It's About Passion, People!

Tween and teen emotions run high. Whether it's elation (when things go their way) or devastation (when things don't) or any and every range in between. Most middle and high school students live very dramatic emotional lives.

This heightened sensitivity isn't limited to great big events, like falling in or out of love. A perceived snub in the cafeteria, a new episode of Glee, an unfair grade on a math test ... pretty much any day-to-day occurrence can be fraught with feeling.

So, it always surprises me when another mother complains that her daughter isn't passionate about anything. Granted, these moms aren't talking about exultation over a new cell phone (or misery as said cell phone is confiscated when its owner is caught using it after hours). They are talking about bigger issues: a sense of purpose, a mission, one's life's work.

I've never had this problem. From the time my daughter saw the movie Spirit with her little friends from Sundance Preschool, she has been passionate about one thing (and, pretty much one thing only): horses. Horses, horses, horses. All horses, all the time.

Now, as a fourteen-year old, horses are more than a hobby. My daughter is an athlete, practicing many hours per week, honing her skills and competing in events (often against women considerably older and more experienced). My daughter is a scholar, reading books — both fiction and non- — about horses, studying breeds and tack and technique. My daughter is a philanthropist, donating time and money to various organizations. She has helped save abandoned horses, worked with disabled children in therapeutic programs, and enabled inner city children to gain confidence by learning to ride. Because of her grand passion (and, trust me, it is a very grand, very passionate passion), my daughter has become a better student and a mentor to younger riders. She's already looking at colleges with Equine Studies curricula. (Apparently, I'll have to pay room and board for her pony as well as tuition. Help.)

I confess, as the reluctant mother of an equestrienne, I find horseback riding to be both expensive and inconvenient. But, I also appreciate the fact that my daughter is not hanging out downtown, drinking, smoking, or prematurely dating. She has a nightshirt that says, "Better the stall than the mall." Amen!

This past weekend, I had the amazing privilege of reconnecting with nearly a hundred people who shared my own youthful passion. As children and teenagers, we were part of a repertory theatre company in New York. We rehearsed four days a week after school and did four performances each weekend. We toured New England in the summers; we traveled to Canada and Washington, DC. We played at Lincoln Center, Broadway's Shubert Theatre, on TV and in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. (How cool is that!)

After 30 years, we were all ... well ... emoting (remember, we were theatre people). There were countless hugs and many tears. What struck me as we shared our extraordinary memories was that we all knew in our hearts that we had been part of something bigger than any of us as individuals. Even at the time, at fifteen, sixteen or seventeen years old, we recognized this. That is what I took away from my experience there. And, that is what my daughter is taking away from her experience now.

That's what passions are all about.

Will my daughter compete on the Olympic equestrian team? Probably not. Will she go on to a career in equestrian medicine or business or advocacy? Maybe. But, will she take away transferable skills, like how to set goals and work hard for something you want, how to handle disappointment, how to muck a stall? Yes.

Let's face it, figuratively speaking, we all need to know how to muck a stall.

Rules ... And The Bending Thereof

In our house these days, there are a lot of discussions about rules. "Discussions" may not be the right word. How about protests, fights, altercations, melees, battles royal?

You see, there are different perspectives about rules. Not just in our family, but in the world at large. T.S. Eliot advised (soundly advised, if you ask me) ...

"It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them."

My daughter, I am sorry to report, is a little weak in the observing them department. She sees my authority as unfair. She is persecuted for her beliefs. She is taxed without representation. (She has taken way too much American history.)

By virtually any accounting, I am a lenient, liberal parent. In my daughter's mind, however, I am running the all-girl equivalent of the Yorkshire school in Nicholas Nickleby. It's amazing that she gets anything to eat other than gruel!

To add insult to injury, my daughter knows in her heart with a certainty and a self-righteousness reserved for the very young that she is the only fourteen-year old girl at her middle school (probably the only one on the entire planet, WTF!) who has to follow so many rules. According to her, no one else has limits on their computer time. No one else has to make their bed. No one else has to text their mother when they're hanging out after school. No one else has to surrender their cell phone when they retire for the evening. No one else has to finish their homework before they can watch The Lying Game.

In addition to our drastically different opinions on the necessity of rules (we could agree to disagree, except she would never agree), my daughter has mind-boggling fortitude. You would think that after she has been caught bending the rules, oh say, a thousand times, she would stop bothering. Not my daughter! She will continue to push because she knows something crucial to her cause. She knows that she has the strength of ten grinches (plus two), while yours truly is walking around in a fog of fatigue more often than not.

There have been a number of times when her persistence has almost paid off. Almost. Just the other day, she was on her iPhone (texting or looking at pictures or playing with her favorite app) when she was supposed to be eating breakfast and getting ready for school. For a moment, I considered simply ignoring it. But, I knew my momentary apathy (brought on by my perpetual exhaustion) would set a precedent. I had to be vigilant. I had to persevere. I had to uphold order. After all, without rules, wouldn't our very civilization crumble? I heard myself say, as I have said so many times before ...

"Um ... honey, ... are you supposed to be on your phone?"

Busted. She groaned but shut it down. Beneath her eyes though, I could see that spark of defiance. A revolution waiting for another day.

Someday, my daughter will be on her own. Her loving mother will no longer be there with gentle (sometimes, not so gentle) reminders. She'll have to write her own rules and eventually she will play benevolent dictator to some smaller being. When that inevitable future state arrives, I, as doting grandmother, will most likely become my daughter's daughter's accomplice. I look forward to it.

For now, if T.S. Eliot were here, my daughter would accord him the same respectful response she always gives me: she would roll her eyes. She could much better relate to Thomas Edison's position:

"Hell, there are no rules here — we're trying to accomplish something."

How To Succeed ...

I'm going to start working on my acceptance speech. "Mother of the Year."

It has a certain ring to it, don't you think?

This all started several months ago when I read that Darren Criss, the adorable Blaine from Glee, one of our favorite TV shows, would be hitting the boards on Broadway for a limited three-week run. Criss, who had an enthusiastic and international YouTube fan base even before he became a "Warbler" on Fox's megawatt megahit, was scheduled to replace Harry Potter himself (Daniel Radcliffe) as J. Pierpont Finch in the classic show, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.

Never my favorite — oh, it's just a wee bit dated; with numbers like "A Secretary is Not a Toy," it makes Mad Men look downright feminist — I nevertheless did what I could to secure two orchestra seats. Unbeknownst to me, we would soon turn those two tickets into four.

"Mom, remember how you said I could bring two friends to see Darren Criss in New York?"

"Uh ... I did?"

Apparently ... I did. So, our mother-daughter excursion morphed into a tweenage pilgrimage. My role as friend, confidante, mother-who-looks-so-good-at-her-age-she-could-practically-be-your-sister, quickly devolved into adult-with-credit-card.

However, my daughter was happy and what else could I desire? Soon, she and her friends would be in the presence of Glee-ful greatness. All was right with the world.

Plans had to be made. Typically, my daughter and I stay at my mother's apartment on the upper westside. However, when our party doubled in size (and octupled in noise level), I realized a hotel would be a better option. A suite hotel, if possible. All I asked was a door between myself and bedlam. (Thank goodness for discount websites and off-the-beaten path accommodations!)

I also had the brilliant brainstorm that a bus from Boston to New York would be much smarter. Five hours behind the wheel of an adolescent-packed sedan gave me pause. And, with the price of mid-grade gas and mid-town parking (especially the parking), we would save tons of money. And, to top it all off, the girls could sit across the backseat of the bus while I settled into a single up front with some work and some magazines. They could pretend they didn't even know me! (And, vice versa.)

While I was making arrangements, the girls were making their own plans. A pre-excursion sleepover would facilitate our very early-morning departure (and, in hindsight, prepare them for the sleep deprivation ahead). Visits to the Converse superstore and Urban Outfitter's would be mandatory. They decided that they would not only meet Mr. Criss at the stage door after the show, get autographs and cell phone photos, but they would slip him their names and numbers.

Say what?

(For the record, if I had the slightest worry that Darren Criss would actually call one of "my girls," I would have nipped this particular plan in the bud. I was, however, less than concerned.)

And the trip went off without a hitch! Well, without a hitch unless you include a blinding snowstorm, a bus without heat, a three hour delay, changing in the basement ladies room of some random hotel (not ours), frantically hailing a cab, swinging by my brother's "Hell's Kitchen" high rise so we could fling our luggage at him, scarfing a piece of pizza on the sidewalk, racing up 45th street, foregoing a stop in the theatre restroom (despite anticipating an incredibly long first act), and settling into our seats just as the lights went down.

Did ya see any hitches here? Nah, me neither.

The show was fantastic and Darren Criss proved himself to be more than another Hollywood celebrity set-up to sell tickets. The genuine article: singing, dancing, acting — and that cute cute cute smile. If it weren't for the fact that I could easily (easily!) be his mother, I would have been swooning alongside my more youthful companions.

Post-show, the girls sat at the edge of their seats through the curtain call, politely and perfunctorily applauding until I gave them the "All right, go ahead ..." nod. They raced from the theatre to wedge their way into the throng of girls standing at the stage door.

After several minutes of breathless anticipation, the backstage doorman kindly informed the crowd "Ya know, Darren doesn't come out after the matinee. If you come back tonight, you can see him." My life, or at least the next several hours, passed before my eyes. En masse, the girls turned their pleading, pathetic, practically Dickensian little faces toward me. 'Oh no,' I thought, 'There goes my relaxing evening at the hotel.'

As a native New Yorker, it always kills me when tourists visit Times Square and only Times Square. When they forego the more than 23,000 Big Apple restaurants in favor of "Olive Garden." So, guess where I spent my evening? In Times Square at "Olive Garden." Audible sigh.

We were planning to kill some time at "Forever 21" and "American Eagle Outfitters" (yes, really), when we received an urgent call from my brother. He had walked into Times Square and passed by the Hirschfeld Theatre where, more than an hour before the evening performance would end, there was already a huge crowd. We dropped everything and raced to meet him. The girls, posters and playbills in hand, joined the freezing throng. (Did I mention it was freezing? It was. It was freezing.)

Not wanting to take a place away from some other lovesick tweenager, my bro and I waited behind a police line across the street. He has worked backstage on Broadway for the past twenty years, so he knew the drill. With his advice, the girls were able to acquire and — more importantly — retain prime meet-and-greet real estate. It was actually fascinating to hear him narrate the crowd control choreography. It took my mind off of my toes, which I could no longer feel. (Did I mention that it was FREEZING?)

Finally, a mere two-and-a-half hours after we got there, Darren Criss came out. The crowd roared! Our girls caught a glimpse, a photo, and captured his John Hancock on their posters. They also emerged from the riot relatively unscathed, with all of their appendages intact. Broad smiles, bright eyes.

Success!

We returned to the hotel with thoroughly frozen fingers and feet (DID I MENTION IT WAS FRRRRRRRKIN' FREEZING???), clutching precious autographed mementos tightly in hand. I had promised the girls that they could stay up as long as they wanted, watch TV, eat junk food, relive their brief encounter with the beauteous Blaine ad nauseam. After no more than five minutes of chatter, I heard silence. I peeked my head in; they were out cold.

As I write this, the exhausted fan club is asleep in the next room. I can only assume they are dreaming of him ... of Darren (they're on a first name basis now) ... those soft eyes, that sweet smile. As for me, I'm tired and stiff and my eyes are bloodshot, which is rather unfair if you ask me, because it's not as though I partied last night. Nevertheless, the weekend was, by any measure, a success. Except I have one question ...

Perhaps we should have seen a different show? The Drowsy Chaperone.

Inconsideration ... Or Food for Thoughtless

They say, "It's the thought that counts."

All right. Well, what about the countless thoughtless things we deal with every single day as moms of tweens and teens?

My daughter is, by all accounts, a "very nice girl." Her older relatives adore her. Her teachers would like her to participate a bit more (she's surprisingly quiet in class, given how noisy she tends to be at home, in the car with a friend, or at the stable), but they tell me she's a pleasure. I get rave reviews from house guests, mothers of her friends, babysitting clients. They all agree that she is a "very nice girl."

When I hear all of these different constituents singing her praises, I want to pull her aside, look her in those sweet, compliant eyes and say ...

"Who are you? And what have you done with my daughter?"

You see, the tween who lives in my house is not a "bad girl," per se. She doesn't smoke or drink or hang out with the wrong middle school crowd. But, she is consistently thoughtless. She is about as inconsiderate as it is possible to be. Again, I'm not saying that she's "bad." She is thought-less, as in, she puts no thought into her actions or other people or how her actions affect other people. She is in-considerate, as in, she doesn't stop and consider anyone else's situation. Anyone else, as in, her loving mother. As in, me.

Here are several of the myriad examples I encounter on a fairly regular (daily, hourly, practically every minute) basis ...

She gets up each day, not with a sweet "Good morning, mom," but with razor-sharp resentment. Apparently, it is my fault that (a) it's morning, (b) she's tired, and (c) our society insists that fourteen-year olds attend school.

She leaves her dirty dishes on the coffee table, on the floor in front of the TV, on her dresser, on her desk. Sometimes (if I nag her), she brings them into the kitchen and leaves them on the counter. Basically, I can find dirty dishes pretty much anywhere in my house. Anywhere, that is, except in the dishwasher or the sink.

She practices origami ... with her dirty laundry. Untangling jeans and jodhpurs, underwear, socks, bras and tank tops, doubles my time in front of the washing machine. Add to this thankless job the fact that our basement has a particularly low ceiling (you actually have to stoop over while you're down there) and I'm particularly allergic to my daughter's horsey clothing, and you can understand why yours truly does not particularly enjoy laundry day.

She's in a hurry when there's somewhere she wants to go. Otherwise, she has no sense of time whatsoever. When I say, "Come right home," I might as well have said, "Take all the time in the world. I hear they're selling Frappuccinos at Starbucks." When I say, "I'll be outside the barn at 6:00," she hears, "I'll be outside the barn at 6:00, but by all means, you can come out whenever you feel like it. Nothing would make your mother happier than waiting in the car in the cold in the dark for forty-five minutes."

She sheds her belongings each afternoon when she returns from school. Really, I can follow a trail through the house: lunchbox, jacket, backpack, scarf, gloves, hat ... This habit of hers will come in handy if she's ever lost in a state park and they bring out the dogs for a search and rescue mission.

She would rather text her friends or play a video game or watch a YouTube video or ... or ... or ... or pretty much anything electronic than actually have a conversation with her mom. Even though, I've dropped everything to drive her somewhere.

The list goes on and on (and on). My own mother reminds me that it's better to have a daughter who presents a kind and considerate self to the greater world at large and concentrates all her thoughtlessness on me. I guess, she's right. After all, I do enjoy those parent-teacher conferences. But, maybe once, maybe on Mother's Day or on my upcoming milestone birthday, it would be such a pleasant surprise to hear a "please" or a "thank-you." Or not be kept waiting. Or not have to wrestle with her laundry or rinse her dirty dishes.

But, if and when that day comes, I know what I'll say ...

"Who are you? And what have you done with my daughter?"

Blackout

In solidarity with Reddit and other sites, this site is blacked out today (January 18th) in protest against SOPA and PROTECT IP laws. These laws are a threat to free speech and to the freedom of the Internet. Please contact your congressional representative and tell them to vote 'No' on this law.

SOPA is Not Music to Anyone's Ears

We had a flood in our basement last Fall. We lost our washing machine, some cherished mementos and a boatload of — to use the technical term — crap. At first, we thought the nearly 200 LPs that were stored down there were gone, but it turns out the water didn't reach them. Nevertheless, we saw this as a sign from some prescient DJ in the sky. We've lived here thirteen years and haven't ever dusted off the records much less tried to play them. Time to say ...

"Good-bye, yellow brick road."

Our first stop was a used record store in the next town over. Two extremely cool, aging hippies came out to sort the albums right in the trunk of our car. (Have you ever picked up a crate of records? You don't want to carry them anywhere if you don't have to!) It quickly became a competition: whose albums were worth more? My showtunes or my husband's Southern rock? Stevie Nicks or David Bowie? Bruce Springsteen or Prince?

If nothing else, we were a source of amusement. And insight. By the end of the process, I think the record store dudes knew more about each of us than any therapist could.

And, at the risk of gloating, I was ahead by a couple of titles when all was said and done. The used record store took 28 albums. We took our proceeds (all $56 of them) and went out for a nice lunch. That would have been the end of the story (or the end of an era), but we still had a trunkful of records.

A couple of days later, my husband pulled up at Savers, and unloaded what was left. The young kid working there was impressed. "Whoa," he said. "Did you, like, collect these?"

We laughed about it later. The albums may have weighed a ton and taken up the entire trunk of our sedan, but no, they weren't a collection per se. They were the 1970s and 80s equivalent of an iPod.

I still buy music. Given the choice, I'll still purchase a CD. Even if I plan to upload all of the tracks into iTunes and listen to them on my iPhone. It goes back to 1976, when I would use babysitting money to buy the latest Elton John release at "Cheap Records" near Bloomingdales on Manhattan's East Side. Any title $3.69.

This is one of many (okay, many many many many) things that speak to the generation gap between myself and my tween daughter. She had a handful of CDs when she was younger: Disney movie soundtracks, High School Musical, Hannah Montana. Then, she graduated to a hand-me-down iPod and all the downloads her iTune gift cards could buy. Today, she knows better. Using her iPhone, she can listen to (and watch) pretty much any music she wants. YouTube, Facebook, even individual musicians' websites provide streaming musical content. Why purchase something when it's out there and readily accessible? Why commit to a particular song or artist or album when there will be something new next week?

The idea of owning music is as passé as the bell bottoms and Frye boots I wore on my weekly trips to Lexington and 58th Street.

However, my daughter is still supporting the musicians she likes. While I bought as much vinyl as I could afford, she and her friends are willing to spend big bucks to see their favorite performers live. From this mother's perspective, it seems as if the recording industry has evolved its financial model. I paid very little to see a group at Madison Square Garden and then bought all their recordings. My daughter consumes recordings through free social media. But, she has no issue with the idea of a $100 Katy Perry ticket. (That's actually pretty reasonable. If we were lucky enough to get Lady Gaga tickets, we would have to take out a home equity loan.)

Right now, there is a lot of debate about SOPA, the hotly contested "Stop Online Piracy Act." Should my daughter and her friends be arrested for listening or linking to copyrighted material online? Of course, I don't think so. But, should artists be able to protect and profit from their art? Yes.

The Internet is the single greatest game changer that we (or any previous generation I can think of) have lived through. Trying to mold laws governing analog objects to fit digital information will not succeed — unless we are willing to undo any progress that has been made in terms of information-sharing, research, business and communications. This doesn't just affect the entertainment industry. The ability to share content is critical to continued improvements in science, healthcare, human rights and domestic security.

Before a person (or blog or website) should be prosecuted for copyright infringement, a few common sense criteria should be applied. Are they willfully passing off someone else's work as their own? Are they profiting from the posting or link? Is the work readily available for license or purchase but they knowingly circumnavigated the process? Did they even know they were doing something wrong? The proposed SOPA bill would make bloggers responsible for comments posted by readers. It would make enormous new media channels like eBay, YouTube, Wikipedia and Facebook liable for all of the activities of their hundreds of millions of members. It would make posting a video of a married couple's first dance together a felony.

And, under SOPA, owners of websites are encouraged to shut down content first and ask questions later. You are guilty until proven innocent. 'Doesn't sound very American to me. The so-called conspiracy-theorists who worry that SOPA will forever change the nature of the Web are not crying "wolf."

My daughter and her friends don't remember a world before the Internet. They don't see any difference between music my husband and I listen to on the radio and music they listen to on a Web site.

Except that the radio is our thing and the Web is theirs.

To learn more and/or to sign a petition asking your representatives to rethink SOPA, click here.

Clean Closet, Calm Mom

"It's not fair," my daughter announced the other day.

(Um, what else is new?)

"It's not fair," she continued. "I have the smallest closet in the family."

Here's what I wanted to say: "You are the smallest person in the family. You have the smallest clothes in the family. You contribute the smallest amount financially to the family. And, you have the smallest desire of anyone in the family to actually hang something up."

Here's what I said instead: "How 'bout I help you clean out your closet Wednesday after school?"

Here's a confession. I am a neatnik and I actually enjoy cleaning out closets and dresser drawers. My daughter is not me (as she will often assert in a rather whiny voice: "I'm not you-ou-ou, Mo-o-om!"). My daughter doesn't mind clutter. Until, that is, she is missing something or can no longer close her closet door. Enter moi to save the day. I am Felix to her Oscar. Martha to her mayhem.

We go through this exercise once every few weeks. With Christmas just over (and with it, an influx of new hoodies, boots, Converse All-Stars, and yes, even socks), this is as good a time as any to tackle her wardrobe. Funny how much more room one has when tee shirts are actually folded and hangers are used to ... hang things. (Imagine that!) It will be considerably easier to find a shoe's mate when it is no longer buried under 22 inches of discarded garments on the closet floor.

There will most certainly be items earmarked for the middle school's thrift shop. After all, my daughter has grown a couple of inches in the past year. And, as per usual, there will be clothes that she can technically still fit in — but wouldn't be caught dead in. In eighth grade, there is no grey area. Either it's completely, totally, utterly cool or it is completely, totally, utterly uncool. (Most of the things I choose for her these days would, I have to report, fall into that latter category. That's why I rarely buy her anything unless she is right next to me approving the purchase.) I anticipate a small pile of uncontested donations.

Then, we will move on. There will be a number of pieces that she'll insist are fine but that I'll urge her to retire. Too tight jeans, torn in all the wrong places. Grubby tank tops in a rainbow of faded colors. Stretched-out, stained sweats from after-school programs long past. (Really, when was the last time my daughter was on a gymnastics team? But, she still has the warm-up pants, the team leotard, the beach towel.) Chances are, she'll give on one or two of these tatty treasures.

The third and final category will be the clothing that I think she should keep even though she doesn't like it or plan to wear it — now, next year or ever. There are pretty dresses, cute cropped jackets, black velvet pants. She'll give me a look that says, "Fine. You like them so much, you wear them." And, I would. I really would. If, that is, I were three inches shorter and thirty pounds thinner. Again, we will compromise, but it will be me who looks longingly at the pile of giveaways.

By the time we break for dinner, her room will be tidy and organized. Everything will have a place and be in that place. Jewelry neatly organized. Foldable items folded. Hangable items hung. Shoes lined up just so. Socks rolled into uniform little balls. Desktop cleared and ready for any impromptu studying she might care to do.

My daughter may feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. She may rejoice in the recovery of some long-lost favorite pair of gym shorts. She may even say "Thank you." Chances are, however, that she'll head downstairs for a snack and a 20-minute episode of "Phineas and Ferb."

But, I'll stand and admire our work for a few minutes. My daughter's clean room is like an ornate sand castle or a jolly snowman. It's a piece of art. But, it's temporary.