Gifts For The Grad

According to Time magazine, Americans spend almost $5 billion on graduation gifts every year. Yes, that's a "b."

Whoa.

I suddenly don't feel so bad about the shopping list I'm carrying around. Graduation is ten days away, and we're invited to a small handful of parties. My own soon-to-be grad declined a party of her own, but we've found a very special  — perfect, actually — gift for her. 

(Sorry, I can't go into it here ... it's a surprise. But, I'll post a picture after the big day.)

For those of you still looking, here are half a dozen Hollywood-inspired graduation gift ideas.

My Beautiful Laundrette
Choose a cute clothes hamper or laundry bag, then fill it with detergent pods, stain stick, fabric softener, a roll of quarters, and a copy of Linda Cobb's Talking Dirty Laundry with the Queen of Clean.

Million Dollar Baby
Time estimates that cash accounts for 58% of the $5 billion spent. Money is practical — and appreciated — and it doesn't have to be boring. Slip it in a CD jewel case with a favorite disc or, if you're crafty, make an origami money menagerie.

House of Cards
Here's a nice way to make the money idea a little less mercenary. Contact the college your graduate will be going to and order an ID holder. Then, fill it with handy gift cards for online or local retailers: Amazon, Target, Starbucks.

Splash
A cozy fleece blanket is a great idea for studying on chilly nights. But, even cooler is a cozy fleece blanket that doubles as a mermaid tail! (I wish I'd found these when my daughter was three years old.) You can see and/or order one here.

Chocolat
Send them something sweet every four weeks. Sign them up for a 3-, 6- or 12-month Chocolate-of-the-Month subscription. (Some freshmen might prefer a more alcoholic version of this gift, but we really don't want to encourage that, do we?)

Home for the Holidays
This is a good idea if you're concerned your daughter may experience a little homesickness. Find a nice luggage set (something that nests is probably a good idea for storage), and attach a roundtrip ticket for Thanksgiving.

The best thing about this last idea is that it's a gift for the mom as well as the grad. And super useful too. After all, Thanksgiving will be here very soon.

But, not soon enough for me.
 
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.   

(No) Control Freak

This morning, I brought a small bowl of apple slices to my teenage daughter's bedroom. The light was already on, so I assumed she was up. 

Not! 'Turns out her father had turned on the light because he was looking for an iPhone power cord that had mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen.

"Mo-o-om," she groaned from beneath her covers, "Please go away. I have an alarm."

Her voice had an odd mix of civility and exasperation. I slunk out of the room, but not without reflecting on the injustice of it all.

Having an alarm is nothing new. In fact, my daughter has two different alarm clocks — one beside the bed and another strategically located across the room on her desk — plus her smartphone. This has never invalidated the need for parental intervention. In fact, on a typical morning, we hear alarm after alarm after alarm go off long before we see said offspring. In fact, there is serious doubt that we would ever see her if one or the other of us didn't go in and beg, plead, cajole, insist, verbally drag her out of bed.

And all the while, we are getting closer to the time she needs to leave or be late.

Yes, she's eighteen (I guess), so technically (I guess) she's an adult (I guess). But, she's living under my roof, right? 

Hmmm. Doesn't that sound like a 1960s television series? 

It's not so much about "My house, my rules." (Okay, it is a little bit about that.) It's more a genuine concern for her welfare. What was the point of years of school and studying and science projects and bio tests and research papers and all that literature by dead white guys if she's going to mar her nearly perfect attendance record by a rash of final stretch tardiness?

The truth is, we have so little control anymore. Did I say "So little?" Sorry about that. The word I was looking for was actually "No." We have no control.

Here is a (woefully partial) list of all the things I used to have control over, but no longer do:

What she wears
What her hair looks like 
Whether she takes a shower (and whether she stays in 45 minutes once she does)
Where she goes
Who she hangs out with
When she does her homework
When she's on her computer
When she's on her mobile phone
Whether she makes her bed
What time she goes to bed
What time she gets up (this is where we started)
What she watches
What she eats
Whether she takes a vitamin
What she reads
Whether she reads 
Who she listens to

And these are broad categories; within each are myriad decisions I used to make for her. For example, when she was turning two years old, her wonderful pediatrician advised me that I couldn't control what she ate. I could only control what I put in front of her. So, each morning, I'd artfully arrange a plate with fresh fruit, a hard-boiled egg, a mini bagel, a piece of cheese. She would graze to her heart's content and I would smugly congratulate myself on my tremendous parenting skills.

These days, if I were to put such a varied and nutritious breakfast in front of her, the result would be rather different. She would look at me like I had two heads, then grab a chocolate chip cookie dough Zone bar (yes, such things do exist) and head out. Case closed.

I know I can be a control freak, and not just where my daughter is concerned. I like things "just so." Having a child is an act of courage and faith, and it can involve a lot of messiness. Not just unmade beds and cluttered carpets either. Having a child, especially one who is no longer a child, is incredibly messy business. Emotionally messy business.

But, true to Type A, overachieving form, I still give it my all. I remind her that next year, I won't be around to do her laundry, make her bed, or get her up in the morning. She doesn't seem particularly worried about it.

I guess the person I need to remind is me.

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

 

Miss Match

Today, in addition to closing a new piece of business, participating in a conference call about a client's website, writing and editing (and editing and editing) advertising copy, and working on a big proposal, I did laundry.

I know, I know. You're thinking, 'Wow, what a glamorous life she leads.' Admit it.

One of the great things about running an agency from a home office is that you can multitask. 

So, there I am, brainstorming headlines for an ad campaign and sorting the whites. It had been a few weeks (in this house, the colored hamper fills up much quicker), so I had eighteen or twenty pairs of athletic socks. They are identical except for the Nike logo at the ankle; the familiar swoosh is in three different colors: hot pink, turquoise and black.

As I was grouping them together, it occurred to me that this was a fairly unnecessary task. As I mentioned, the socks are exactly the same, fit the same, feel the same. When I walk or go to the gym, you can't see the logos because I wear long yoga pants. So no one would know if they were mismatched, right?

Wrong. I would know.

That's me, I am a rule follower. Always have been. Always will be. In fact, one of the things that really intrigued me when I started dating my now husband was his disregard for any rules that precluded him from having fun. The first, last and only time I ever played hooky from work was with him. I called in sick on a Friday morning, but was really already en route to Montreal for the weekend. It was exhilarating and liberating and terrifying. I never did it again.

At any rate, I'm sure I would feel the same way if I wore odd socks to Zumba.

One of my favorite instructors, interestingly enough, always has mismatched socks. She laughs about it, shrugging. Her life, with multiple teaching gigs and multiple kids, is just too hectic. 

My daughter, on the other hand, decided a few years ago that mismatched socks would be one of her (many) signature looks. It wasn't that she was busy or lazy, she actually thought it was cool. She's partial to colorful ankle socks, and particularly likes to wear two different holiday themes (say, Jack o' Lanterns on the right, Santas on the left) when the holidays themselves are months away. 

I used to sort her socks, taking the time to match each one to its mate (tracking down all the missing ones too), then rolling the clean pairs into neat little balls. These would be placed gently in her sock drawer, the drawer that she would later turn upside down and inside out, undoing the rolled sock pairs to find the perfect odd couple. I finally gave up.

So, I wonder if anyone has conducted a research study to align different personality types with their approach to matched or mismatched footwear. How do I, my instructor and my daughter differ in our approach to life, the universe and other items of clothing? And, is there a chicken-or-egg element to this? Do my socks match because I'm a rigid rule follower? Or am I a rigid rule follower because my socks match?

Can we ever really change who we are inside?

If I just threw all my socks in a basket and randomly pulled out any two each day, would I be more relaxed?

Hell, no. I'd be stressed out because my socks wouldn't match.

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