Junior Year, Here We Go

This morning, per usual, I did a 4-mile fitness walk through our historic "Old Town," down by the harbor, along the beach, up through a pretty wooded neighborhood, and back home. It's hot and muggy now, but with the sun just coming up, it was still fairly cool. (BTW, if this daily walking thing makes me sound too healthy, rest assured I make up for it later in the day with white wine and chocolate. And sometimes cheese.)

About twenty minutes into my walk, I heard car horns and shrieking teenagers. The cacophony was coming from "the Neck," an attached peninsula filled with yacht clubs, private docks, and eensy-weensy ten-bedroom "summer cottages." The noise drifted across the harbor and, although I knew where it was coming from, it sounded like it was right next to me.

Soon, it was.

I stepped into a hedge just as a parade of thirty cars came flying around a corner. Horns blaring, noisemakers, drums, and a couple of fearless (and/or stupid) girls literally hanging out windows. They clapped and waved and yelled "WOOOO HOOOO" when they saw me.

It's the first day of school and these revelers are ... seniors.

My daughter, just a lowly junior, was still asnooze. For a moment, I worried about where she'll be and what she'll be doing (and whose car she'll be in) next year. But, I try to say in the moment. There are plenty of worries to deal with in the here and now. Never mind the there and then.

This year promises to be difficult and dramatic. Supposedly, colleges look at junior year as the best indicator of how a student will do after high school. (I guess freshman and sophomore years are just the warmup, and senior year — if this morning's spectacle is any indication — is a total write-off.) We'll ... I mean, she'll ... I mean we'll be juggling two AP courses, a full workload of honors and college prep, plus horse shows and training, and two part-time jobs. We'll start visiting schools in earnest. And, naturally, her social life will comprise high highs and low lows. Why aim for moderation when you're almost seventeen?

We'll have plenty of late nights of angst, I have no doubt. But, I expect we'll survive. Most families do.

Therefore ... it's a bright and shiny new school year, and I for one am happy to have it arrive already. (This summer was a bit of a bear. House guests and homework and SAT Prep, oh my!)

So, happy new year to all. I wish you good friends in the cafeteria, teachers with a sense of humor, and a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils.

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

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Backpack

My daughter's high school is almost exactly 1.5 miles away — a half a mile farther than the middle school was. It takes her 25 minutes to walk, which she does each morning, stopping to pick up a BFF along the way. This works out for everyone involved. The teens get some exercise and the moms have a little more free time for something nice and relaxing like reading the paper or taking a yoga class.

In theory, anyway. 

More often than not, I wave good-bye as my daughter leaves the house and run up to my office to meet a deadline or prepare for a conference call. Regardless, it's nice to have the extra time.

Not this week, apparently.

School started the Tuesday after Labor Day, and I agreed to drive her. Then, that Wednesday, it was pouring, so she and her friend got a ride again. Thursday, they walked as planned. But, Friday, I was back in the driver's seat. Although the weather was beautiful and there was plenty of time, my daughter once again needed a lift.

You see, her backpack weighed 26 pounds.

I am not exaggerating. We actually put the thing on a bathroom scale to check. Inside were three loose leaf binders, her lunch, David Copperfield (all 950 pages of him) and two textbooks — Geometry and World Cultures — each the size of a telephone book. And not, btw, a telephone book from my adopted little seaside suburb. We're talking the Manhattan Yellow Pages here! Times two.

I don't get it. Granted, my memory ain't what it used to be. But, I'm pretty sure I had a single loose leaf with dividers back when I was in high school. My notes and assignments for all of my classes were in that one notebook. (The denim ones were particularly cool. One year, I had a blackwatch plaid one and another year I had a high-tech (high-tech for 1978, that is) hot pink vinyl one with pockets and velcro called, "The Organizer.") 

Anyway, it was one teen: one notebook.

Today, my daughter's teachers each want a separate loose leaf. So, in addition to the three she was trying to transport Friday, there were four more in her locker. And, let me tell you, they aren't giving them away. I practically had to take out
a second mortgage to pay for our trip to Staples. Their 2-inch "Better Binder" is $11.49. Plus tax. My daughter swears that they are truly "better" binders.

And at that price ... they'd better be.

As mystified as I am by the notebook situation, I am equally confused about the ten-pound textbooks. These kids eat, breathe, sleep and live online. Isn't there some way that the material can be accessed electronically? First of all, it would mean that content could be updated and there wouldn't be obsolete textbooks in circulation. And, it would be more engaging for the students; the copy could be enhanced with links for further study, video and interactivities.

C'mon folks, let's save some trees. 

And some teenagers' backs.

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!