The Boys of Summer

School started yesterday and, to quote a far better writer than myself, "the sun for sorrow did not show his head."

The bad news was that it was raining. The good news was that it was raining. You see, because it was raining my daughter actually agreed to have me drive her to the middle school. These days, she and a couple of friends walk together every morning. Mothers — even the most well-meaning of us — are absolutely, positively, quite definitely not invited.

That's okay. I have lots of other things to do. (Sniff.)

Like so many Septembers past, my daughter was weighed down with backpack and lunchbox, binders and pencils, gym clothes and sneakers. She chose a striped top from American Eagle Outfitters ($10 at their Times Square flagship store — I love NY!), cargo capris and her new Converse All Stars. I thought she looked especially cute, but I didn't dare say anything. My doing so would have guaranteed a change of heart — and a change of clothes.

Before we left, I had to shoot a quick "first day of school" picture for the grandmothers. Until this year, said picture was always taken on the front steps of whatever school my little supermodel was attending. This year? "Hell to the no!" I was lucky to get a 30-second session on the relative privacy of our front porch. She did smile at the last minute though, albeit with rather unamused tolerance. (And, did I mention she looked really cute?)

We drove the quick mile to school and took our place in the line of cars snaking around the building to the official drop-off location behind. I'm proud to report that I was admirably reserved. No kiss "good-bye," no waving, no affectionate endearments called out as she trudged down the path to the school's back door. I was the very model of maternal self-restraint.

As I pulled out into the queue of parents leaving the property I noticed something different. I recognized several of the girls, but who were all these teenage boys? Tall, broad-shouldered, in several cases zitty. These were not the little boys of seventh grade. These were — gasp! — young men.

What happened?

It was as though all of the male members of the eighth grade had hit puberty en masse. The entire class had reached some tween testosterone tipping point.

As I looked closer, I realized I did know some of these strange new people. I spotted a couple of my daughter's boy friends (not to be confused with boyfriends, bien sur). I recognized a few of the boys who had been in the advertising elective I taught in sixth grade. For the past three years or so, the girls have all grown up and filled out, while their counterparts have stayed ... well ... pretty much the same. For a while there, it seemed like the girls were a bunch of college co-eds, babysitting their male classmates.

From what I saw yesterday, the times they are a-changing!

Until now, when I've heard about girls in my daughter's class "dating" boys in my daughter's class, I've thought it was rather silly. The girls, many in makeup and heels already, certainly looked ready for a night on the town. But, the boys? Not so much. Even pressed and dressed for picture day, they looked like a pack of rumpled Cub Scouts.

Other than one sweet crush (his, not hers) and a little bar mitzvah dancing, my daughter hasn't exactly jumped into the swinging singles scene. She and her friends have been known to tease boys on Facebook, but I don't worry about it. (I think it's akin to our making crank phone calls in the 70s.) After all, I've always reassured myself, how much trouble can she really get into with these little little boys?

Okay, it's a whole new ballgame. Suddenly these little boys I've known since preschool are not just taller than my daughter; they're taller than me. Their voices are changing. They're standing up straighter. Is that the slightest shadow of a mustache hovering above their upper lip? Oh my!

Fasten your seatbelts; it's going to be a bumpy year!

Allergy Season

They say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Well, I inherited many things from my late father. Good things, like my love of Shakespeare. And, not so good things.

Like my allergies.

Let's see ... I'm allergic to cats, hay, pine, cats, dust, pollen, feathers, cats. (Oh, did I mention cats?) I sneeze. I wheeze. My eyes puff up and water. Sometimes I get hives — nice red ones on my face and neck. I have seasonal allergies and situational allergies. For example, if in any season I'm in a situation where there happens to be a cat ... well, you get the picture.

Happily, I don't have any of those carry-an-EpiPen-in-my-purse-or-risk-certain-death allergies. I can eat peanuts and shellfish, although probably not together (yuk!). If I'm stung by a bee, it will hurt like hell but there's no need to rush me to the nearest emergency room. So, even though I should probably buy stock in the Kleenex company, I've always considered my allergies to be a nuisance (albeit, a big fat one), but nothing more.

My husband is not allergic to anything. Nothing, nada. So, early in our relationship, it distressed him to see me sniffling, scratching and rubbing my eyes. His attitude was, 'If it's broke, fix it!' He urged me to make an appointment with an allergist.

If you've never been to an allergist, here's what you're missing. Allergists use a very primitive and particularly painful diagnostic process called "the scratch test." I sat in a comfy chair and placed my bare arms out in front of me, palms up. A nurse (who, in my memory at least, is the definitive doppelgänger for Young Frankenstein's Frau Blucher) then "scratched me" with needles that had been dipped in 48 different allergens. Then, the fun really started.

Basically, the patient (that would be me) has to sit still for twenty minutes while the allergens take effect. My forearms almost immediately began to burn, itch and swell up. The entire purpose of the test is to gauge the reaction to each individual allergen, so it's important not to scratch or move, lest the results be compromised. Twenty minutes can be a long time. When mine were up, Frau Blucher returned. She took one look and hurried out of the room to get two of her colleagues, because — and I quote — "The pine hive is the largest one I've ever seen."

What can I say? I've always tried to be an overachiever.

So, now that my allergies were official, the allergist met with me to discuss a plan of action. He suggested that I control my environment (duh) — get a high quality vacuum and dust-proof mattress cover, stay out of homes with cats (I repeat, duh). He gave me a prescription for allergy medicine and asked me to call him in two weeks to report back on how well the new pills worked. When I called, I explained that the new pills didn't seem to work as well as the over-the-counter antihistamine I had always used. His expert medical opinion was that I should go back to my old pills. And, we were done.

Bottom line? 48 hives and $300 later, I was right where I started. (Although, I did have my new found fame as the record holder for the largest pine hive to keep me satisfied.)

When my daughter was born thirteen years ago, we wondered whether she would inherit my world-famous allergies or my husband's utter lack thereof. As she grew from baby to toddler to little girl to tween, we were thrilled to see no evidence of allergies whatsoever. She adores cats and has a knack for earning the instant trust of even the most timid ones in our neighborhood. Seasons come and go with nary a sneeze. And, she spends more time in haylofts than she does in her own room.

So, we assumed we had dodged this particular hereditary bullet. But now ... I'm not so sure. My daughter suddenly seems to have developed some allergies. I've been keeping a list and here's what she appears to be allergic to:

• Hangers, and in a related allergy, clothes hampers

• Getting out of bed in the morning

• Making that same bed once she does get out of it

• Anything for breakfast more nutritious than Pop-Tarts

• Listening to my radio stations in the car

• Listening to stories about me when I was thirteen

• Listening to pretty much anything I ask her to do

As I reflect on this list, I realize that there is a common thread here. Maybe my daughter is only reacting to one allergen. And, unfortunately, I don't think there's a pill for it. When she's a little older, she can control her environment (an out-of-state college looks likely). Until then, no scratch test required.

Just as I've had to learn to live in a world with pine and dust and cats, my daughter will just have to deal with the irritant that is her mother.