Our lives are fairly crazy even in the best of times. But, last week was certifiably insane.
My teenage daughter celebrated becoming a senior the morning after the class ahead of hers graduated. But, despite the associated public celebration, she still had to get through something. Something big.
Finals.
(Cue the theme from Jaws here.)
A couple of the teachers from a couple of her classes — namely AP U.S. History and AP English Composition — didn't actually schedule actual exams during their assigned exam times. (After subjecting the students to the AP test itself about a month and a half prior, they probably assumed, rightly, that the kids were all tested out.) However, this didn't mean my daughter was off the hook.
For "APUSH," she had a 12-15 page research paper and a presentation. With less nudging than usual from her feminist mother, she chose "Why the ERA Didn't Pass."
Let's pause here so I can compose myself. (Sniff, sniff. I'm so proud.)
For AP English, she had to give a presentation as if she were an admissions counselor from an assigned college. (She wore a blazer and a vintage pin of the school's mascot which I happened to find in a junk (Or should I say "junque?") jewelry box.) Then she had to review essays from three prospective students and write three responses to them: an acceptance, a rejection and a waitlist. Meanwhile, she herself was "applying" to three of the schools presented by her classmates. It was all a little complicated ... and a lot of work.
Her other courses had final exams: Physics, Pre-Calculus, Psychology and French. One was a "gimme." Two required some, but not an inordinate amount of, study. But, the fourth and final final was clearly created in the ninth and inner circle of hell.
Her question: "Will you still love me if I fail it?"
My answer: "I will love you no matter what until I die. BUT DON'T FAIL YOUR FINAL!"
My husband was in New York on business, taking my sister out for drinks at the Algonquin, while I stayed up late each night to proofread. (Um, what's wrong with this picture?) Meanwhile, my daughter, always working an angle, convinced her Psych teacher to let her timeshift the test so she'd be done a day early.
If my daughter wasn't already planning an equestrian career, she'd make a marvelous lawyer.
After a flurry of activity and more than a modicum of stress (we were both holding our breaths at the end there), she went in for her last test. And, suddenly ...
It was over.
I thought back on the celebrations we used to plan to mark the successful end of a school year. There were trips to the Boston Aquarium, dinners in the North End or at a favorite Chinese restaurant. So, in keeping with our family tradition, I asked what her preference was.
She was diplomatic, but explained that she and her friends had plans. Someone had the bright idea of bringing all their work to a local beach and having a bonfire.
(Great, I thought, you survive finals and you get arrested.)
The fire didn't pan out (phew!), but other parties did. Off she went, a senior officially now. I sat down with leftovers and the first season of Downton Abbey on Amazon Prime.
And, I think we both exhaled.
Finally.
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There was a time — oh, fifteen years ago or so — when I was in control. Not really, of course, but significantly more in control that I am now. It was up to me to take care of my toddler daughter. I chose what she wore, what she ate, when she slept, what we did together on the weekends. It was all about her, but it was all organized by me.
As the mother of a teenager, I don't get a whole lot of appreciation. But, in all honesty, there wasn't much appreciation back when she was little either. She was happy and healthy so I knew I was doing a good job. And, I got hand-drawn love notes on Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and my birthday.
Best of all, I was never to blame.
These days, I am to blame for ... well ... pretty much everything. My bad decisions, my lame rules, the weather. Yep, pretty much everything.
For the record, your honor, following is a list of recent crimes against the adolescent, for which I (apparently) can be, but (definitely) should not be, blamed.
It's simply not my fault.
It's not my fault that you were late leaving for work because you set your alarm clock for 7:00 pm rather than 7:00 am.
It's not my fault you can't find your old turquoise North Face jacket. It's also not my fault that I didn't realize that there are "designated stable fleeces" when I suggested you simply wear another one. (You have at least a dozen, dear.)
It's not my fault that your AP U.S. History teacher decided there was too much work for a field trip while the other AP U.S. History teacher took his class to visit the S.S. Constitution (and, adding insult to injury, took everyone for McFlurries on the way back to school — clearly nothing says early American history like Mickey D's).
It's not my fault that one of your favorite bands is coming to town (YES!) and they're playing at an over-21 club (NO!).
It's not my fault that the people who built our house in 1830 didn't anticipate your need for 8 pairs of boots and 4 pairs of Converse and a closet to accommodate them.
It's not my fault that two of your BFFs couldn't go to Laser Quest with you last night after all because their respective parents made them stay home and babysit their respective siblings.
It's not my fault that the third season of Dance Moms isn't available on Netflix or Amazon Prime and that when you found it online the WiFi was buggy and the streaming video was not streaming. (See note above regarding the age of our home — we're fortunate to have indoor plumbing much less reliable wireless.)
I could continue.
My daughter plans to pursue an equine studies business major (yes, that does really exist — who knew?). But, I've asserted for years that she should really be a lawyer. She has a sense of justice beyond the laws of man or nature. She has an unfailing memory for past slights (and anticipated future wrongs). And she has the ability to argue her case, passionately, regardless of rules, evidence or even common sense.
I rarely win these arguments because what my daughter does not seem to have is a willingness to admit defeat.
Still, on the counts listed above (and countless more), I have to plead "Not guilty, your honor."
Now, if I can just find that North Face jacket, maybe I can get time off for good behavior ...
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Quick! Call The Times!
My teenage daughter and I are in complete agreement about something.
OMG!
These days, this state of harmony is a rare and wondrous phenomenon. There's no doubt that I've raised an independent thinker. She has her own opinions about pretty much everything, and they differ from mine ... well .. pretty much all the time. What to watch on TV. What to have for dinner. The intrinsic value of a well-made bed. We don't see eye-to-eye too often.
But, we are both in accordance right now. We both feel strongly that homework over the summer is unfair, unjust, cruel and unusual punishment. It's a bum rap. It's a double-dealing, dirty pool of a scam. A travesty of justice, a sheer and utter misuse of authority.
And, given that it's mid-August and school starts two weeks from Tuesday, the summer homework heat is on.
WTF?
Lest you think I'm (we're!) complaining about some silly little reading assignment, try this on for size:
1. A 181-page book about the English language, on which my daughter needs to be prepared for a "rigorous test" day one.
2. Another 248-page book, also on the English language, on which my daughter has to write a 2-page analytical essay.
3. Two hand-outs (36 pages and 21 pages), supplementing the above volumes (because — apparently — 429 pages aren't enough), which will provide the guidelines for 2 more 2-page papers.
4. A final 524-page book on Thomas Jefferson, a 5 to 7-page paper and at least 3 blog posts about it.
In case you weren't doing the math, my daughter is expected to read 1,010 pages (that's serious, non-fiction pages; we ain't talkin' Gossip Girl, Twilight or Divergent) and write 4 analog papers plus 3 digital ones.
Did I mention it's mid-August?
Of course, if we were to complain, either of the offending teachers would ask a simple question. Could she have started sooner? Yes and no. She certainly had the assignments, and we ordered the books fairly promptly. But, she was away the first three weeks of the summer. Soon after, we had back-to-back-to-back houseguests. She's had multiple horse shows (some out of state), SAT prep and she holds down a part-time retail job.
Trust me, she hasn't been twiddling her thumbs. She also hasn't had a moment to enjoy a pool, a beach or much of a social life. And, perhaps most importantly, she wrapped up sophomore year (finals and papers and subject matter SATs, oh my!) and she was burned out. She was t-o-a-s-t.
I understand that teachers may worry about students losing momentum or forgetting what they were taught. And, no, I don't want my daughter's brain to turn to jelly while she watches reality TV reruns on our iPad. But, there has to be some happy medium. Couldn't the assignments be a little more open-ended? "Read 4 books. Your choice."
The classic song from Porgy & Bess tells us "Summertime and the livin' is easy."
My daughter and I agree to disagree with that one.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
