First Day, Second Year

Nothing strikes more fear in a high schooler's heart than these four little words:

First. Day. Of. School.

How times have changed, n'est-ce pas?

My now teen daughter started preschool right before her third birthday. She had been in family daycare (I worked at an ad agency in Boston then), but was "moving up." On that very first day (the first of many firsts), she wore a red plaid dress with a smocked bodice, puffed sleeves and crisp white collar. She had on ankle socks and Mary Janes.

How do I remember this? Her first first day of school picture is on my mother's refrigerator. 

Along with the subsequent twelve since.

She was so excited. Her father and I dropped her off with her tiny backpack and her little lunchbox. Of course, we had to capture the moment for posterity. And thus began a tradition shared by proud parents everywhere.

Looking back on all of the "first day of school" pictures, there are fancy hairdos (conceived by my daughter, executed by her mother), favorite footwear (red sparkly Dorothy shoes one year, cowgirl boots the next), classic dresses that were soon replaced by syndicated character clothes (remember Bratz?) and eventually by a sense of casual coolness, that belied the young wearer's anxiety.

Yesterday, the outfit was carefully choreographed not to look like an "outfit." (If the amount of time my daughter spent in front of her mirror prior to coming down for breakfast is any indication, a lot of effort went into looking so effortless.) Cargo shorts and a loose tank top with a mystical design on it, a pair of Toms flat espadrilles. Hair pulled away from her face with a clip.

She grumbled her way through breakfast ("I'm not hungry") and was about to be picked up by a friend's mom. "Wait," I said, looking for a camera. "Picture, picture!"

I'm fortunate that my mother keeps her refrigerator gallery up-to-date (not just with my daughter's pictures but with my young niece's as well). I can use "Grandmama" as my excuse. In truth, though, I treasure these photos just as much.

"Ugh, use your phone," my daughter said, rolling her eyes. We went out to the patio.

"Here, hold your backpack so it's obvious that it's the first day of school. Stand up straight. Okay, now, smile. S-m-i-l-e!" I know I sounded ridiculous, but there are times when it doesn't matter. I shot a couple of pictures in quick succession.

As is her way, she immediately grabbed the phone out of my hands. "Ugh," she groaned, as she hit delete, delete, delete as quickly as possible. "I look disgusting!"

As you know, I am a devoted mother and can be a bit partial. I adore my daughter and personally find her beautiful at any time of any day. That said, while a perfect stranger might not be as enthralled as I am, I seriously doubt anybody would use the word "disgusting" to describe her. I shot again.

"Disgusting!" she repeated. I'm thinking maybe she was out the day they learned that word. We wrestled for the phone and I won. Defeated, she begged me, "Just don't post it on Facebook!"

Our delightful first day of school ritual over, she went off to face sophomore year and I went up to my office to work. I looked forward to hearing about her classes and teachers that afternoon. The first day wasn't so bad, really.

Or as my daughter puts it, "1 down, 179 to go."

Come Sail Away

When it comes to family vacations, I have a bit of a problem. I love to try new things. But, I also love to return to my favorite places. There's nothing wrong with either of these predilections ... or at least there wouldn't be anything wrong if I had (a) unlimited vacation time and (b) unlimited funds with which to plan said unlimited time.

Alas, I have neither.

Still, every year finds us spending New Year's in New York, skiing January weekends up at Sugarbush, and enjoying a summer swan song, sailing off the coast of Maine on the Isaac H. Evans.

This particular family tradition predates our actually being a family. My then-boyfriend, now-husband, first suggested a Maine windjammer cruise back in 1990. He had read in Yankee magazine about a fleet of antique schooners that took passengers for two-, three- and four-day excursions through Penboscot Bay.

Despite my being an urban-dwelling, matinee-going, indoor kind of gal (who, btw, had a long and colorful history of motion sickness), I said ... "Yes."

Let the record state that we were still in that early infatuation stage when his interests are yours and vice versa. (Believe you me, it works both ways. He once told me he "loved going dancing" — go figure.) 

At any rate, I agreed and off we went. As my husband loves to retell it, not only did I immediately fall in love with the experience, but I became the driving force behind a plan to make it an annual excursion. And for the past twenty-three years, we have missed very few opportunities to sail. I skipped the summer of '97 because I was great with child, but my husband took a buddy along instead. And, we missed one year when a hurricane forced the captain to cancel. 

While my daughter was a baby, a toddler and a very little girl, we enlisted doting relatives to stay with her while we escaped to the open seas. (One year, our trip coincided with her birthday. I decided to timeshift and celebrate when we returned without clueing her in to the fact that there was a delay. Since she was just turning four, I figured that what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Her loving grandmother, and temporary caregiver, tsk-tsked but went along with the plan.) 

As soon as my daughter was old enough, she insisted on coming too. Now it's very definitely a family affair.

Here's what we love about it:

• No email, no voicemail, no texts. Pull away from Rockland Harbor and we are out of reach. Sorry. Nobody's home. Leave a message at the beep, baby. 

"Heaven!"

• The scenery is breathtaking. Rocky beaches, towering trees, lighthouses, sprawling "summer cottages" along remote shores. And at night? Constellations, shooting stars, the Milky Way.

I repeat, "Heaven!"

• The best combination of wild creatures and creature comforts. What could be better than watching a family of adorable harbor seals cavorting? Watching them cavort, seated in a comfortable rocking chair with a glass of pinot grigio in your hand.

Have I used the word "Heaven" yet?

Most of all, I think I appreciate the time. Back home, between work and driving and the gym and high school and riding lessons and maintaining our antique house, we are always starving for time. On the schooner, time stands still. Breakfast is over (it was delicious, btw, homestyle, all-you-can-eat) and you have hours ahead of you to sail and talk and read and R-E-L-A-X. My "To Do" list typically includes watching for dolphins and catching up on back issues of The New Yorker.

"Sorry to interrupt, but the lobster bake is starting."

Our annual schooner trips are stress relief beyond compare, and always have been. At least for the grownups. For younger passengers, they're a chance to hoist sails, steer a boat, hang from a hammock over the stern, avoid a shower for multiple days in a row, and talk like a pirate. Add to this the fact that our captain is a wonderful example of a strong and independent woman (she was the first female captain in the fleet) and it's pretty much all you could ask for as a feminist mother looking to throw role models in your teenager's path.

This year, I was just a bit concerned though. As she's moved from her tweens to her teens, my daughter's reliance on electronica has grown exponentially. She's a little too old to climb the mast like a monkey. But was she old enough to see the value in unplugging? Could she live without Twitter and Tumblr, Facebook and Vine?

Turns out, she could! She worked on her summer reading, she slept in, she swam in the icy waters, she hiked on a deserted island. We talked and talked. And, something wonderful happened. She was willing to snuggle and hug. There was a sweet physicality to our mother-daughter relationship that has been sadly missing lately.

At times I thought, "Who are you? And what have you done with my daughter?" But, most of the time, I thought, "Thank you."

In one of Natalie Merchant's deep cuts "Verdi Cries," she sings, "Holidays must end as you know" and too soon (despite the luxurious stretch of time aboard the schooner), we were back in port, loading up and heading back to civilization, clients and looming sophomore year. 

We'll sail again, I know. Until then, I'll hold onto these memories and this feeling. What a gift.

In case you were wondering, my daughter was on her iPhone the entire ride home.

Much Ado About Miley

Right now, Google "Miley Cyrus VMA." 

I'll wait.

Nearly a week after her ... um ... controversial performance at the MTV Video Music Awards, the search pulls up 389,000,000 results. 

That's right. 389 m-i-l-l-i-o-n.

I've been writing Lovin' the Alien for about two and a half years now. And, if I do say so myself, I have the greatest fans in the world. Not only do they read and share and "like" my posts, but often they suggest new topics for me. 

"Did you hear about the push-up bras at Abercrombie Kids?"

"What are you going to say about Corey Monteith?" 

This past week, the requests have had a common theme: one former Hannah Montana.

"When are you going to write about Miley Cyrus?"

" 'Can't wait to read what you have to say about Miley Cyrus!"

"What do you think about Miley Cyrus?"

Here's exactly what I think ...

All the media brouhaha surrounding Miley Cyrus is much ado about nothing. Why do I say so? Let me count the ways ...

1. This is nothing new. 

MTV's raison d'être is to push the proverbial envelope. They've been doing it since I was in college. (And we all know how long ago that was.) A provocative sexy performance on the MTV Video Music Awards? Ooooh, stop the press! Call the cops!

Puh-lease! It's MTV. What do you expect?

2. Ms. Cyrus is not a child.

The girl may have been in the public eye since she was a tiny tween, but she's technically a grown-up now. If she wants to get up in front of bazillions of viewers and shake, shake (SHAKE!) her booty, that's her business.

Do I think she's made consistently good decisions? Well, no. But we don't want her to stay a child star forever, do we? I mean, haven't you seen Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

3. It wasn't even that sexy.

For heaven's sake, she was wearing granny panties!

And, if it was too sexy for your youngsters, why are you letting them watch MTV?

4. All of this attention is just drawing more attention.

In a way, I have to laugh. They say 'the only bad publicity is no publicity.' So basically every person who raises his or her voice about this sorry spectacle is just raising the volume. To all of you outraged parents ... have we learned nothing from raising toddlers? If a two-year old is acting insane and you give them more attention, what will they do? Continue to act insane.

The best way to stop this particular insanity would have been to ignore it.

5. The act wasn't even good.

Let's face it, if there's any reason to criticize Miley, it's because her little performance was ridiculous. It began like a Build-A-Bear Workshop on crack. And what was with the tongue? I thought her father was Billy Ray Cyrus, not Gene Simmons.

As for those "shocking" moves? Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't a skinny white girl twerking kind of defeat the purpose?

The entire thing was cringe-worthy. But maybe that isn't the point.

Right about now, Ms. Cyrus is cringing all the way to the bank. This may prove to be a most brilliant career move. 

And, if Miley does regret it, she needn't worry. Something equally stupid will take this story's place before too long.

Because if there's one thing we can count on even more than our society's obsession with the lewd ...

it's our collective attention deficit disorder.

This Or That?

I'm a notoriously bad sleeper. If there is any iota of stress in my life (and, believe me, there always is and it's always significantly more than an iota, whatever an iota is), I wake up and worry. 

2:00 am, 3:00 am, 4:00 am.

"Go back to sleep ..." my husband has been known to chant. "Worrying won't help."

As if recognizing that oh-so-obvious fact makes an iota of difference. As if.

At any rate, this morning I rose before dawn and went up to my office to get some work done. Pretty much business as usual, except that I had a good reason that even my well-meaning (if annoyingly sound-sleeping) spouse couldn't argue with. I had to get things done because at 8:45, I'd be putting on yet another of the many hats moms everywhere wear.

Wife. Mother. Advertising Executive. Writer ...

Chauffeur!

Somehow or other, I had once again been volunteered (convinced? coerced? drafted?) into driving my teenage daughter and her friends to Canobie Lake, an amusement park in southern New Hampshire. (Uh-oh. Does this mean I was transporting minors across state lines? Maybe I need permission slips or something. I should probably check next time.)

The kids were looking at the day as summer's final fling. I was looking at it as yet another task on my already filled-to-the-brim calendar. I also, nearly sixteen years into this mom thing, always imagine that these acts of selflessness will win me favor with my child. And they do. For like an hour. Or until the next time she "needs, wants, can't live without" something that I have to say "No" to.

But, I digress.

Right on time, we trawled around town, picking up her sleepy friends: another girl and two boys (but "Ohmigod, Mom. They're not boyfriends!"). Then, we were on our way. They were all very polite and actually expressed some appreciation. And I thought, "I love these kids."

Soon they seemed to forget I was even in the car. This gave me an excellent opportunity to eavesdrop and collect anecdotes for you, dear reader.

Early on, we saw a bicyclist struggling ahead of us. The poor man was a bit overweight (and a bit big for the bike). As we got closer, we realized that he was a police officer. This was just too much for my passengers.

"Oh, dude! Poor guy."

"Being a bike cop would suck."

"How would he ever catch anyone?"

"What if he does? Like, 'Hey, you're under arrest. Get in the basket, please.'"

Needless to say, the bike cop humor cracked everyone up and continued for at least a few more miles after we passed the unfortunate fellow.

On the highway, my daughter's friend read from a page of teen posts on Tumblr. Some were silly. Some were clever. Most of them were a blend of silly and clever:

"Forever 21 clothes are cute! Too bad you can only wear them twice before they get ruined in the washer."

"It's ridiculous that celebrities can spend a year of my college tuition on like, a necklace like it's nothing and I can't afford a taco."

"Legend has it the "M" in MTV once stood for music."

"Yeah, dating is cool, but have you ever had stuffed crust pizza."

Some bright young bulb had even Tumblred (or is that "tumbled?"):

"Here's to the kids who know the difference between they're, there and their."

I certainly appreciated that one. My own group not only got it and laughed, but immediately began to debate that it's and its are misleading because the possessive of it should actually have an apostrophe. And I thought, "I love these kids."

Next up was the "either/or" game. Someone offered a choice and the others responded. There wasn't much of a pattern, but here's what I remember:

"Concrete or Brick?"
"Brick."

"Walrus or Penguin?"
"Penguin."

"Monkey or Penguin?"
"Penguin."

"Bieber or One Direction?"
"Bieber."

"Peanut Butter or Nutella?"
"Nutella."

Then, the either/or got a little more complicated and — shall we say — adult:

"Would you rather wake up naked next to Burger King who says, 'You had it your way,' or wake up naked next to Ronald McDonald who says, 'You were lovin' it.'"

As they snickered and prepared to answer, I interrupted ...

"People, you seem to have forgotten that there's an old person in the car."

"Where?" asked my daughter's friends.

And I thought, "I love these kids."

Driven to Distraction

Earlier this summer (much earlier this summer), we received a postcard for the "New Driver" at our address. It promoted a local driving school where "eligible students 15 3/4 years old" could enroll for the state mandated 30 hours of classroom instruction prior to getting a junior operator's license. In addition, this rather crowded card promised a 2-hour parents' class, 12 hours of road instruction and 6 hours of observation.

Is your head spinning? Mine was.

When we received the card, I checked the date. My daughter was 15 3/4 that very day. 

Impressive target marketing.

We live in a small town up the coast from Boston. There are beaches, shops, frozen yogurt and pizza within walking distance. But my daughter has to bum a ride for anything farther away: her stable, the mall, her stable, the cineplex, her stable ... you get the idea. Of course, she's eager for the autonomy a license promises.

Meanwhile, I promised to call the driving school and set her up. But, between events both happy (a riding clinic in Vermont, a visitor from Spain) and very sad (a beloved grandparent passing away), here we are with the summer almost over and no closer to her license.

Massachusetts has strict guidelines about driver education. This is a very good thing (even if it's making my life more complicated right now). Still, I'm a little unclear on what the 2-hour parents' test is all about. Hello? I've been driving for 23 years. (Yes, for those of you who bother to do the math, I didn't get a driver's license until I was 28. Three words: New York City.)

My daughter can take the test for her learner's permit on her 16th birthday — although she's quick to point out that the universe is terribly unfair; her birthday falls on a Sunday so she'll have to wait an entire extra day. Then we have six months for her to learn how to operate a 4,000 pound piece of machinery, and negotiate an obsolete highway system filled with stupid at best (maniacal at worst) road warriors. 

And that's not the half of it.

The biggest challenge will be to impress upon her that her cell phone and texts and Instagram and Vine and FaceTime and Skype and ... and .. and ... have to take a back seat now. Literally. We're already talking about strategies.

She came up with the idea of locking her phone in the glove compartment. Great! (I'm not being sarcastic, for a change; I really think this is great.) But, she plans to leave the volume on so she can hear when she gets a new message or a voicemail. Then, she asserts, she'll pull over and check. Not so great. I don't like the idea of my tiny teen pulling over every five minutes. Not only does this seem less than safe, but at the rate she gets texts she'll never reach her destination! So, we're still discussing this. And, I won't hesitate to pull rank.

At least she seems to understand the inherent danger of staying connected while in motion.

I also worry about the bad habits she may have picked up from her loving mother. Anticipating my baby behind the wheel, it seems to me that the most important thing you can do to stay safe driving is to focus. Focus on your driving, your vehicle, the road, other drivers. This is easier said than done.

Here's what my daughter has seen me do behind the wheel:

- Apply makeup (yes, really, I'm sorry)
- Drink coffee
- Eat a bagel or a muffin or a Zone bar

- Search for a specific CD

- Search for change that fell between the seat and the center console
- Fish printed directions out of my briefcase
- Read said printed directions
- Make phone calls
- Get phone calls
- Participate in conference calls
- Lead conference calls
- Listen to voicemail
- Read text and Facebook messages — but only at red lights, I promise

Fear not. With my daughter's license looming, I am already changing my wicked ways. Funny how much easier it is to break bad habits for the sake of someone else's safety. Especially when that someone is still your baby.

I guess I need that parents' class after all.

Once Upon A First Trip To New York

When teenagers in other countries think about visiting America, chances are their thoughts tend more toward "bright lights, big city" than "main streets and backroads." 

So, when my daughter's Facebook friend from Barcelona confirmed her visit, I knew I'd be taking them down to New York.

I asked our young guest what she wanted to see in the Big Apple. She mentioned all of the famous landmarks: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Abercrombie & Fitch. 

I decided that a Broadway musical was also de rigueur.

Having recently watched the Tony Awards, I was eager to see Matilda and Kinky Boots. So, apparently, was everybody else. The shows were sold out, with tickets available through secondary market agencies at sky-high prices. I don't care how old or arguably successful I am ... I refuse to pay $200 or $300 a ticket!

My first Broadway show was Raisin, a musical adaptation of Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun. I went with my sixth grade class in 1974 and I'm assuming we got a group rate. My second was Pippin. I took my best friend to see it for her birthday and I paid for the tickets myself. Balcony seats: $7.50 each. Given that I was earning $1 an hour babysitting at that time, this was a significant investment. (And, Pippin remains one of my all-time favorite shows. The tickets for Broadway's current production are a little more ... but worth it!)

I decided I would do what savvy New Yorkers have done for the past four decades. I'd stand in line at TKTS. Run by the Theatre Development Fund, the TKTS booth offers same-day tickets at 20%-50% off. They don't typically have the latest and hottest titles, but there are plenty of options. The trick is to go with an open mind and have a list of several choices. For this trip, I was looking at Newsies, Jersey Boys, Mamma Mia! and Once. My daughter surprised me by asking that I add Phantom of the Opera as well. She's seen it with her grandmother, and I've seen it too (oh, about twelve times). But, she argued that as penultimate Broadway musicals go, well, Phantom is way up there. Truth.

As I joined the snaking line around Father Duffy Square, the girls headed off to Forever 21. But, just as they left me, they added one more show and advised me that it was actually their first choice.

Rogers and Hammerstein's Cinderella.

Really? Here I had tried to focus on grownup fare (no Annie, thank you very much, I'd rather drink Drano), and they were suggesting the musical I might have taken them to if they were five rather than fifteen. Really? Turns out they had heard great things about it from another teen with whom we'd had lunch earlier in the week. 

Frankly, I was surprised.

Frankly, I was thrilled.

So, that evening, we went to Cinderella. Our (discounted — yay) seats were terrific and the show was absolutely magical. The music was wonderfully familiar, but the costumes, sets and even some of the major story lines had been reimagined. For example, did you know that Cinderella doesn't leave her shoe on the stairs after the ball? Nope, first she brings both shoes home, befriends one of her stepsisters, helps advocate on behalf of the kingdom's 99%, resolves a revolution, and only then drops the shoe. Truth.

We left the theatre bedazzled, singing and dancing all the way to 57th Street's Brooklyn Diner for late-night caesar salads.

You see, all modernization and social commentary aside, Cinderella and her Prince Charming still lived happily ever after.

And that magical night in New York, my daughter and our new friend did too.

Nothin' But Drugstore Lovin'

Being pregnant is like nothing else you will ever experience. 

Sixteen years ago (omg), I was "great with child" through an extremely hot and uncomfortable summer. All the things you expect when you're expecting happened to me. Coworkers, with whom I was not exactly touch-feely, reached out and rubbed my belly. Uninvited. Diners at the next table audibly tsk-tsked over my apparent drinking problem. (Hello! It was ginger ale, people!) Older mothers sighed with envy and wistfully wished me well. Younger mothers regaled me with stories of 18-hour, pitocin-induced, episiotomy-required labor.

And, every, every, everyone had some snippet of wisdom to share. All of it well-meaning. Some of it valuable. Oddly enough, the one observation that my husband and I both remember as being the truest thing we heard was this ...

"From now on, every trip to CVS will cost you $50."

It did!

There were disposable diapers, baths and lotions and ointments, bottles, formula, pacifiers, bibs, thermometers, powders and creams. The nice young clerk would ring us up and — BINGO — $50.

As many other advisors promised, the baby time went by too fast. And with it, went our need for all of the above. Soon we were buying art supplies, chewable vitamins, and detangling spray. (Any of you with long-locked girls (or boys), take note. Suave makes a great product in a green bottle with a friendly octopus on it.)

CVS has also come in handy when a teacher springs something at the last minute. "Bring in poster boards tomorrow." Or, "You'll need 100 index cards by Tuesday." Before I trek over to Staples or Target (both an inconvenient drive away), I always check CVS.

Now, with a daughter who is about to turn sixteen (I repeat, the baby time went by too fast), we have new requests that take us to CVS. Suddenly, we are going through more shampoo and conditioner. Suddenly, there is a need for skin cleanser and scented body wash. Suddenly, we have to look into each and every product advertised in the gospel according to Seventeen.

At least it seems that way to me.

I was never a big drugstore girl myself. I've had short, short hair nearly my entire life (there was an ill-advised experiment growing it out when I was in my mid-thirties, but I've burned most of the photos). I wear very little make-up. And, I am notoriously cheap when it comes to health and beauty aids. I realize, of course, that my daughter isn't necessarily going to follow in my footsteps in this department. A lot of young women don't.

In my senior year of college, I went down to "Spring Break" in Florida with three other girls. En route, we stopped at a supersized drugstore somewhere South of the Mason-Dixon line. I don't know why my travel companions felt compelled to buy so much, but suffice it to say that there went two hours I'll never get back.

Like so many other aspects of mothering a teenage girl, when it comes to drugstore lovin', you either laugh or cry. On our most recent trip to CVS, I had to laugh. Shampoo and conditioner and astringent and cleanser and Cover Girl pressed powder and strawberry gum and ...

BINGO. $50.