like 6:00 am.
Spring comes late here and it would still be fairly dark when they arrived at their not-yet-open destination. I personally wouldn't want to be on Boston's Landsdowne Street at 6:00 am. Lined with clubs and bars, and across the street from Fenway Park, it's not exactly the safest area and certainly wouldn't be very populated on a Saturday at ohmigod-o'clock.
As you can imagine, if you are the lucky parent of a teen whose plans are threatened to be thwarted, much drama ensued.
I don't know if I was particularly tired or she wore me down or I had a flashback to my own teens when I pretty much owned Manhattan and didn't yet fear death. At any rate, we finally came to a compromise. She could go, as planned, but I expected a check-in text every half hour. No ifs, ands or buts.
"Or," I told her, finger in her face, "I will drive into town and hunt you down and drag you out of that line and home!" For good measure, I added, "And you will never never ever go to another concert again!"
How she kept from laughing is beyond me, but she readily agreed.
True to her word, she did text me every 30 minutes on the dot. They were informative and affectionate messages:
we're here
here
still here
Eventually, I did get a more effusive message letting me know that they had won the contest and their cameras were now in the hands of the photographer. Oh, and they met the band (again) and she got a drumstick (again). Then, I got an actual call (gasp!) to let me know that her battery was dying but they were going to charge her phone behind the bar and she wouldn't be able to text again until after the show. But she would, she promised, and "thank you soooooooo much" for letting them do this.
My husband and I had a nice dinner, watched an episode of Mr. Selfridge, and eventually went to bed. But, I'm a mother, so I didn't fall asleep until I heard the gate ...
and my daughter creeping in.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
It's official. My seventeen year old daughter is a groupie.
This isn't something I planned for. Who does really? We all want the best for our children, and here in suburban New England, most moms like me have rather lofty goals. A lawyer, maybe. A veterinarian. A journalist.
Not a groupie.
What immediately comes to mind is the movie Almost Famous. Suffice it to say, the film included plenty of sex and drugs as well as rock and roll.
Oh boy.
Of course, I went to my share of concerts in high school. But, growing up in New York City, two subway stops from Madison Square Garden, I tended to see really big shows. Elton John, David Bowie, Wings, Billy Joel, even KISS. Would I have liked to "hang out" with the boys in the band? Um ... probably. But, at that venue and with those headliners, it would have taken a much more enterprising teen than myself to get backstage. (Plus, I always had too much homework waiting back at the apartment.)
When I think about the girls who used to follow bands back in my day (that would be the late 70s, early 80s), I picture free spirits in those skirts that looked like table cloths. The first week of freshman year of college, I met a girl who had followed The Grateful Dead around the country the entire summer before. Her greatest accomplishment was sleeping with an assistant lighting guy.
Probably not what her mother had planned for her either.
Years later, I was taking a bus from Boston down to visit my then boyfriend, a medical student at University of Connecticut. A group of hippies stepped out in front of the bus as we left the highway and headed into Hartford. The Dead were playing at the Civic Center and they needed directions. I got the sense they had hitched (or walked) a long way. And hadn't bathed in a while.
See above comment about parents' hopes and dreams.
So this past weekend, when my daughter explained that she and her BFFs were heading into town at noon for their 7:30 concert, I was a little concerned. Why so early? I really didn't relish the idea of them sitting on a sidewalk outside the club all afternoon.
"No," she explained, "The band is going to tweet where they'll be before the show so we can meet them."
Say what?
Back in my day, as a fan, you took the initiative to sleep with roadies or step in front of buses. That's how you got the attention of your idol (or got an STD or worse). Well, times have changed, apparently. Today's bands stay in touch with their fans through Facebook and Twitter. They let them know where they'll be and when.
Granted these aren't the equivalent of the huge rockstars I mentioned earlier. But, these are bonafide recording artists and their fans are just as loyal and starstruck as we were (and they're shrieking just as loud too). I have seen the iPhone videos, trust me.
Of course, once I understood the reason for going in early, I became a practically perfectly paranoid parent. I launched quite suddenly into a list of all the things the girls should be sure not to do. Like take anything, smoke anything, drink anything. Go anywhere with anyone at any time.
My daughter rolled her eyes. "Our bands aren't like that," she explained. It was my turn to roll my eyes. "That's what you think," I told her then.
Here's what I think now. She was right.
The night before, my daughter and her friend made posters and toll house cookies for the band. They went in early, waited outside the club and when the band arrived, sure enough, the young musicians were thrilled to see them, to admire the posters, to eat the cookies and to pose for priceless selfies together.
My daughter had an amazing night — and I couldn't be happier to have been mistaken.
We assume that "back in our day" was better. Not always. Not this time.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Several times a week, I drive my teenage daughter to and from the stable where we board her horse. At this point, with the permission (and permit) of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, plus several hours of professional instruction under her skinny little belt, she could actually do the driving.
Except she can't. Because I'll have a heart attack. And then where would we be?
I could write an entire post — multiple posts, really — about the sheer and almost illogical terror I'm experiencing when the fruit of my womb is behind the wheel of my car. And, I'm sure I will.
But, not now.
Right now, I want to talk about another rite of teenage passage. Song lyrics, those anthems of angst that define today's adolescents just as they did when you and I were sixteen.
You see, on one of our recent car trips, the oldies station (yes, I'm an oldie, I admit it) was playing The Who. I was singing along without much thought, when I realized how silly I (not to mention Roger Daltrey) sounded:
Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland
I'm nearly 52. (Holy crap.) Daltrey is nearly 70. (HOLY CRAP.) Meanwhile, the only teenager in the picture was quietly texting in her seat, ignoring her mother, ignoring the ancient rockstar, ignoring all that teen trauma from long, long ago.
I wasn't a huge Who fan (although I did see the Tommy movie a couple, well several, okay about a hundred times). My teen years were all about Elton John:
I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage idol, no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol, that's what I'm gonna be
And Meatloaf:
Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go out and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed
Of course, my daughter and her friends have their own musician gods and their own anthems of angst. Today's pop music includes countless songs about the trials and tribulations (and torture) of being a teen, about first love, about partying. For example, "Up All Night" by One Direction, "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, "We Are Young," by Fun.
Or anything at all by Taylor Swift.
My daughter's musical tastes run more toward small, indie groups. She and her BFFs go to a concert every month or so (long nights of fun for them; long nights, period, for the parents). "Their" bands often open for better known acts. On more than one occasion, they've gotten to meet them, take selfies, snag a broken, autographed drumstick.
Good times.
Every generation has its own soundtrack. And, every decade produces an extensive catalog of teen music. Years from now (years and years and years from now), my daughter will probably find herself driving her own teenager somewhere. A song will come on and — miraculously, musically — the years will peel away. She'll feel sixteen again, like I did a couple of days ago.
And the generation gap will never feel wider.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
July 24th; it's finally here. Finally, finally. My teenage daughter has been counting the days.
I mean, really, she's been counting them.
You see, her iPhone has a countdown app and months ago, she put today's date into it. While she finished up freshman year, studied for finals, wrote her last term papers, she would check it over and over. And over and over. As though time would somehow fast-forward more quickly if she obsessively stared at that little screen.
What is it they say about a "watched pot?" No matter, today's finally the day ...
Imagine. Dragons. In. Concert.
OMG.
This is the second time my daughter will see them live. (She is a very dedicated fan.) And, I don't mind this particular pastime. Not as expert as my offspring by any stretch, I have to say that I like the Imagine Dragons lyrics I do know ...
It's time to begin, isn't it?
I get a little bit bigger, but then I'll admit
I'm just the same as I was
Now don't you understand
That I'm never changing who I am
We could do worse.
Yesterday, I had back-to-back-to-back meetings in Boston. When I finally got home, I found my daughter and one of her besties knee-deep in poster boards, markers and cut paper. They were making "fan art." If you're about my age, you may remember attending concerts and bringing (or seeing) large banners that praised the band or made some sort of pun based on one of their songs or simply said "I love you, Jon Bon Jovi!" (In my case, it was Elton John — now that was a realistic crush!)
The idea, I guess, was that the rockstar in question would see your banner, realize that you were the love of his life, find you, marry you, take you on the road. (Then, he'd drop acid with you, drop out, drop into rehab, drop you for a younger groupie ... you get the idea.)
Well fan art today is totally like that. Except it's totally different.
Today's concert audience creates fan art and posts it online rather than off the first row of the balcony blue seats at Madison Square Garden. You create something brilliant, send it out into the cyberinternetosphere and hope that a member of the band will "Like" it or "Tweet" it, link it, re-post it or share it.
Despite millions of fans posting millions of examples of fan art, the chance of getting noticed is actually much higher today than it was for us. My daughter is Facebook friends with some of the members of Imagine Dragons. This may not mean they actually know each other, of course, at least not in the analog world. But she's a lot closer to her idols than I was with my $16 ticket in 1975.
And what better way to get their attention than through art? It's been a lot of years since my daughter chose a craft project over a YouTube video. Can't say that I mind this particular pastime one bit.
The girls worked hard on their fan art, took a quick break for dinner, and continued on their masterpiece long after yours truly went to bed. This morning, my daughter brought her phone to show me ...
"They didn't re-post it," she pouted with a tiny gleam in her eye. "But, look at this!"
There, on her wall, was a comment from one of the Dragons himself. "lol love it"
OMG!!!
Was it really him? Was it an assistant? A roadie? Some girl he picked up two shows ago? Who cares! It was good.
Sometimes, when you're almost sixteen, life can be very good indeed.
It's March 19th in New England and we have yet another snow day. After sleeping in and grumbling a bit, my teenage daughter settled herself on the TV room couch. My husband is (yet again) shoveling and I'm working in my home office.
But, my teen is not exactly alone; she has her iPhone and my iPad.
These days, it seems like the age-old divide between adolescents and their parents can be measured in personal electronic devices. Yes, I own as many as my daughter does, but they are not my lifelines (or more like additional limbs) as they seem to be for her.
When I was fifteen, the only new-fangled technology I owned was a Sony Walkman and a Texas Instruments calculator — both of which I cherished, BTW. If I wanted to watch something, I used my parents' TV. If I wanted to listen to music, I did so via cassette tapes and vinyl records, just like my mom and dad did. But that's where the common ground stopped.
At fifteen, music plays a critical role in helping us define who we are. In a recent New York Magazine story (Why You Truly Never Leave High School), Laurence Steinberg, a Temple University developmental psychologist and expert on adolescence, explained it this way:
“... no matter how old you are, the music you listen to for the rest of your life is probably what you listened to when you were an adolescent.”
Puberty and adolescence are the periods when our brains sort us into the categories that determine the type of person we are. "I'm the type of person who does this. I'm the sort of person who likes that." And then it follow us ever after. As Steinberg relates to himself, “There’s no reason why, at the age of 60, I should still be listening to the Allman Brothers.” But, at an earlier, impressionable, formative age, he determined that he was "the type of person who likes the Allman Brothers." And the rest, as they say, is history.
These days, my daughter is all about Imagine Dragons. This morning, she approached me with great excitement because the band has published (online, of course) its upcoming concert schedule. This summer at Boston University, but not open to the public. ("Arrrrrrrgh! Mom! Dad! Who do we know at B.U.?") December in Columbus, Ohio. (Errr ... no, despite the presence of our best friends there, we are not going to spend $1,000 on airfare to see a concert on a school night.) And, some future date that I can't remember in Paris. (Okay, that one I might consider ... Not.)
I asked her, reasonably enough, if they are her favorites now because she got to see them live a few weeks ago. She said they would be her favorites anyway.
Her love runs deep.
Mine does not.
Frankly, like countless mothers before me, I don't get it. I know — I'm vaguely aware of, would be a more appropriate choice of words — some of their songs. "It's Time" was covered on Glee, and "Radioactive" has a bizarre video with a gangster Lou Diamond Philips and a bunch of Muppets on crack. I am by no means an expert.
But, that's okay.
Frankly, I don't have to like her music. Just like my parents didn't have to like mine (although, in truth, my mom and dad were way cooler than the average moms and dads back then). I don't get the music, but I do get the feeling. And that feeling will stay with my teenager long past her teen years. Just like Steinberg, I'm a focus group of one that proves this.
What's in my car right now?
Eagles: The Very Best Of
Janis Ian Between the Lines
Billy Joel, Greatest Hits Volume I and II
Elvis Costello, My Aim is True
Carly Simon Hotcakes
The Best of the Commodores
Changes 1 Bowie
And, as always, a lot of Elton John.
This selection is more a snapshot of a moment in time than loyalty to a particular genre, artist or style. Most of these CDs would not please either my husband or my child. But, when I'm alone and I hit "Play," I am instantly transported to my teens — an emotional period, certainly, but one that was filled with hopes and dreams and expectations that have faded over the past 35 years.
Until, that is, I hit "Play."
Dearest reader, if you have been following "Lovin' the Alien" for a while, you already know that I am a heavyweight contender for the Mother of the Year Award.
Let's see ... there was the pilgrimage to New York, through a blizzard and with three tweens in tow, to worship at the altar of Glee's Darren Criss. (Audible sigh.) There were early morning horse shows and late nights of homework. Countless trips to the mall. Perpetual backbends to provide my daughter with the latest technology and gigantic, costly, time-consuming pets.
All while trying to maintain my sense of humor — and my sanity.
Well, this week I added another selfless act of martyred mommy to my list. Let me set the stage so you can fully appreciate my generous — dare I say, saintly — parental spirit.
We spent February break down in New Orleans. A fantastic vacation, but not exactly a restful one. Too much food (too much wonderful food!), miles of walking through the French Quarter, Garden District and along the mighty Mississippi, lots of excitement. Thanks to a couple of delayed flights, we got home after one a.m. on Friday night (or, Saturday morning, I guess). Less than twelve hours later, I headed down to New York to see my actress sister in a play. The next night, I had to stay up through the bitter end of The Oscars, then a bus back to Boston, laptop in hand, multitasking all the way.
I was pooped. (We've already established that I'm no spring chicken.)
What would I have liked to do that evening? A warm bath, a cozy chair and a book in front of the fire. A chance to regroup, recoup, get ready for the truncated week ahead.
Hell to the no. Instead, I was stuck in Boston for another six hours while my teenage daughter went to her first ... wait for it ... CONCERT!
"Imagine Dragons" at the House of Blues on Lansdowne Street. OMG!
Here's what my daughter did: took the T into town with her BFF, had a burrito at Q'doba, stood online with hundreds of other excited teens until the doors opened at the House of Blues, rushed for some real estate close to the stage, screamed and danced and took iPhone pictures and videos of two opening acts and then did the same again for the stars of the night: Imagine Dragons. When it was all over, she bought a tee shirt and got a ride home.
Here's what her father and I did: chauffered said daughter and friend from T stop to Kenmore Square, killed an hour in the B.U. bookstore, met sympathetic friends for dinner at an Irish pub (thank you thank you thank you!), hung out in a by now deserted sports bar, watched the exodus of tired, near-deaf yet strangely elated teenagers, finally spotted our own and took them home.
As so often happens, I was reminded of my own concert days. I think my first was Elton John at Madison Square Garden. And, I was probably about my daughter's age. That initial show was followed by others: Fleetwood Mac, John Denver, Chicago, KISS (really). Because it was New York though, I could travel to the shows via public transportation and take a taxi home. Also, tickets were something like $16. And we weren't allowed to use cameras or "recording devices." Of course, we didn't care because there was no Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter.
Times have changed.
The next morning, my daughter was still flying high. She had been duly warned that any attitude would result in a "No concerts ever again!" edict. So, despite an almost total lack of sleep on a school night, things were very pleasant.
Two days later was another story. But I'll save that for ... another story.
