It's So Alarming

School's out and you might think our morning routine would be a little less stressful. 

Mais non, mes amis. 

We still go through the same dance of the alarms. Just an hour or so later. 

I'm one of those people who doesn't really need an alarm clock. Generally, I'm awake several minutes (or, in times of stress, several hours) before any alarm goes off. I've always been a morning person, relishing the quiet hours before the rest of the world wakes, enjoying long walks or quiet time to write or read.

My teenage daughter? Not so much.

This past week was the first real week of summer, as in no more classes, no more final exams. My daughter has a job at the stable where she trains and boards her horse; she's one of the counselors of the daycamp they run for junior riders. She also takes care of one of these eager young equestriennes before and after camp hours. She has to be at the stable by 8:30, which means she needs to leave our house by 8:00.

Her first alarm goes off at 7:00. If I'm near the door to her room, I can hear the incessant beeping, followed after several minutes by some moans, tired feet shuffling across the carpet and a determined click. The next alarm goes off at 7:20 and she repeats the process. A different alarm clock closer to her bed goes off at 7:30. At this point, she leans over and hits the snooze button affording herself another ten minutes.

And, if you've been doing the math (as I do each day), you can see that we're tempting trouble as the time passes. She insists that it only takes fifteen minutes to get dressed, wolf down some fruit and a muffin, and get out of the house. (I've already made her lunch and packed a cooler with bottled water — after all, I've been up listening to alarms for quite some time by now.) To her credit, her daily beauty routine is spare and efficient and, in theory, she could be on her way that quickly. The trouble is there's always something she has to check or forgot to do.

Like her cell phone. Apparently major world events happen every night between the time she shuts off Netflix episodes of The Office or Dance Moms and the time she finally succumbs to the cacophony of alarm clocks. She has to catch up on Facebook posts, Snapchats, Tumblr and tweets.

Meanwhile, her laptop is either streaming music or uploading videos or streaming music and uploading videos. It also takes an extra few minutes to find whatever she's planning to wear under the piles of clothing that she isn't planning to wear.

I've learned my lesson over the years, and I try to stay clear of her through all of this. A few minutes before 8:00, I can't help myself. I yell up the stairs — in as friendly a voice as I can muster — with a reminder that she needs to leave. "I KNOW!" she typically yells back, frustrated that (a) I'm nagging her, (b) I'm right, and (c) I exist.

As she rushes through the kitchen, toward one of the cars parked out back, I tell her to have a good day, drive safe and text me when she gets there.

Her irritation is palpable.

And, with my offspring finally off, I can start my own day. 

Just a little later than I might have liked. 

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

Counting Unanticipated Blessings

2015. As John Lennon said, "Another year over and a new one just begun." We celebrated Christmas at home, then a few days later went to New York for New Year's. As usual by early January, I was putting away all our decorations (three trees, countless ornaments), putting together a new datebook, making earnest (if, soon to be short-lived) resolutions, and nagging.

Yes, in the last few years, nagging has become part of my holiday ritual. As certain as egg nog and sugar cookies — but a lot less fun.

My teenage daughter, now a junior at the local high school, had a tremendous amount of homework over the winter break. Do I think she deserves to relax, veg out, watch Dance Moms if she wants to? Of course. Do I get anxious when I see her relaxing, vegging out, watching Dance Moms?

Of course.

Two weeks off seems like a long time when it starts. Especially when you're seventeen. The problem is I'm a little older and I know how fast those two weeks will really go. How soon it will all start up again with reading due, papers to turn in, tests to take ... all on the very first day back.

Where was my daughter after midnight last night? Not in bed asleep. By then, even she was asking "Where did those two weeks go?"

Of course, I'm always thinking about how time is flying. And, I'm not just referring to holiday vacations. It seems like yesterday (or at least last week) that my daughter was in preschool, elementary school, middle school. Her grades were great — with surprisingly little effort. (In hindsight, very very very little effort.) Her attitude was ... well, it wasn't what I now call an "attitude." She was cheerful, optimistic. She liked her classes; she liked her teachers. School wasn't the "big bad" it is today.

And, my daughter is by no means alone. Years ago, I would chat with other mothers outside while we waited for the kids to be dismissed. We were optimistic then too. Our daughters were smart and funny and talented and kind. They would continue to be that way forever.

Now we all sit around shell-shocked, drinking wine (or coffee, depending on the daypart) and commiserating. Every kid I know "hates" school.

All of this negativity about school is new and alien to me. I loved school. I loved schoolwork. I loved getting good grades on tests and papers.

Let's face it, I was a nerd!

Actually, I was a nerd in a sea of nerds, an entire building filled with bookish girls and boys just like me, a test school in New York City where being smart meant a lot more than being prom queen.

My daughter isn't me.

Of course, she's not an aspiring prom queen either. Thank goodness I'm not dealing with that level of vacuousness. My daughter's serious. She's not very serious about her school work (unless we're talking "seriously bored" or "seriously unhappy"), but she is very serious about her horse, riding, training, competing and teaching. 

Being less of an athlete myself (my best bet would have been joining the Mathletes in Mean Girls), I am in awe all the time as I watch her control a thousand-pound animal, whether she's jumping fences, negotiating water obstacles or doing the precision dance of dressage.

If she spent half the time studying that she does training, she'd be valedictorian. Blah blah blah.

But, she wouldn't be happy.

She has other skills, of course. Lately she's demonstrated an aptitude for games on her phone (Trivia Crack is a current favorite) and for "multitasking," which also demonstrates her talent for euphemisms, since the term seems to be synonymous with procrastination when there's homework to be done.

Still, she manages to get by and to do reasonably well. Would I like her to be as grade-obsessed as I once was? Yes! Yes, by all means. But, would I be willing to trade her courage in the ring, her strength, her knowledge, dedication and the skills she's developed for it? Tempting. Very tempting, but no.

My daughter will succeed on her terms, not mine.

Now, if she'd only turn off Dance Moms.

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

It's Not My Fault ... Really

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.  

Snow Day

The little town we live in prides itself on being rough and ready. Nearly 250 years ago, our fishermen not only fought the British for independence, but they were the ones who rowed General Washington across the frigid Delaware, effectively changing the course of the American Revolution. 

Historically, this is not a town that's afraid of a little weather.

Talk to my husband or anyone from his generation, and they'll tell you that in the 1960s and 70s, "snow days" were virtually unheard of. Kids were made of tougher mettle. They trudged through blizzards to get to school, uphill, both ways. Yada yada yada.

Well, not so much anymore, I guess.

These days, our district (like all the towns around us) seems very quick to cancel school. Granted, we've had some extreme weather this winter. And, there are probably cost and liability issues. But, it seems like some of the cancellations we've had were unnecessary.

The night before a potential snow day, my daughter and her friends use all of the social media at their disposal to buzz about it. They text and tweet and tumble and twitter. They check the school district website incessantly and tune in to the WBZ Storm Center to watch the crawl of schools that have already announced their plans. In some tribute to its hardy past, perhaps, our town is typically the last in the area to make the call. The high school students rejoice. And then the phone calls start.

Our automated system accommodates multiple numbers for each family. First the home phone rings, then my office phone upstairs, then my husband's mobile, then mine. And while I may complain that the district is a little too quick sometimes, it's even worse when they wait until the last minute.

This week, the phones rang at 5:00 a.m. Say what?

Thanks so much for the wake-up calls. NOT!

When my daughter was little, a snow day was a special treat. At that point, I was still working for an ad agency in Boston, an hour's commute away. No school meant that I would be "WFH," working from home. (These days, with my office on the third floor of our house, that little acronym has lost its allure.) We would bake cookies, do art projects, play games, maybe pop some corn and watch a movie. 

Now? Well ... first of all, my daughter, like teenagers everywhere, never seems to get enough sleep. So, as soon as the snow day was officially called, my husband snuck in and turned off her alarms. Both of them. When she finally did appear a few hours later, a little bleary-eyed in her flannel "Phineas & Ferb" pajama pants, she curled up on the couch with her phone. And that's pretty much where she stayed.

Let's see. She watched several episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" on Netflix. Then, she switched over to syndicated reruns of "Dance Moms." (I can't really criticize this; it's a guilty pleasure of mine too.) She was bored, but not bored enough to get up. Any suggestions I made ("Clean your room," "Read a book") were met with lackluster eye rolls. When I bothered to observe aloud that maybe, compared to long boring hours on the couch, there was something to be said for going to school, she looked at me with an expression bordering on the pity one might feel for the mentally deficient. I left her alone.

Despite my best efforts — I recently bought some SAT prep flash cards on Amazon — I'm no Tiger Mother. If I were, my daughter could have used the snow day to practice her violin. Or study calculus. Or read Proust. In French. 

Instead, we used the snow day to prove the second half of the theory of inertia:

A body at rest remains ... a body at rest.

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

Your Money at Work

We went through three years of dance school and, consequently, three years of dance recitals. Yes, like loving mothers everywhere, I had the ubiquitous photos on the fridge. (I think we still have at least one of them there: our little angel tarted up in feathers and lamé looking like nothing so much as a toddler in a tiara.) 

My very first round as a dance mom, I attended the dress rehearsal. My now teenage daughter was five, and her group was supposed to be fairies. They wore green and pink stretchy velvet dresses, flower wreaths and gauzy wings (the costumes were sluttier in subsequent years; these were actually pretty sweet). The choreography included flitting about and tumbling. Their fifteen minutes of fame was compressed into about three.

Another mother sitting behind me in the auditorium tapped me on the shoulder. "Your money at work," she said, gesturing to the stage.

These days, dance school is but a distant sequined memory. Our daughter is all about the horses and the entire household must follow suit. For three years, she attended equestrian camps ("your money at work"). This year, she went away to a renowned horsemanship clinic in Vermont. It was only ten days but there was much expense entailed: trailering the pony up and back, the program fees, new equipment, room and board with a host family, a weekend at a B&B for my husband and me at the end.

We dropped her off the last Saturday in June. As always when my daughter is away, I missed her terribly. But, the week went by pretty quickly with work and the 4th of July. Before we knew it, we were driving back up. We visited the facility on Saturday for a three-phase event (dressage, stadium jumping, cross-country), did some sightseeing Sunday, and Monday, picked her up and brought her home.

Since cell phone service was sketchy at best (and my daughter had more fun things to do than call us when it did work), we had a lot of catching up to do. Here's a quick rundown of her experience:

• 1 sixth place ribbon

• 2 intensive riding lessons each day
• 6 hours of barn chores each day

• 3 demerits for not cleaning her saddle well enough

• 1 rope swing into the Ottauquechee river
• 7 nighttime bike rides (without a helmet)
• 5 new BFFs
• 4 chicken caesar wraps
• 2 sunburns
• 10 mosquito bites
• 1 spider bite (we think)
• .5 showers per day (don't ask)
• 0 letters home
• 13 horse-crazy roommates
• 56 ounces of Starburst candies

"Your money at work."

The equine experience of a lifetime? I have no idea what we spent, but suffice it to say, it was not inconsequential.

Having my daughter home again, happy and in one piece? Priceless.