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