The Myth Of The Family Meeting

With graduation less than a week away, I've been taking a lot of stock. (And Tylenol, actually; I've been taking a lot of Tylenol.) Eighteen and a half years of parenting behind me. 

For the record, that's the longest I've ever stayed at any job. 

What did I do particularly well? What did I screw up?

Becoming a mother is the greatest act of faith we can undertake. It can also be a huge slap in the face. It rocks our inner vision and is at once a source of great pride and the most humbling experience in the world.

My husband and I were a little late to the game and we had already watched most of our closest friends deal with transitioning from being happy-go-lucky "DINKs" (dual-income, no kids) to sleep-deprived, car-pooling zombies. We weren't ready yet, but we were very self-satisfied. If and when we were ever parents, we assured ourselves, we wouldn't make this or that mistake. We would never raise our voices. Or let our offspring walk all over us. We would do everything perfectly.

As my favorite classics professor Dr. Zarker would have remonstrated, "Hubris, hubris, hubris!"

Raised in the 1960s and 70s, I had a wonderful weekly example of perfect parenting: Carol and Mike Brady. Their six (count 'em, six) children were respectful and remarkably well-groomed. Their house was orderly; their dinners were on time.

And, Mr. and Mrs. Brady never lost their sh*t.

If there was ever an issue in the Brady household, they simply had a family meeting in that tiny little room off the kitchen. Crisis averted.

Last week, I insisted on a family meeting in our house. I was feeling stressed over our packed schedule of school events (white water rafting, graduation rehearsal, awards banquet and the big day itself), out of town visitors, horse shows, theatre tickets, work deadlines, business trips, and more. And, yes, I was ready to lose my sh*t.

Lest you think I'm just an anxious person (I am, but that's beside the point), let me give you a couple of examples ...

So far, I'd rescheduled my daughter's tuberculosis test three times. (No, she doesn't have tuberculosis. Well, I assume she doesn't have tuberculosis. But, she has to have the test for college.) I can practically hear the receptionist cringing every time I call the doctor's office.

Apparently, my daughter needs polypropylene long underwear for the rafting trip. This is not something I had on hand (or had time to run to the mall for), so we ended up using my sister-in-law's Amazon Prime account to get it here in two days.

We gave my husband a flying lesson for his recent birthday. But, finding a day when all three of us can take a few hours to drive up to New Hampshire and watch him fly a Cessna 172, take pictures (or, in my case, pray) was anything but clear skies.

Add to all this year-end activity the arrangements we still need to make to actually transport our little freshman and all her gear to her out-of-state university, and I think you can appreciate why I'm having trouble sleeping.

So, we had a family meeting, but it wasn't as peaceful or productive as the Bradys'. It required more than a little bullying on my part — before, during and after. We walked through the next nine weeks and took notes. I gave out some assignments (and ignored the eye-rolling). 

And, for a full five minutes after the meeting, I actually felt better. Even if things still slip through the cracks — and they will — I can smugly say, "See? That's why I wanted to have a family meeting."

At this point, I'll take what I can get.

Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Brady.
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.  

Reality Checks

I will always remember my daughter's first day of pre-school (and not just because her grandmother has a "Kodak moment" permanently displayed on the refrigerator). It was fifteen and a half years ago. My daughter was wearing an adorable red dress, lacy ankle socks and mary janes, a fuzzy jacket with a big felt dachshund on it. She had a new lunchbox and a new backpack. She was very pleased with herself. And, I was really keeping it together. 

Until I wasn't.

We went into her classroom with all the other parents and (really tiny) students. The teacher was warm and welcoming; the room filled with light, a reading area, a play kitchen, art supplies, lilliputian tables and chairs — and a row of cubbies and coat hooks with each child's name neatly printed and taped above.

That's when I lost it.

It was the first of many "reality checks." My daughter, this adorable little blond extension of myself, was going to school. Granted, homework and tests were still many years off. But, starting school, any sort of school, was a major milestone. My baby was growing up. She would someday, if not exactly soon, be grown up.

It didn't take much to make me weepy. 

Fast forward to the final three weeks of senior year. Milestone reality checks are practically daily events at this point. Happily, I've become quite expert at holding back the tears. (Good thing. I mean, sheesh, I embarrass my daughter enough without welling up every twenty minutes.) 

Nevertheless, I'm still reeling a bit.

Visiting colleges — last spring and this fall — may have been the start of it. But, those were planned events. There were tours to take, questions to ask. Big deals, certainly, but not the sudden, catch your breath, moments of truth I'm talking about.

For example, we went to Nordstrom Rack after an accepted student overnight in February. Halfway between "Designer Jeans" and "Outerwear," all 50% off btw, my daughter turned and casually mentioned "If I go there, I start six months from tomorrow."

Reality check!

It knocked the wind out of me.

After careful consideration, in about mid-April, my daughter committed to one of the schools that had accepted her. I sent them her registration deposit.

Reality check!

Then, more recently, they published next year's academic calendar. I wrote "Parents' Weekend" in my datebook, taking a few minutes to count just how many weeks there will be between that and "Drop Off For Freshman Orientation."

Reality check!

Now, Southwest has opened up reservations for November and December. I just booked my daughter's flights for Thanksgiving.

You guessed it. Reality check! 

In that simple act (completed online in maybe four minutes), I ensured that (a) she'll have tickets home and back and (b) we locked in the best fares. But, there's so much more to it than that. Think about it. If my daughter needs (and now has) tickets to fly home for Thanksgiving, that means she is actually going to be leaving me and living on a college campus some 700 miles from here for 98 days leading up to said great American holiday.

Whoa. 

At least, this Thanksgiving, I can count on having something to be thankful for. 

And, I'm going to try, really hard, not to cry.
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.      

Final Final Exam

Last night, my teenage daughter spread her work out all over our dining room table so she could study. This is nothing new. But, it makes it a little difficult for her father and me to watch anything since our tiny family room is not only adjacent, but connected by a pass-through in the wall between. 

This makes my husband frustrated, which is also nothing new.

I see his point. My daughter's bedroom is the largest one in the house, fully equipped with everything said young person might need. It has not one but two desks, arranged in an "L" to facilitate both homework and electronics usage. The surface of these desks is a lovely golden oak, but rarely visible thanks to piles of homework, textbooks, dressage tests, entry forms, concert tickets, photographs, catalogs and magazines. And there's the rub. Her desk might be more conducive to study if it weren't so conducive to every other thing. When she needs to clear her head, it's generally too late to clear the desk. 

Consequently, the dining room becomes her study hall.

As I said, I do see my husband's point. But, I support my daughter anyway, because I think studying trumps pretty much anything we might choose to watch. Last night, it was Mr. Selfridge on PBS. We kept the volume down and when one of our pre-show predictions came to pass, we silently fist-bumped rather than exclaim satisfaction out loud. Our proximity meant that any requested study aids were procured in rapid haste. Apparently, AP Bio goes down a lot easier with chocolate chips and "Popcorners" and orange soda.

AP Bio, which she is taking for four hours this morning, is my daughter's last exam. Her final final, if you will. All of her courses except AP Bio finished nearly three weeks ago. When she gets home midday, she is done, done, done.

Wow.

Chances are, she will never again study on our dining room table. Her dorm room, most likely; the campus library, probably ... but not our dining room table. And, that table has seen some action.

I can't count how many posterboards, dioramas, science fair and art projects have been carefully constructed there. Some stand out, like her biography of George Washington, a presentation on gypsum (that would be alabaster to you and me), a shadow box of Paul Revere's ride, and a model of ancient Greece's Erechtheion, complete with statues of goddesses made by spraying toga-clad Barbie dolls with Rust-Oleum American Accents Stone Spray.

She and I read Romeo and Juliet together there for freshman Honors English, switching parts scene-by-scene. That same year, we read Homer's epic poem The Odyssey. Longer (and less fun) than R&J, it was nevertheless time well spent and certainly helped her score a better grade from a notoriously difficult teacher. So that was a happy ending all around.

For the past four years, my daughter has taken over the dining room for virtually every mid-term and final, a handful of APs, SAT and ACT prep, and even her college application essays. It kept her focused and reassured me that she was actually hitting whatever books she needed to hit without being too distracted by incoming texts. On many recent nights, we've headed up to bed while she and her work remained downstairs.

But, like so many other things, large and small, these days ... her late night sessions are over.

Now, and for the foreseeable future, we have our dining room back. We can "Whoop!" and high-five and watch TV as loud as we want. And, I won't wake up in the morning to a table cluttered with sticky notes — or sticky snacks.

And no matter how melancholy I may be about the changes we go through, I can console myself with the fact that my daughter is off on a wonderful new adventure. In fact, those afternoons and evenings (and even wee-hour-in-the-mornings) paid off handsomely.

And that's another happy ending all around. 
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.   

Flying Solo Soon

This morning, my husband brought out new health insurance cards. His company has switched carriers — at a most inconvenient time, I might add. I had almost met my out-of-pocket deductible for physical therapy. Anyway, he handed me mine and I was about to take my daughter's as well. 

"I think she should carry her own in her wallet," my husband insisted. "What if she had a car accident?"

"If she has that kind of car accident, I'll kill her," I quipped.

"Well," he pointed out, "She's leaving for college soon."

There it is. She's leaving for college soon. Soon. Very soon. Too soon. Less-than-five-months-away soon.

A determined list-maker from an early age and throughout my life, I figure that focusing on "Things To Do" will help distract me from "Tears To Cry." 

Like so many other kids in our particular socioeconomic boat, my daughter has been maybe not "spoiled," but certainly coddled. She works (and works diligently), but she's never had to spend her own hard-earned money on food or shelter or clothing (except the occasional tour tee shirt at a concert). She doesn't have much in the way of chores either. 

One has to wonder who will straighten her bed, pick up after her, supply her with clean clothes and healthy snacks. 

No matter how much college tuition is (and, trust me, it's a lot), it doesn't come with maid service.

So, here is my first pass at a list of what my daughter needs to know (in other words, what I need to teach her) by mid-August:

1. How to do laundry 
2. How to change a tire 
3. How to budget her time
4. How to budget her money
5. How to deal with the opposite sex
6. How to proofread her own work
7. How to say "I'm sorry"
8. How to ask for help
9. How to share a room with another person
10. How to give everyone a chance
11. How to get out of a situation if she's uncomfortable
12. How to forgive and forget
13. How to tell if she's getting sick — and what to do about it
14. How to take responsibility
15. How to sew on a button
16. How to iron a shirt
17. How to go grocery shopping
18. How to read for pleasure
19. How to try new things

And, most important ...
 
20. How to be happy, genuinely happy

If she figures that one out, we can take our time with the rest.

If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.     
 

The Dance of the Seven Snooze Alarms

It's Saturday, which means that my teenage daughter and I get to sleep in an extra hour before we start our daily dance. 

That's not a poetic symbol (or even a euphemism) for life or anything. It truly feels like we're dancing.

I take three steps toward my partner; she either ignores me or spins around with an exasperated flourish. I retreat, gingerly stepping backwards, mindful of discarded clothes and schoolwork and empty snack bags that litter her carpet. But, I return minutes later to face the music again. This goes on for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty minutes — despite my best efforts and despite not one but two alarm clocks she's set to sound intermittently.

It's a sinister salsa, a terrifying tarantella. A dance to the death. 

And, to date, my daughter is winning. She rolls over, reaches out for the snooze alarm and — "Olé!" — we begin again.

Sometimes, when we're in between moves, I'll head down to the kitchen to cut some fruit or pack her lunch. I need to make coffee, feed the dog and get ready for my morning walk. Or I might have some overnight emails from clients or colleagues to review. Often, after my fourth or fifth trip up to the dance floor, I'll ask my husband to take a turn. 

"Nooooooo," I'll hear the child wail from the bed. "I'm soooo tired."

"This has to stop!" I'll hear her father say. 

Yeah, right.

It's not like I don't know what's going on here. My daughter is tired. She does have too much homework. She does spend too many hours at the stable on her horse. (She also spends too many hours on Netflix watching One Tree Hill. WTF?) And of course, there's all that texting she's expected to do. And Snapchat and Instagram and Vine and ... God knows what else. (God may know; I certainly don't.)

Plus, there's scientific (And therefore irrefutable, right? Unless you're the GOP. Wink, wink.) evidence that teenagers need more sleep — and at different times — than we grownups do. When my daughter argues that going to bed earlier won't help, she's actually half right.

So, here I am. One mother of a human alarm clock. We dance back and forth every morning, as we dance around the fact that we only have a few months of mornings left. I can't very well fly to Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island at 6:00 am each day once college starts in the fall.

Of course, she can take the route my freshman roommate (and so many other enterprising students) did back in 1980: only register for classes that begin after 10:00 am. But, that might limit what she studies.

Or, perhaps she'll rise to the occasion. She'll make her own bed. She'll do her own laundry. She'll read and study and write papers without my nagging. She'll dress appropriately for inclement weather. She'll take her vitamins. And, she'll get up on time.

I hope so.

But, I think I'll buy her another alarm clock. Just in case.


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

Yik Yak Talk-Back

As parents of teenagers, we hold these truths to be self-evident:

a. Our children are desperate to fit in, to be admired and popular

b. Our children have not developed what one might call "filters" 
c. Our children don't quite grasp the concept of "consequences" yet

None of this is really news. In fact, if you had gathered a group of moms and dads together in the 70s, back when I was a teen, they might have said the same thing. But add another, more contemporary observation:

d. Our children are addicted to technology — social media and cell phones, especially

Things get very interesting. Interesting and disturbing.

Enter a harmless little app called Yik Yak. Anonymous local posting. What could possibly go wrong?

Yik Yak was founded last fall by two fraternity brothers (why does this not surprise me?). Brooks Buffington and Tyler Droll (purportedly, those are their real names) developed it as a social hub "to enable people to be really connected with the people around you, even if you don't know them ... a hyper-local version of Twitter where people can use it to post information and everyone in the area can see it." 

Yik Yak was never meant to be used by high school students. In fact, you have to confirm that you're over 17 to log on. So there shouldn't be any problem, right? After all, identity verification is fool-proof on the web. 

And, teenagers would never lie.

Here's how Yik Yak promotes itself:

Yik Yak acts like a local bulletin board for your area by showing the most recent posts from other users around you. It allows anyone to connect and share information with others without having to know them.

News, funny experiences, shout outs, and jokes spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community.

Here's how I, as a mother (and a marketing copywriter) might edit this description in order to promote truth in advertising:

Yik Yak acts like a bathroom stall door, a public bulletin board where you can take a magic marker and write hateful and obscene things about your ex, your rivals and your enemies. It allows anyone to say anything about anyone, without having to face them in real life.

Insults, cruelty and bullying spread faster than ever through Yik Yak’s tight-knit community, which — since the app is free and delivered via the Internet — is pretty much everybody.

Sadly, given an opportunity to be mean, a lot of young people rise to the occasion. Fat-shaming, for example, is now easier and more effective than ever:

"Can someone tell whats-her-name that yoga pants are a privilege, not a right?"

The sad thing, though, is that in the world of Yik Yak, whats-her-name is, indeed, named. And what will she do later, after everyone at school has seen the anonymous post and weighed in on it (no pun intended)? Cry, purge, cut. Or something worse.

In its defense, the company has assisted high schools in blocking the app and even tracked down kids who break the law, like in the recent bomb threat we had here. (Guess what, people? Thanks to a little thing called your "IP address," anonymity online ain't a sure thing. Uh-oh.)

My daughter informs me that Yik Yak is already old news. Indeed, kids will move on to something else — fast — if they haven't already. It isn't the app itself that's the problem. There will always be a way to ostracize a peer if that's what someone wants to do. I know plenty of adults who judge others by how they look, what they wear, the kind of car they drive. Rather than ban a particular channel, we need to teach our kids compassion. 

And we need to do so by example. 

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

Do Over, Pls

Last week, I finally caught up with a dear friend of mine. Like me, she lives about 40 minutes outside of Boston. But, I live to the city's northeast; she lives out west. Do the math (and for good measure, add in husbands, full-time jobs, two dogs and three kids), and you can see why our get-togethers are less frequent than I'd like.

I had an assignment to write a movie review (Gloria, which I highly recommend) and as luck would have it, the film was playing at an art house close by my friend's. We met at her place first for a quick drink and snack. And to catch up.

Her oldest son is away at college. I remember meeting him at the hospital when he was less than two days old. I remember helping my friend make a tiny Superman (Superbaby?) costume for his first Halloween. I remember swimming with him at our club's kiddie pool. I remember his bar mitzvah. Most recently, I remember his high school graduation party.

How can he be in college? Weren't we just in college? 

Her younger son, in junior high now, is suddenly taller than she is. He's changed from an adorable little boy to a handsome young man. She told me, proudly, that he's getting all A's.

Meanwhile, my girlfriend was having the same "OMG, how can we be so old?" moments with regard to my daughter. She's tucked neatly between the two boys in age, and on more than one occasion they were coerced into attending her princess and mermaid and magic fairy birthday parties. (Good sports, both.)

While we reminisced (and kvetched about the stress of raising tweens and teens and suddenly adults), we agreed that all we wanted was a "do over."

Don't get me wrong; we've both done pretty well. Our kids are fairly successful, healthy, decent young people. No one's flunked out of school or been incarcerated. They still talk to us. Most of the time. We seem to have somehow covered all the big stuff.

No, what we were wishing for was another shot at all the little moments that flew by while we weren't paying enough attention. All the time we wasted commuting to work or running errands. "It goes by so fast," older wiser mothers warned us. They were right.

For posterity, and while they're fresh in my mind (heaven knows I'll be moving on to something "really urgent" any second), here are some of the do overs I would do over if I could:

• Our bath and bedtime routine  

• Walking with her snug in the Snugli

• Watching one of her (any of her) Elmo videos

• Playing with her Barbie and Kelly dolls 

• Going to see her in a dance recital 

All right, that last one was always fairly painful — three hours of other mother's girls, three minutes of mine. Still, I'd be there if I could. I'd grin and bear it if I could.

I'd do it over. If I could.

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

Caps and Gowns and Bygones

'Tis the season. 

No, not that one. 'Tis the season when proud mamas and papas post beaming photos of their offspring wearing caps and gowns and goofy grins. 

Graduation.

I have mixed feelings about it.

This year, our family attended the college graduation of the son of my closest friend from my own college days. (Got all that?) Then, I attended a high school graduation party for another dear friend's son. And, my daughter, who rides her horse with girls slightly older, attended some ceremonies and parties as well.

We have seen the future. And, I have mixed feelings.

On the one hand, we sat through the long and, unfortunately, freezing cold (June in New England) ceremony a few weeks ago. I was so envious, I could hardly breathe. This wonderful young man, who I have known since birth (hey, technically, I hung out with him before he even arrived) is my friend's second of three to graduate from a prestigious school. As his sort-of-almost-aunt, I was honored to be part of the celebration; we were all so proud of him. But, I couldn't help but covet my girlfriend's position just a little. Not because of his accomplishments (which were great; he starts med school next month), but because he was safely through the system. 

Heck, we're struggling to make it through freshman year in one piece! Finals and projects and essays ... oh my!

I felt the same way at the high school graduation party I attended a couple of weeks later. Here was another young man I had known all his life. In fact, in decorating for the party, his mom had put out dozens of snapshots, chronicling his childhood and high school years. One of the earliest was of his first Halloween when she and I made a Superbaby costume for him. The cape was a bright red hand towel with the familiar S logo applied in felt. Who knew he'd grow up so soon. Big and strong and handsome and brave enough to save the world — or, at least, Canada, where he'll be studying marine biology.

Both of my girlfriends could look at their sons and say to themselves: "I done good." I jump ahead three (and then four more) years, and I imagine what it will be like to see my daughter in her caps and gowns, and know that we got through it all together. Just thinking about it makes me teary. When the days finally arrive, I'll be a mess. Happy and proud, but a mess nonetheless. (Those two milestones, four years apart, can be my last chances to publicly humiliate my daughter.)

On the other hand, I look forward with dread. As much as I envy my friends' happiness right now, I pity them for what must surely feel like a huge loss. I know your baby is always your baby, but graduations are hard to argue with. Your baby is suddenly your grownup baby, and the passing of time is nothing if not bittersweet. Even if they come home again (as many do these days), it will never be the same.

Despite the late nights, the endless drama, the everyday aggravation that comes with mothering a teenage girl, I know I'm not ready to trade it in for a diploma and an empty nest. So not ready. It's hard to enjoy every minute when many of those minutes are filled with activity and stress (and sometimes, let's face it, downright angst). But graduation season reminds me that it all goes by way too fast.

So, "Congratulations, Graduates!" I knew you when. What wonderful accomplishments — yours and your parents'. 

But, I think I'll enjoy my undergraduate for a few more years while I can. 

Now, if we can just get through finals ...