A Few Final Thoughts on Finals

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.

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

The List

There are only two weeks left of Junior year! What a year it's been — and it's almost over. In fact, I'd be waving my arms and cheering and doing a Snoopy dance if it weren't for the fact that between my daughter and the happy day she walks out of the high school for a much-needed summer break are final exams, a huge research paper and a strange but elaborate role play exercise about college admissions.

So many milestones. Although my daughter earned her driver's license last year (talk about a Snoopy dance!), it wasn't until recent months that she was permitted to drive her friends anywhere. School, concerts, laser tag, the stable. Suffice it to say she has enjoyed that particular privilege enormously. We left her alone overnight for the first time. (Thanks to social media and a helpful other-mother, I was kept abreast of the goings on at our house. But, my daughter and I have agreed not to talk about that anymore.) She took SATs, ACTs, two APs (and a partridge in a pear tree). We toured a couple of colleges in earnest.

And, whether it was deliberate or not, for better or worse, I've stopped micromanaging her homework.

Every concerned mom I know has to balance how much she helps. We all draw the line at different places. Some well-meaning parents I know have ghost-written papers (and even college essays). On the other hand, in a handful of particularly stressful situations, I've had (non-parent) friends encourage me to "let her fail," asserting that it would teach her a lesson and build character. My instinct has always been somewhere in between. I'm happy to edit and proofread, but not to write. I'll quiz her on history or science facts even when I'm bleary-eyed with fatigue. I'll gladly contribute my time as well as money to posters and dioramas. I've been known to run out for glue sticks and markers or buy the Kindle version of a book many hours after the library's closed.

'Pains me to admit it, but it's in my nature to nag. Or maybe it's just one of those skills we magically acquire after fourteen hours of knee-buckling labor. At any rate, for the past several years, much of my daughter and my conversation together has gone something like this ...

Me: What's your homework like tonight?

Her: Meh.

Me: Do you have much?

Her: Some.

Me: Well, why don't you get started and I'll bring you a snack.

Her: K.

This is followed by more specific check-ins as the evening wears on.

Me: How's the math coming?

Me: Do you need me to proof that paper?

Me: Can I quiz you on your French?

Me: Have you started studying for Physics yet?

(I won't waste your time with her monosyllabic answers. I'm sure you can fill in those blanks yourself.)

Lately, I've nagged a lot less. I may be overtired (or simply "over it"). Or it may be that I've started to trust her. Either way, I think we're both relieved by my newfound lack of involvement.

The other day, I was cleaning up her room for her (another thing I've been nagging about less). I was straightening her desk which was absolutely covered. My job was to make piles that would look a little neater. But, be assured I know better than to throw anything away. What looks like scrap paper with scribbles could actually be the autographs of a  favorite band. A used Dunkin' Donuts cup might have sentimental value. The number she wore on her horse's bridle in a recent competition will be added to her collection of similar numbers from similar competitions.
 
Under the aforementioned treasures, I found a list that included every school deadline between now and the end of the year. It was organized as a calendar and color-coded by subject. At first, ever the queen of organization, I was proud of the effort, not to mention the magic markers, that went into this list. Then, my admiration turned to anxiety as I saw assignments I hadn't heard about before. Was she really going to have an eleven-page paper ready in two days? Had she started studying for pre-calc?

I stopped myself and took a deep breath. She's on top of it, I reminded myself. After all, she's made it this far.

And, just look how pretty her list is.

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

Headgear for Heading to London

I haven't posted for a while, but I have a really good excuse. I was out of the country.

(How I love saying that! As someone who didn't make it across the pond until I was 25, it has been a source of adult delight that I'm fortunate enough to visit other countries from time to time. And particularly wonderful that I'm able to take my teenage daughter.)

Two years ago, my daughter and I went to London for the amazing bat mitzvah of my best friend from high school's oldest daughter. Ten days ago, we headed back for the equally amazing (yet utterly different) bat mitzvah of the girl's younger sister.

Although the celebrations were unique, we experienced some distinct similarities. In both cases, we had only about 36 hours between the end of school and the start of our trip.

Can you say ... "Stress!"

It would have been bad enough to face two finals Wednesday prior to a flight on Thursday, right? Wrong. My daughter had to add a concert in Boston (One Republic with The Script — two of your favorites, right? Mine too. Not.) and a trip to the stable. There was no way she could actually fly across the Atlantic Ocean for two weeks without saying a sentimental good-bye to her trusty steed. In between all of her commitments, I needed to do laundry, wrap up some client projects, write an essay about the 4th of July, and pick up my sister who was coming in from New York to housesit.

"British Air, take me away!"

Everything was more or less under control, when I heard my daughter pull into our driveway. She immediately called up the stairs with what sounded like worry — no, it was more like panic — in her voice. She realized as she was walking into the house that she had grabbed another girl's riding helmet instead of her own. No big deal?

No. Big deal! Big, big deal.

After our bat mitzvah weekend in London, my daughter was scheduled to fly to Barcelona, where she would be riding with our friend (and recent exchange student) at one of Spain's premier dressage centers. There was no way she was going without a helmet and, sadly, there was no way she could simply borrow the one she had inadvertently borrowed. It didn't fit.

Of course, my daughter needed a shower and hadn't even begun to pack. And, we were getting precariously close to our departure time. So, ever the quick-thinker, I put my sister in charge of the duffel bag and drove to the stable myself with the purloined helmet in hand. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back. (Sixty minutes total that I really didn't have.) Crisis averted.

I'd warned my sister that they needed to work efficiently, but also think through everything carefully. My daughter's agenda included four dress-up bat mitzvah events (two nice dinners, services, and a wild party at a Camden Town club, complete with DJs, dancing girls, smoke machines and lasers), comfortable shorts and tops for sightseeing, riding clothes and gear, and beachwear. (We've had some packing issues in the past. Too many of this, too few of that. Most recently, it was an ensemble for an evening at the theatre: heels, a dressy top and trendy belt all meant to go with a particular skirt that somehow hadn't made it into the suitcase.)

But, I was pleasantly surprised. I arrived home (expecting chaos) and found a number of well-organized piles ready for inspection. Everything fit (including two tubs of frozen cookie dough for our Spanish friend — don't ask) and we weren't even over our weight limit. Within the hour, our driver arrived and we headed to Logan airport. 

We had somehow pulled it off (yet again). 

Or so we thought ...

Next post: "Footwear Follies" or "The Battle of the Boots."

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

Sophomore Slide

Only seven days, two hours and thirty-eight minutes left (not including Saturday and Sunday), and my teenage daughter will be released from the bondage known as sophomore year. She would be completely elated — if she weren't so completely overcommitted and downright exhausted.

In the next week and change, she has regular old homework, a major paper due and five final exams. She also has two different part-time jobs and a concert. Plus, she has to pack for a vacation that starts the day after school ends.

And, last but by no means least, she has The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. You know ...


"Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink."

Always looking for a soapbox, I will (once again) protest the utter absence of women authors — or in this case, even women characters — on the Honors English reading list.

Back to the topic at hand; the end of sophomore year. I feel sorry for my daughter; I really do. But, this is not the time to give in to sympathy. Rather, I must remain ever vigilant, honing my maternal nagging skills (which are quite accomplished already) to their very sharpest. My daughter has worked so hard and done so well for so long. This is the last gasp, the grand finale, the final quarter, the ninth inning.

Enough with the metaphors, mixed or otherwise. I think you get the picture.

The thing is, in her head, she knows there's more to do. But, in her heart, she is done. D. O. N. E. Done, done, done. And so are all her classmates. Besides a challenging curriculum, they've had to deal with school board politics, new rules from a new administration, bomb threats, dress codes, and their first taste of standardized tests. 

All in all, sophomore year has been a suckfest. And now?

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

As if my poor daughter needed another albatross around her neck.

Friends of mine advise me to leave her to her own devices. After all, she's done well so far, right? If she did crash and burn, it would be a good learning experience. Blah blah blah.
These friends fall into two categories: childless and multichild. The first don't understand the pressure. And the second gave up a while ago.

We are all so stressed out about grades, transcripts, college admissions. We know better, but we still fall prey to the anxiety, the all-or-nothing sense of pending doom. In just the last week, I've heard two different cautionary tales about promising kids who didn't get in to any of the schools they applied to because of one lousy grade or one botched exam. 

Meanwhile, my daughter's doing her own math. I got a text last week (midday, from school — don't get me started) that read:

I know this is bad but hear me out, if i get a 50% on my chem final i will still have an A- for my final average in chem and thats all colleges see

How to respond to that? At first, skimming as I multitasked, I thought she was telling me that she got a 50% on a test she had already taken. (I almost had a heart attack.) Once I understood, I was impressed by her math and by her  proactive calculations. At the same time, I was distressed by her lack of drive (and non-pursuit of excellence). I know she's not as concerned (obsessed, okay, the word is obsessed) about good grades as I was. But, seriously.

After all, what did she expect me to say? "Good job, girl! Go for that 50% then!"

Sorry. I'm trying not to nag. But, that ain't never gonna happen.

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

And She's Gone Again

I'm not a sleeper. Never have been. Oh, I can fall asleep all right (usually, unfortunately, in the middle of a book I'm trying to finish). But, the wee hours of the morning invariably find me tossing and turning. 

It's about stress. 

These days, my "to do" list is so long that I'm convinced it slinks down the stairs from my third-floor office like a poisonous snake, insinuates itself under my bedroom door, climbs up the bedpost, wraps itself around my neck and ... voilà. Sleep no more.

When I do find myself suddenly awake at 4 am, the first thing I do is head to my teenage daughter's room. (Well, actually, the very first thing I do is try to go back to sleep. Without success.) I tiptoe over to her bed and watch her breathe for a minute. Very Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, I know, I know. But, it's my little ritual and it gives me a bit of relief. With my daughter deep in the sleep of the just and innocent, I can check off one worry.

This morning, I waited until the respectable hour of 4:45 before I gave up and got up. But, there was no reason to look in on my daughter.

She's gone again.

Yesterday, we dropped her off at a horsemanship clinic in Vermont. Her boyfriend (all 950 equine pounds of him) had been trailered up a couple of days before. Their reunion was particularly joyous — think Ashley Wilkes returning to his wife Melanie after the Civil War. The equestrian center hosting the clinic is nestled into the most gorgeous countryside, with hills and brooks and woods and layers and layers of green. My daughter was most definitely in her element and all was right with the world. I couldn't help but be thrilled for her. I also couldn't help but wonder how we pulled it off. Again.

After the last week, it was practically a miracle that we did. Let's see ...

We had five snow days to make up this year, which meant that the week we should have had between school and leaving for Vermont was compressed into one day. Laundry, last-minute shopping, packing (not just my daughter's clothes and gear, but about 500 pounds of equipment or "tack" — and I'm not even slightly exaggerating).

Along with everything we needed to do to prepare for the clinic, my daughter had to take seven 90-minute final exams in four days: World Cultures, French, Biology, Geometry, Theatre Arts, Health Ed, and English. Oh my.

And, the horse had to get a haircut. Really. (BTW, I need a haircut too. But, did I get one? Nooooooooo.)

On Friday, my daughter went to the stable (where, I have no doubt, there were some melancholy moments as she gazed at the now empty stall) to organize and pack up all of her tack. She texted me from my husband's car:

We need borrow someones car.... The bmw is stuffed to capcity with all my stuff, no room for 3 people in the car and my duffel isnt in it (sic)

Great. Needless to say, my husband's aging BMW is our largest vehicle. My sister-in-law graciously offered her Jeep SUV ... with the caveat that one of her tires had a slow leak that she hadn't had a chance to repair yet. Thank goodness my husband is mechanically minded. (Thank goodness we have a portable electric tire pump.)

Early the next morning we were on the road. We stopped several times: tire pressure check, coffee, tire pressure check, restrooms, tire pressure check. We realized that my daughter forgot to bring a (required) watch and blew in and out of Target in Hooksett, NH just as they were opening. While we were there, we ... you guessed it ... checked the tire pressure.

One final costly inconvenience (I won't get into it, but do yourself a favor, don't drive over 25 mph in Woodstock, VT; although the police officers are very polite) and we arrived. Phew!

Despite the drama, we still had a little bit of crazy to deal with. Turns out, my daughter didn't need a hanging saddle rack (which we own and brought); she needed a folding saddle rack (which we neither own nor brought). Also, apparently, her paddock boots had pretty much busted at the seams. Sometimes, there's a limit to what you can do with duct tape. 

This time, fate was on our side. When we checked in, I had seen a sign for a "Huge Equine Yard Sale" a couple of miles down the road. I figured the odds were slim, but it couldn't hurt. A quick drive and $15 later, we were the proud owners of the appropriate saddle rack. Similarly, there was a tack shop in an antique barn adjacent to the equestrian center. They had my daughter's exact boots (a half-size too big, but she can wear an extra pair of socks). 

Done. And done. (I'm so done! And you wonder why I can't sleep?) Sometimes I have to question if it's all worth it.

A quick "good-bye" and we were on our way, without the gear, without the duffel, without our daughter. I miss her already. We'll head back to Vermont next weekend for a three-phase event (dressage, stadium jumping, cross-country). Two days later, we'll bring her home.

There's no cell service at the equestrian center where my daughter will spend 10 hours a day for the next 10 days. But, the house where she and 15 of the other girls are staying has WiFi. I received a text just as I was pulling into my driveway:

Thank you for everything mom < 3 i love you

Yeah, it's worth it.

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 ...

One Day of Summer

For a New England town, we had an unusually snow-free winter last year. It was a good thing because my teenage daughter and I had tickets to fly to London for an important bat mitzvah. With even one snow day to make up, we would have been caught between a rock and Big Ben. But, it all worked out. My daughter graduated from middle school and within hours it seemed we were headed across the pond.

Thank you, Mother Nature.

This year, we made up for it. Snow, snow, snow ... and, for good measure, more snow. In Massachusetts, there are a minimum number of days that each public school has to hit. So, the school year has been extended an extra week.

This does not make for happy teenagers. (Or happy mothers, for that matter.)

We have one day between my daughter's last (and most dreaded) final exam ("Compare your freshman year to the hero's journey in Homer's Odyssey" — say, what?) and the start of her Horsemanship Clinic up in Vermont. One day. Un día. We're cutting it so close, in fact, that the equine is being shipped up a couple of days before us, because the humans will be leaving at dawn the day the program starts.

Now, you may be thinking "What's the big deal. You have a whole day to chillax." Mais, non. We have one day, a mere 24 hours, to shop for and pack up everything my daughter needs and everything that her pony needs. (Really. You should see the list. Fly spray and a dandy brush and epsom salts and an animal rectal thermometer. Who knew?)

And the thing that will take the longest will be cleaning her room. As much as it pains me to admit it, I've been losing the battle of wills surrounding my daughter's bedroom for some time. Now, as freshman finals loom, I've surrendered completely. But, we will have to attack it together on our single day of summer. We simply have to.

First of all, half the crap — er, I mean, stuff — that she'll need for her trip to the "Green Mountain State" is probably buried under the piles of textbooks, homework, dirty laundry and empty Sun Chips bags that currently cover her carpet. "I need socks," she whines. "I need shorts." I am positively positive that said items (and so much more) are in there somewhere.

Second, if she does indeed leave without tidying up, I'll be too tempted to do so myself. Sure, I'll try the close-the-door-and-pretend-it-isn't-there trick. But, I won't be able to stand it for very long. Soon, I'll be on my knees, digging through a semester's worth of junk. And, I'll make some judgment calls about what's too small, too old, too torn. Bulging bundles will go off to the local thrift shop and I'll feel so self-righteous. Until my daughter comes home. 

Then there will be all measure of teen hell to pay.

No, it's better if we tackle it together. So what if the weather turns out to be perfect? So what if we live near the beach and have access to a pool and a boat and numerous ice cream shops? I'll think of it as bonding time, a few precious hours (okay, maybe more than a few) of togetherness before my little girl leaves us.

But, I'm not going to share this idea with my daughter. She'll be in a bad enough mood without it.

9th Grade's 9th Inning

Typically, my daughter and I see eye-to-eye on ... well ... nothing. (If this is a surprise, gentle reader, you haven't been paying attention over the last two years.) But today, we are in perfect agreement. We are simpatico. We are like-mother-like-daughter.

Right now, we feel the same way. We cannot wait — I mean, cannot wait — for school to end.

What a roller coaster it's been! Everyone warned us that the transition to high school would have its ups and downs (more downs than ups from where I was standing). Some of it was natural, some couldn't be avoided. But, some of the trauma did seem a little unnecessary. I believe there's a difference between being a tough teacher and being a jerk. 

Students are encouraged to self-advocate, but then they can't find the faculty member they need to talk to. Or, said faculty member has to leave and can only spend thirty seconds reviewing the paper that it took the student thirty hours to write. Or, a serious, legitimate, external situation makes a student two minutes late for practice and the instructor (exhausted no doubt from years of half-assed excuses) won't even listen to an explanation? C'mon.

In fairness, most of my daughter's teachers — this year and every year we've lived in this town — seem tremendously dedicated to their work. And, I'm a huge fan (always have been) of educators in general. That's one reason that running into such unreasonable expectations — and unnecessary drama — disturbs me so much. I want my daughter to respect and admire and, whenever possible, genuinely like her teachers. It's hard when Mr. XYZ assigns forty-five pages of epic poetry reading and an essay on the same night that Mrs. ABC expects her to memorize the names and dates of every Chinese dynasty. Or when forgetting to bring in a textbook takes 10 points off a good grade that was hard-won over multiple months.

And, guess which experiences will be remembered and become synonymous with freshman year? Not ones with the majority of teachers who were fair and reasonable but those with the minority who made things difficult.

In today's high-pressure high schools, it doesn't take much to throw things off balance. And, I'm not just talking about academics. Athletics and other after school programs can be just as bad. It's as though every teacher, every coach believes that their subject or sport or instrument is the only thing that matters.

Ten months is a long time for a fifteen year old to try his or her best — especially when it feels like there are odds against them. No wonder all our freshmen (and their parents) are exhausted.

"I'm so over it," my daughter announces at dinner.

I want to say, "Oy vey, can I relate!" But no, immediately I have to become big bad mom cop. "You can't be over it yet," I remind her. "You still have papers, you still have projects, and all of your finals. You don't want to undo all your hard work, do you?" This makes me a very popular mother. Not.

Nevertheless, we are pushing through. For the next three weeks, we have some new rules around here:

1. Unlimited snacks and soda ... as long as they are being used as study aids.

2. Bed-making and clothes-picking-upping have been temporarily suspended.

And, most important ...

3. Everyone on the team is expected to pitch in. Printing, proofreading, quizzing from notes or index cards. (Anything short of actual ghostwriting and plagiarism are encouraged.)

Yes, we are in the home stretch now and I don't know which one of us will be happier to see that last day of school. It would be a lively debate.

But, one that can definitely wait until July.