Maybe it's my theatrical background. I'm big on celebrating milestones, on recognizing days of import, on marking anniversaries and occasions with ritual and sometimes rewards. Just ask my teenage daughter. I've choreographed countless traditions for our family. We get up before dawn on her birthday every year to watch the sunrise together from a nearby waterside park. We always listen to Patrick Stewart's A Christmas Carol when we drive to New York for the holidays. We always stop at Big Al's infamous odd lot store on our way home from Maine. When she was younger, we celebrated each last day of school with a mother-daughter field trip into Boston for the aquarium and lunch in the North End.
Junior year midterms ended today. This is a big deal. The preparation was grueling, the exams tough. This teacher didn't provide a study guide. That one changed the rules halfway through. Another had the nerve to test the class on subjects that hadn't been taught yet. Worst of all, they were expected to read French and write French and speak French for the Honors French exam. Sacre bleu! I mean, what did Madame think they were taking? French or something? I mean, this is A-mer-i-ca. We speak Eng-lish.
(Ce que le baiser?)
The days prior to the mid-terms included all manner of technology-assisted cramming. The students took "quizlets" and watched short videos that unraveled the mysteries of Physics and Pre-Calc. Texts flew back and forth at lightning speed. "I heard this won't be on the test." "I heard that will." "My older sister's boyfriend's friend's younger brother said that the essay counts for 60% of the grade."
Oy vey.
All in all, it's been a very stressful couple of weeks of an über-stressful year. And now, at last, it's over. My daughter wholeheartedly agrees that it warrants recognition and rewards. She just doesn't want me along for the ride.
To celebrate the end of midterms, my daughter is driving two of her best friends to the nearest Boston T station. (Although she's no longer the only kid on the block with a license, she's still the only one old enough to drive other kids.) From there, they'll take the train into town — the blue line, then the green line, then the red line — and spend the afternoon in Harvard Square.
I'd like to think it will inspire them to accomplish great things and attend a top-notch university.
No, no, no. In reality, Harvard Square is simply f-u-n. There's an Urban Outfitters and a Panera and a Chipotle. There are used record stores and vintage clothing stores. Funky gifts and junky food and caffecaramelmochaccinofrappiattos. The best ice cream anywhere, live music on the corners and some awesome, unparalleled really, people-watching.
How do I know all this? Because I myself love Harvard Square. I worked there through college. I still go there often for dinners or book readings or theatre. I would love to play hooky this afternoon, put all my clients' projects on hold and go hang out in Cambridge.
But, alas, I wasn't invited. And truly don't deserve to be. After all, I didn't just finish midterms.
And I certainly didn't have to speak French! (Sheesh!)
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My teenage daughter is an excellent student. We haven't seen all her grades yet (midterms were just last week), but she's on track to get high honors again. I can't complain about her report cards or her GPA. (She may tell you that I do; but I don't.)
Even so, my daughter's not in the top echelon at our very competitive school. Our little town has some super achievers (backed by bona fide tiger mothers). All Honors, multiple APs, science electives plus an extra language. (Why not Latin? That sounds fun.) It makes my head hurt. There's one boy who's slated to graduate (and may even be valedictorian) at fifteen.
Wow.
You do have to wonder, though, how someone, even someone who may be a legit rocket scientist, will handle the transition to college at that age. It's hard enough at eighteen.
Anyway, my point is not to brag (all right, all right, I'm a mother after all, I get to brag a little). What I'm trying to say is that high school — while time-consuming and inordinately stressful day-to-day — is not a crisis for us. I expect my daughter to do well. She may have the occasional hiccup (Freshman Honors English — ugh), but I am completely confident that she will graduate.
Many parents can't say that. And, now that my daughter's sixteen, I am often reminded that she doesn't "have to go" to school anymore.
Say what?
It's true. At sixteen, she is no longer mandated to attend. (Lawmakers here in Massachusetts are debating raising that age to eighteen as a handful of other states have already done.) Yikes.
Of course, if and when she ever mentions it, she does so with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She knows she's not dropping out. I know she's not dropping out. Nevertheless, it is yet another reminder (like I need another) of how grownup she is. Adulthood is coming on fast.
I think she'll listen to me for the next two years. But, but, but ... What if she doesn't? OMG.
That's why I'm so encouraged to find this (warning: it's graphic) public service announcement from Australia. (Okay, I warned you) In it, a group of students escape from their prep school as students everywhere are wont to do.
They jump over a hedge and into a van; they head to the beach. And who wouldn't? Sun, sand, bikinis on gleaming, gravity-defining bodies. Surfing, sipping sodas, making out in the dunes. It's like a dream come true.
Until it isn't.
You see, the point of the PSA is that if you leave school ... well ... terrible things will happen. Terrible things.
I don't mean terrible things like flipping burgers or stuffing bags at Wal-Mart. I mean really terrible things, stuff that nightmares are made of terrible, Quentin Tarantino terrible. It's a veritable bloodbath on the beach. (All that's missing is a Sharknado to make the carnage complete.)
And these hapless kids could be taking a History test instead. Who knew?
It's graphic, but it's important. We need to spread the word about these risks. Stay in school, guys.
Watch the PSA. More importantly ...
Make sure your teenager watches it. If nothing else, they'll think you're pretty cool.
This week our family had midterms. Maybe I should say that my teenage daughter had midterms but, in truth, they affected all of us. Between quizzing her on vocab for English and monarchs for World History, driving to and from exams, and providing nutritious study food, like microwave popcorn and tortilla chips, my husband and I were very engaged in the process.
The other day, I was en route to pick her up after her last test at 12:30 pm. I had some time to kill before a conference call, so I texted her ...
Me: Can you take a study break for Chinese food with me?
Her: pls!
Note the enthusiasm and politeness. Note the lack of capital letters and vowels.
After our lunch, she asked — nicely — if we could stop at a local ice cream parlor for dessert. I was pretty full but sent her in with $6, expecting change. (Yeah, right.) She returned with an enormous cup: cake batter ice cream with warm cookie dough topping. This, naturally, prompted a familiar, if impromptu, mom soliloquy along the lines of "When I was your age ..."
"Y'know," I told her. "When I was your age, we didn't have those flavors. If you wanted cookie dough, you actually ate cookie dough, not cookie dough topping or cookie dough ice cream. The only ice creams we had were vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. Maybe coffee and chocolate chip. And some sherbets."
She listened, nodding courteously, as she savored her rather disgusting cup of ice cream.
"The biggest deal," I went on, encouraged by the unusual absense of sarcasm, "Was when Baskin Robbins opened on Broadway between 70th and 71st. They had 32 flavors! Your grandparents raised my allowance to 35¢ so I could get a cone every week."
She continued nodding. And eating. I dropped the subject, but couldn't help thinking about the ridiculous number of choices my daughter's generation has. Not only ice cream combinations we never dreamed of (Ben & Jerry's S'mores, anyone?), but media and entertainment too.
Growing up in New York City in the 70s, we had three national networks, one public television station and two independents (channels 9 and 11). These last two played syndicated reruns of network shows and one of them, 11 I think, had the now famous "Yule Log" on Christmas eve. Compare that rather limited offering to my daughter's options today. We have over 1,000 channels on our digital cable. Plus DVR. Plus streaming Netflix. Plus On Demand. Plus DVDs. Plus, plus, plus.
Then, there's the actual television box. We had one set, in the living room. Today, we have three (living room, family room and kitchen). But, if you add all the devices through which we could watch a program, we have many more: three computers, three smart phones, one iPad ... and a partridge in a pear tree.
Wow. Look how far we've come! I mean, choice is good, right? Not always.
Sometimes this bombardment of options seems unnecessary at best. More often, I think it creates anxiety. "OMG. What am I missing???" It's impossible to watch every show, stay up with every new fad, try every flavor of ice cream (well, I guess you could try).
Whatever happened to sitting quietly with a book (there are 1,335,600 titles available on Kindle, give or take ten thousand)? Whatever happened to having one single conversation with one person rather than participating, simultaneously, in a half dozen group chats (in between texting, tweeting and twerking)?
Choices aren't going away. In fact, thanks to digital living, our choices will continue to grow exponentially every year. I just need to choose to get over it.
But, there's consolation. You see, some things never change. With myriad options at my daughter's fingertips, I still get the same teenage lament my mother heard thirty-five years ago.
"I'm so bored."
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