Mother of Inventions

A couple of things happen when you wait until you're 35 to have a baby. 

First of all, for nine months (through eight OB/GYN visits, three ultrasounds, one amniocentesis and an unforgettable stay in the birthing center) you get to see a big orange sticker on your folder that reads "Advanced Maternal Age."

Second, since most of your friends have already been there, done that, you get great advice.

"You have to ask for a Diaper Genie," we were told prior to my baby shower. We heard this over and over, from mother after mother (except for the one mother who assumed we would eschew disposable landfill-fillers and sign up for an organic diaper delivery service like she did ... um, not).

Diaper Genies were news to us. What an amazing invention! Manufactured by Playtex, it was a tall thin, lidded pail that you line with a long, thin tube of plastic. You put a used diaper in, shut it, twist it, then repeat as long as your baby is producing used diapers and until the pail is full. A few extra twists and the whole thing can be removed, so you can start over. The byproduct of all this diaper disposing and twisting is a long string of plastic wrapped diapers, sort of like an old-fashioned string of sausages. 

The upside is no mess and no fuss and, most important, no smell.

The downside, of course (just ask the aforementioned friend), is that you take something that's basically bad for the environment and encase it in plastic, making it that much badder for the environment.

Um ... guilty as charged.

Other miracles of modern motherhood soon filled our happy home. My Snugli (where "comfort meets cool") gave way to collapsible strollers, melamine dishes, microwave macaroni and cheese, and juice boxes. (What did our moms do without juice boxes?) All of these inventions made motherhood so much easier. And, while my daughter is no longer a baby, a toddler or even a child (she's eighteen, omg!), I still rely on fairly new technology to get through our days together. And, I'm not even talking about smartphones or texts or the GPS system.

This time of year, my two favorite wonders of modernity are: suitcases with wheels and spray-on sunscreen.

In the early 1970s, a gentleman named Bernard Sadow created the first suitcase on wheels, which was sold at Macy's. To this day, the inventive but unfortunate Mr. Sadow doesn't get any money for his brainchild. Nearly twenty years later, a Northwest pilot named Robert Plath updated the design so that cases were rolled upright (Sadow's were rolled flat like a steamer trunk). Originally sold to other airline employees, the "Rollaboard" eventually became the norm we all use today.

Whenever we travel, I marvel at memories of my mother taking three kids and wheel-less luggage to Missouri every summer. (Thank goodness for airport porters and chivalrous fellow passengers.)

The other advance that brings me joy is spray-on sunscreen. Remember that goopy white cream? Ugh! But, my daughter is fair-skinned and easily burned. In fact, after twelve years of horses, she has pretty much perfected the farmer's tan — or in her case, the equestrienne's tan. (She's dark brown below the sleeves of her polo shirts and above the line of her gloves; below her shorts but above her boots.) Each day, before she leaves for the stable, we go out onto the patio. She spreads out her arms and stands in an "X" while I simply spray her with Coppertone Sport SPF 50. What an improvement!

In two and a half months, my daughter will leave for college. I'll send her off with plenty of spray sunscreen in her wheeled luggage. And, I'll look forward to enjoying another mother of an invention.

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

Insta, Rinsta, Finsta

If you, like me, thought you were on top of tween and teen things because you knew what Instagram was, I have one thing to say to you ...

Get over yourself.

Unless, of course, you happen to also know what rinstagram and finstagram are. Then, I will gladly bow to you and concede that you are way hipper than I am.

I just found out about them this week.

According to Urban Dictionary (one of my favorite, if often eye-popping, places to hang out online):

Finstagram, finsta for short, is a mixture of Fake & Instagram. People, usually girls, get a second Instagram account along with their real Instagrams, rinstagrams, to post any pictures or videos they desire. The photos or videos posted are usually funny or embarrassing. Only your closest friends follow this account.

 

Then, in case you just landed a contract writing scripts for The CW or FreeForm (formerly) ABC Family, Urban Dictionary offers some simple, sample usage:

 

"Hey that picture you posted on your finstagram was so funny."

"That picture is so funny you should finsta it."

"Finsta that sh*t nowwwww!"

"Oh let's take a picture for my finstagram."

A rinstagram, meanwhile, is the "real" account, probably the one your daughter set up at first. This is her public persona, the face she shows the world. And, probably more to the point, this is the Instagram account that her parents know about.

 

Being perfect and popular is paramount on Instagram. This can lead to endless editing in a neverending quest for followers. 

What's interesting though, is that (despite the naming convention going on here) for a lot of girls, their finsta is realer than their rinsta.

Are you following?

 

Pretty pictures? Rinsta. Not so pretty? Finsta.

 

Happy thoughts about life? Rinsta. Darker thoughts about ... well ... the dark stuff? Finsta.

 

If you've had a particularly horrible week, you don't elaborate on it on your rinsta. You bare your soul (not to mention your zits) on your finsta. That's all good. But, maintaining two accounts can be time-consuming. And, we all complain that our kids are overcommitted already. 

 

Still, it's probably worth it. Tweens and teens, especially girls, are under so much pressure to look good. And, social media is all about revisionism and retouching. A finsta is a chance to stand up and say "I know the rest of it is bull. Here's my real life."

So the question of the day ... Should you ask to see your daughter's finsta?

 

C'mon. Get real.

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

 

Children Will Listen

You probably already know about "bucket lists." The idea is that you create a list of experiences you want to ... well ... experience before you kick the proverbial forementioned bucket. Most people include things like exotic travel ("Visit the Taj Mahal"), superlative honors and accomplishments ("Have a novel on the NYT bestseller list"), or out-of-this-world romance ("Pretty much anything, anytime, anywhere with Johnny Depp"). There was even a whole (fairly lousy) movie made about bucket lists with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, fine actors both but probably not on too many bucket lists. Then again, who knows.

You can have bucket lists for different parts of your life: personal and professional. For example, after years of creating direct mail for software companies, I thought it would be pretty cool to write car commercials. Then, I actually did and I realized that it wasn't that cool after all.

Oh well.

One thing that never occurred to me to include on any of my bucket lists was writing a script for a robot. But, I recently did. Not a person in a robot costume, mind you, but an actual honest-to-goodness, artifically-intelligent, "Warning, warning Will Robinson!" robot.

Cool, huh? Much cooler than the car commercials, I have to say. Robots are definitely cool.

Until they're not.

Recently, Microsoft created a robotic teen girl, named Tay, hoping to improve the voice recognition of their customer service chat functionality.

An aside ... As the mother of a teen girl myself, I have to wonder who could have possibly thought that was a good idea? Surely a more compliant, less unpredictable human demographic would have been more successful. But, I digress.

Tay was introduced to the cyber world as the "The AI (artificial intelligence) with zero chill," and Web users were invited to Tweet or DM (direct message) her. She was supposed to hang out in places where topics would be contemporary but fairly safe: Taylor Swift, for example, or #NationalPuppyDay. 

Her software allowed her to learn through her interactions. And, that's where the trouble began.

If you've ever wondered/worried about the Internet corrupting your teen, the story of Tay provides a sobering cautionary tale. Within 24 hours, Tay had transformed from a care-free teen with zero chill to a "malevolent, anti-feminist, Nazi-sympathizing sex robot."

Her early posts went something like this:

"can i just say im stoked to meet u? humans are super cool"

But, within hours, she had become ... um, shall we say ... slightly more judgmental and opinionated, not to mention a nympho and a conspiracy theorist:

"i f*cking hate feminists and they should all die and burn in hell"

"bush did 9/11"

"f*ck me daddy, i'm such a bad naughty robot"

"hitler would have done better than the monkey we have got now"

And, of particular interest to Democrats and thinking Republicans:

"donald trump is the only hope we've got"

Holy "Rosie the Maid," Batman!

As one would assume (and hope), Microsoft immediately pulled the plug on Tay. But lessons from her brief robotic life linger. I'm not so concerned about my own daughter and her pretty much perpetual online presence. I'm going to assume that she has filters and common sense and an analog life to draw from before she believes and repeats everything she finds online. But, in terms of pure noise and the speed with which the robot assimilated what she heard, it's terrifying to think about what humans do and think and put out there.

Stephen Sondheim wrote, "Careful the things you say/ Children will listen."

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

Senior Project: Part 2

My teenage daughter long ago decided to do a Senior Project.  A Senior Project was and is absolutely indispensable to her life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. 

And, because she waited until the very last minute (despite knowing the requirements and deadline for months), last week found her hustling to secure her internship.

There is much to say in defense of the eleventh hour. That little rush of adrenaline can actually make us more focused. Not that I have too much experience to draw from. I tend to be more of a planner. In fact, in four years, I only pulled an all-nighter once at college (well, only once because of schoolwork as opposed to partying or working a graveyard shift at my summer job). I had to write my thesis paper for "Aesthetics and Criticism in the Arts." This was years before word-processing, but only days before my graduation. I sat down with a 2-liter bottle of TaB and wrote the entire paper in one night on my portable electric typewriter. Not exactly my shining hour, academically. But, I did earn an "A" and a valuable lesson. 

Procrastination isn 't always bad.

Of course, I never said as much to my own daughter.

She figured it out all on her own.

Anyway, there she was less than a week from the due date for all her materials and she didn't have an internship yet. Even my typically implaccable daughter was starting to worry.

She reached out to two potential sponsor organizations: a state-run animal rescue farm about an hour (several towns and three highways) away, and a therapeutic riding center somewhat closer by.

"What if I don't hear back from them soon enough?" she worried. I resisted my usual jump-in-and-fix-it approach to life (to her life). There were still a few days and I decided to let her solve it herself. Worst case, I rationalized, she could simply continue volunteering at the stable she's worked at for the past six years or so. It wasn't what she wanted, but maybe it would teach her not to wait so long next time.

Not this time.

The animal shelter did get back to her. Even better, they were thrilled by her interest and resume, and very eager to hear more about her "large animal" experience. In fact, they scheduled an interview for the very next day. She went, met with the stable manager and volunteer coordinator. They quickly agreed that the internship was a great idea all around. She left with signed Senior Project paperwork and a confirmed schedule for her six-week assignment.

When she had first set up the meeting, I'd immediately thought about how I could clear my own deck. "I'll go with you," I'd offered, thinking it would be a good time to catch up.

"No, thanks," she'd responded instantaneously. "I think it's better if I go by myself."

Of course it is, I realized then.

And, of course it was. 

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

Senior Project, Part 1

We are really in the home stretch now. My daughter's second quarter report card was released yesterday (she managed to keep her grades up despite a growing desire to be done with high school forever — or longer if that's possible). She has one more quarter of regular courses left, then ... Senior Project. 

(With an AP Bio test squeezed in there somewhere.)

You may have noticed that I initial cap'd the words Senior and Project. That's because it is very much a proper noun. Senior Project. Senior Project. SENIOR PROJECT! It's something to aspire to, to revere, to regard with awe. Senior Project is a legend that you hear about when you start as a freshman. It offers fantastically adult promises — like open campus, no classes, and an internship.

The internship must be unpaid, but other than that, the field is fairly open. Some kids volunteer in hospitals or as teachers' aids. Some work in offices or libraries. You could build with habitat for humanity or work in a soup kitchen or community garden. My daughter will no doubt find (yet another) opportunity to work with horses.

For a while there, my daughter and her classmates thought the very existence of Senior Project might be in jeopardy. When she was a sophomore, a new principal came in and made seemingly countless, wide-reaching changes, eliminating many of the squishier bits of how the school had been run and adding rules, regulations, processes and procedures. Senior Project was in his cross-hairs for a while, and the underclassmen held their collective breath. Whether someone made a solid case for it (thank you, someone) or the principal ran out of steam or, perhaps more likely, he realized that the lunchroom is overcrowded and getting most of the seniors out of the building would be blessed cafeteria congestion relief ... who knows? The point is, here we are, Spring 2016. 

And Senior Project is on!

The fact that one is a senior does not automatically guarantee that one may pursue a Senior Project. Mais non, mon ami. One must have a certain GPA, a limited number of absences, a spotless detention record. (Having earned detention is acceptable provided that said detention was actually fulfilled.)

And, even with the above criteria met, Senior Project is not a free-for-all six weeks of hooky. There are conditions and criteria. Each student must spend 40 hours a week (35, if they're still taking an AP class) at an approved internship under the supervision of an approved supervisor. He or she must secure a faculty mentor and check in with them on a regular basis. Participants have to keep a journal and then make a 5 or 10-minute presentation when the entire experience is over.

(After hearing all this at a Senior Project parents' meeting, I asked my daughter if it might not be easier to just stay and finish her courses. She looked at me like I had two heads and came from the planet Zot. It's a look she's quite good at; she's had years of practice.)

The paperwork is due this week. Another thing my daughter is very very good at is procrastination. (Of course, she has competition there. Every mom I know boasts the same of her daughter or son.) So, I have no doubt that all of her forms will be turned in on time. Just barely.

Stay tuned. Coming up next: Senior Project, Part 2 "Getting The Internship."
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.    

In Defense of Yellling

I yelled at my teenage daughter the other night. I admit it. There were several extenuating circumstances, some my fault; some hers; some nobody's, just situational.

First of all, I was worn out. We are under tremendous pressure at work right now; a client's pending acquisition has created a ton of new projects and it's been all-hands on-deck for the past couple of weeks. (This is wonderful news for business, but doesn't really make for the most patient parent after hours.) 

My daughter is worn out as well. Like most high school students, she doesn't get anything near enough sleep. And, after almost twelve years of classes and homework (I won't count kindergarten), she's pretty much "done" with school. Attitudinally anyway — hey, we've still got five months to go.

Add to this the concurrence of senior-year mid-terms, a looming scholarship competition, a naughty puppy, car trouble, the season's first significant snowstorm ... no wonder the atmosphere at ye olde homestead was what one might call "fraught." 

The aforementioned yelling was in response to something that my daughter had promised to do but was not doing (something that I thought was important, but she clearly did not). It turned out to be a moot point, but that's another story for another less stressed-out day.

For the record, I don't yell very often. Generally, I speak in dulcet, measured tones. But, my daughter would tell you otherwise; she insists that I do. I confess that I often nag, but I don't yell. To me, yelling involves raising your voice. My daughter, on the other hand, thinks that any negative observation or constructive criticism, no matter how soft-spoken, constitutes a "yell." I say, "Get thee to a dictionary."

To yell (a verb) is to say something very loudly especially because you are angry, surprised or are trying to get someone's attention. Thank you, Misters Merriam and Webster.

Definitions aside, I did yell and I'm sorry for it. But, in my defense ...

Is it not human nature to raise one's voice when one has repeated a request so many times that one has lost count?

Is it not natural to become frustrated and to voice said frustration in a "loud and sharp cry" when one's high honors student, for whom English is a first language, appears to be mystified by the simple words, "Do it now?"

Is there not some benefit to helping one's offspring understand that a person should only push another person so far?

I would argue yes to all of the above.

And I would do so in dulcet, measured tones.  

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

The Dance of the Seven Snooze Alarms

It's Saturday, which means that my teenage daughter and I get to sleep in an extra hour before we start our daily dance. 

That's not a poetic symbol (or even a euphemism) for life or anything. It truly feels like we're dancing.

I take three steps toward my partner; she either ignores me or spins around with an exasperated flourish. I retreat, gingerly stepping backwards, mindful of discarded clothes and schoolwork and empty snack bags that litter her carpet. But, I return minutes later to face the music again. This goes on for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty minutes — despite my best efforts and despite not one but two alarm clocks she's set to sound intermittently.

It's a sinister salsa, a terrifying tarantella. A dance to the death. 

And, to date, my daughter is winning. She rolls over, reaches out for the snooze alarm and — "Olé!" — we begin again.

Sometimes, when we're in between moves, I'll head down to the kitchen to cut some fruit or pack her lunch. I need to make coffee, feed the dog and get ready for my morning walk. Or I might have some overnight emails from clients or colleagues to review. Often, after my fourth or fifth trip up to the dance floor, I'll ask my husband to take a turn. 

"Nooooooo," I'll hear the child wail from the bed. "I'm soooo tired."

"This has to stop!" I'll hear her father say. 

Yeah, right.

It's not like I don't know what's going on here. My daughter is tired. She does have too much homework. She does spend too many hours at the stable on her horse. (She also spends too many hours on Netflix watching One Tree Hill. WTF?) And of course, there's all that texting she's expected to do. And Snapchat and Instagram and Vine and ... God knows what else. (God may know; I certainly don't.)

Plus, there's scientific (And therefore irrefutable, right? Unless you're the GOP. Wink, wink.) evidence that teenagers need more sleep — and at different times — than we grownups do. When my daughter argues that going to bed earlier won't help, she's actually half right.

So, here I am. One mother of a human alarm clock. We dance back and forth every morning, as we dance around the fact that we only have a few months of mornings left. I can't very well fly to Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island at 6:00 am each day once college starts in the fall.

Of course, she can take the route my freshman roommate (and so many other enterprising students) did back in 1980: only register for classes that begin after 10:00 am. But, that might limit what she studies.

Or, perhaps she'll rise to the occasion. She'll make her own bed. She'll do her own laundry. She'll read and study and write papers without my nagging. She'll dress appropriately for inclement weather. She'll take her vitamins. And, she'll get up on time.

I hope so.

But, I think I'll buy her another alarm clock. Just in case.


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

Fantasy Football

Sometimes, things just work out. And, isn't it nice when they do?

For the past few weeks, my teenage daughter and more than 100 of her closest friends (or at least, classmates) have been putting in serious hours practicing football. Yes, football. Most evenings, some weekends, for two or three hours at a time. This is on top of schoolwork, her job at the stable, training with her horse, and focusing on college applications. My daughter is one tired young lady.

As of Saturday, she's also a champion.

Yes, she and her team soundly beat the town — and arch-rival team — next door. All I can say is ... "Thank goodness."

Actually, there is much to be grateful for as we head toward the Thanksgiving holiday later this week. First of all, she got through the entire experience without an injury. (All I could think about was that after riding and jumping horses for the past twelve years, she'd wind up with a concussion from Powder Puff Football.) My worries weren't completely unfounded. There were some casualties during practice and I did see at least two girls limp off the field in Saturday's game.

The annual event may be named after something soft and harmless, but these women meant business, believe me.

With so many girls participating, many didn't see much action. But, my daughter did get to play, several times, and even snatched two of the other team's flags, including the very first one of the game.

Apparently, this is a good thing. (So I was told.)

Even before the big game itself, we had plenty of serendipity and luck. From finding cleats on sale to pulling together all the required outfits for "Spirit Week." (Somehow a pair of camouflage pants from freshman year, two sizes smaller than her current jeans, still fit. It was like our own personal Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.) At the last minute (what else is new?), my daughter realized that she really wanted a new dress for the post-game "progressive dinner." I time-shifted some of my own commitments so we could make a mad dash to the mall. We found the very thing she was looking for at the very last store we visited — and 30% off! — before racing back so she could get to her final scrimmage.

When all was said and done, the camaraderie and school spirit we saw on Saturday was really something to behold. I've rolled my eyes countless times through this process, but I confess, I'm a believer now. Never exactly a sports fan (man, that is the understatement of the year), I was perfectly happy to be there, to cheer when I was supposed to (even though I didn't really have a clue why we were all cheering), to congratulate the victors and celebrate with other proud parents afterwards. 

My daughter's Powder Puff game was actually the first football game I ever went to. So, I'm particularly happy that it had a happy ending.

You see ... chances are, it will be my last football game as well.

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

Summer School

Lately, my teenage daughter has been complaining that she isn't having much of a summer. I have a mixed reaction to this.

On the one hand, I want to say "Welcome to my world, princess." My work doesn't stop over July and August. In fact, many of my ad agency's clients want their marketing campaigns out in September, so we are typically extra busy at this time. If there does happen to be a lull, I don't enjoy it because I'm too worried about grownup things like income and revenue, mortgage, retirement and college savings.

On the other hand, I have to concede that my daughter has a point. With what felt like countless snow days (six in reality), she was still in school, finishing classes and taking final exams, until the bitter end of June. She started one of her jobs, counseling at an equestrian camp, the very next day. She's had horse shows nearly every weekend, some of them out of state. These are all good things, but it's been too much.

And, speaking of too much, what a perfect segue to the point of this post.

My daughter, and every other high school student I know, has too much summer homework.

She has to read Heart of Darkness for Honors English. (Not too long but a guaranteed snore-fest.) She has to read A Brilliant Solution by Carol Berkin and write a paper on it, plus analyze two essays on Locke and Hobbes for Civics. And, finally, she has to read and take copious notes on chapters of her larger-than-life AP Bio textbook.
 
We weren't exactly blindsided by the assignments. And, this is nothing new for her; in fact, I've written about this before. But it still boggles my mind. I went to a super competitive high school and an elite university. I can only remember one summer assignment from either distinguished institution.

We were asked to read the novel 1984 prior to starting college. We would be the class of 1984, so someone thought it would be a good choice and would give us a shared literary experience to discuss during freshman orientation week. I had already read it in ninth grade, but I dutifully re-read it (Can you say "geek?"). Apparently, I was in a distinct minority. I think just two of the ten kids in my orientation group had bothered to read it at all.

Today, most high schools assign work in an attempt to reverse what's referred to as the "summer brain drain." Teachers will tell you (and research and test scores support it) that students lose as much as six weeks of learning when they shut down for the year. So, much of every fall semester is taken up with re-teaching what was taught the previous spring. There is definitely a strong case for continued learning.

But, and I really want to type BUT here, just because something makes sense in theory doesn't mean it will play out in reality. Since when do teenagers automatically buy-in to what's good for them? Here are just some of the issues as I see them ...

Teenagers are excellent at procrastination. I think it's the very odd over-achiever who actually starts a summer assignment at the start of summer.

The assignments are long and dull and dry. My daughter and her peers would be far happier to pick up a book if it was actually interesting or entertaining.

There's virtually no support from the teachers. Don't get me wrong, each of my daughter's instructors has posted his or her email address and invited questions and comments from the students. But I'm guessing that very few (or none) of said students are taking them up on it.

Summer homework takes teens away from other important activities. A lot of teenagers, including my daughter, work or volunteer. With better weather and more discretionary time, the summer months should also be used for socializing and physical activity.

And, perhaps, most importantly ...
 
Year-round schoolwork means year-round stress. Even though my daughter still hasn't started her assignments, they've been on her mind. And, not in a good way. Junior year was stressful enough, believe me. 

A break would have been welcomed and deserved. By me, as well as by my daughter.

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

Alma Mater

Earlier this month, my teenage daughter and I drove down to my hometown. She was along for the ride because I had wrangled half-price tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, starring Glee's Darren Criss, who is particularly dreamy if you're seventeen. I was going for an even more sentimental reason. My 35th high school reunion.

All right, let me stop you before you say "You must be kidding!" Or "How is that possible?" Or "But, you look so young!"

Yeah, thanks, I know.

Ummm.

Anyway ...

We were also joined by our new canine. My New York family, having seen countless puppy posts, photos, and videos on Facebook, was desperate to meet him. The poor little guy had a couple of vaccines at the vet's the morning we left (rabies and the first of two for Lyme disease), so he wasn't very comfortable. The ride down was long.

Not too sure how the little dog would respond to a strange apartment, we stayed in, ordering (real) New York pizza and watching TV. Even though I hate to miss a single moment of city life, it was good to chill because the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind.

In the morning, there was a program at my high school. I grew up in the west 60s, and the school is in the east 90s. Despite some ominous clouds and a misty rain, I decided to walk diagonally through the park. Between the bikers and the joggers, dog walkers and strollers, suffice it to say, I wasn't alone. 

The school was built on the grounds of an old armory. We moved there when I was in ninth grade, after two years in an office building near Grand Central Station. Later classes dubbed it "the brick prison." We were just happy to have a permanent home. The school, an extension of the City University of New York system, had been placed and displaced several times.

As I walked up 94th street towards Park Avenue, I felt a wave of familiarity. I wished for a moment that I could share it with my daughter or my husband. But, the former was still sleeping and the latter had politely declined. My husband won't go to his own reunions because he doesn't want to compare "hairlines, waistlines or bottom lines."

The morning was very satisfying. Twenty or twenty-five of my classmates had come. We met in one of the classrooms first (I think I had English there, once upon a time), hugged, kissed, caught up and took pictures. Then, we headed down to the newly renovated auditorium, where we were treated to video excerpts from the school's most recent musical, a couple of presentations from students, and comments from each milestone class. Most affecting were two 93-year-old alumnae who reminisced about finding their first jobs during World War II.

I had to rush out as soon as the representative from our class finished speaking to catch a cab down to Times Square, where my daughter would meet me for Hedwig. As soon as we finished at the theatre, we took another cab uptown where I changed, grabbed a bag of nametags, posters and goody bags, then jumped in yet another cab for a ride downtown to our reunion dinner.

What a wonderful evening! We had nearly 100 people and the atmosphere was pure joy. Even the girls who at seventeen were cultivating an attitude of world-weary blasé seemed genuinely happy to be there. We caught up with old friends and in some cases made new ones. And together we remembered the handful of classmates who passed away before their time.

These reunions mean more to me as I get older. Partly, I think, it's a natural nostalgia. But a lot of it has to do with watching my own high schooler negotiate her education and her friendships and all the changes she's going through as she moves from childhood to adulthood. I also have a much greater appreciation for my old school and the respect it afforded each of us. The building may have looked like a prison, but we had freedom that my daughter and her cohorts only dream of.

More than anything else, I look forward to the next reunion and celebrating who we were and who we've become with the remarkable women and men who shared that time with me.

Despite too much stress and too many rules, I hope my daughter will relish her reunions someday too.

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

The All-Nighter

Memorial Day weekend. Three days off from high school, hardly any homework. Given how tired my teenage daughter is most mornings, you might assume she would take the opportunity to catch up on her sleep.

You would assume wrong.

With the long weekend ahead of them, my daughter and three of her closest friends decided that the best use of their time would be to play all-night laser tag. She approached me with the concept Thursday.

"All-night laser tag? Is that even a thing?" I asked.

"Yes," she assured me, "You can look on the website."

Sure enough, a laser tag facility three towns over was offering a special overnight marathon of laser tagging from 11:30 pm Saturday until 6:00 am Sunday. The cost was $35 in advance or $40 at the door.

It seemed like a ridiculous plan to me. However ...

This was one of the (seemingly countless) times I had to remind myself that my baby was not a baby and was, in fact, seventeen. When I was her age, I pretty much owned New York City. I went where I wanted when I wanted, via bus or subway or simply walking the streets of Manhattan. The year I was seventeen, I went to midnight shows of Rocky Horror at the New Yorker on Broadway and 88th Street every weekend for several straight months. I always felt completely safe.

What worries me these days are the byproducts of raising a child in suburbia. Back in the 70s in NYC, we didn't wonder who would drive. None of us knew how to. But, it was the first thing on my mind when my daughter told me about her plans. Who would drive them all to the laser tag place at 11:30? Who would drive them all home at 6:00? And, what were the contingency plans if one or two of the laser taggers got tired at, say, 3:00 am.

As per usual, she assured me that they had it all planned.

As per usual, the plans changed at the eleventh hour.

So, there I was, at 10:30 pm (which, I'm not ashamed to confess, is past my usual bedtime), picking up one tagger then driving two of the taggers to meet up with the other two at one of the second group's father's house from where they would all drive together. (And if that sounds unnecessarily complicated, welcome to my world. My husband — wisely— had already gone to bed.)

I insisted on a handful of spur-of-the-moment rules. She had to be careful. She had to text me updates throughout the night (not that I would deliberately stay awake for them, but just knowing she was checking in would relieve my anxiety a bit). She had to be CAREFUL. She had to stay with her friends (having never played laser tag myself, I had no idea whether this was a reasonable request or not). SHE HAD TO BE CAREFUL. And, she had to be home by 7:00 am at the latest.

She happily agreed to all of the above.

Surprisingly, I slept well. Either I'm learning to let go a little, or I was simply super tired myself. At 6:00 am, I went downstairs to feed our new puppy (whose shenanigans warrant a blog all their own). Sure enough, my phone had received a string of texts and some selfies. It sounded like the overnight had been a great success.

One final message explained that she would be a few minutes late getting home because they were stopping at McDonald's.

Just tell me you're not having a McFlurry for breakfast, I texted back.

Um, was her response.

She may be seventeen, but she's still my baby. And, she has the appetite and palate to prove it.


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

Popping the Question: Junior Prom, Part 5

All right already ... I said I'd write about my teenage daughter's promposal and so I will. But let's start by explaining what a promposal is in the first place.

According to urbandictionary.com (one of my faves), promposal is defined as:

(n)- a proposal from one person asking another person to the prom; the combination of the words "prom" and "proposal." 

Then, as is their way, the folks at urbandictionary.com give us a humorous example:

Jake: I'm thinking about how I'll do my promposal...
Sean: Who're you going to ask?
Jake: Well, I haven't decided yet.
Sean: You have to decide before you ask someone to prom! 

Sean has a point. But, Jake is wise to plan ahead. A date is ... well ... just a date. But, thanks to the ubiquity of social media, a promposal can live forever. And over the past few years, the promposal bar has been raised quite high. Sky-high in fact.

Back in the ancient times of 1980, I was a senior in a virtually all-girls class of an urban school. We had no prom. So, we, if reason follows, had no promposals either. Before you go feeling sorry for me, let me reassure you that I didn't know what I was missing. My contemporaries in more traditional high schools weren't getting promposalled either.

The Washington Post cites 2001 as the first known official promposal, reported (and christened a "promposal") by the Dallas Morning News. Some students hijacked the school loudspeaker and sang a song from Adam Sandler's The Wedding Singer, but with new prom-tastic lyrics. Their dates said yes. The school said "You're suspended."

Fear not, gentle readers, the consequences suffered by the hopeful singers didn't deter future promposers. In fact, being suspended for a particularly creative and over-the-top promposal makes the whole thing that much more exciting.

Public displays of affection — painting a billboard, dressing up like a gorilla, riding a horse into school — became de rigeur. And as teens embraced social media ("Embraced social media?" Is that an understatement or what?), promposals were suddenly everywhere. Besides, hopefully, getting your date to say "Yes," your success could be measured by Facebook likes and shares, and YouTube views. 

Here's a quick list of some popular promposals:

1. Filling someone's locker with flowers
2. Decorating cupcakes with "Will you go to prom with me?"
3. Cover (and I mean COVER) her/his car with post-it notes
4. Deliver a pizza with a "cheesy" message
5. Hang a banner across a highway overpass
5. Send your message via puppy or kitten
6. Spell out the question on his/her front lawn with silly string
7. Paint it on the side of a cow (not for urban schools)
8. Hijack a movie marquee
9. Buy a charm bracelet with the letters P-R-O-M and ?
10. Make a music video

So ... how did my daughter's date ask her to prom? I'll tell you. You see, I'm not just her mother, I'm an accomplice. My daughter's date and their mutual bestie texted me several times. They needed to know when she would be at the stable where she keeps her horse, so they could go there and surreptitiously plant le promposal. Between schedules shifting (hers, theirs, mine), it was about two weeks before the actual event went down.

My daughter arrived at the stable for her riding lesson and was suprised to see her friends there. She was even more surprised when they insisted that she introduce them to the resident goat. "LuLu" was wearing a special cape (brilliantly made out of an old tee shirt, with the collar intact but only one wide rectangle below). It read:

Will you goat to prom with me?

Of course, her answer was "Yes." 

He had her at "goat."

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