My teenage daughter long ago decided to do a Senior Project. A Senior Project was and is absolutely indispensable to her life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.
And, because she waited until the very last minute (despite knowing the requirements and deadline for months), last week found her hustling to secure her internship.
There is much to say in defense of the eleventh hour. That little rush of adrenaline can actually make us more focused. Not that I have too much experience to draw from. I tend to be more of a planner. In fact, in four years, I only pulled an all-nighter once at college (well, only once because of schoolwork as opposed to partying or working a graveyard shift at my summer job). I had to write my thesis paper for "Aesthetics and Criticism in the Arts." This was years before word-processing, but only days before my graduation. I sat down with a 2-liter bottle of TaB and wrote the entire paper in one night on my portable electric typewriter. Not exactly my shining hour, academically. But, I did earn an "A" and a valuable lesson.
Procrastination isn 't always bad.
Of course, I never said as much to my own daughter.
She figured it out all on her own.
Anyway, there she was less than a week from the due date for all her materials and she didn't have an internship yet. Even my typically implaccable daughter was starting to worry.
She reached out to two potential sponsor organizations: a state-run animal rescue farm about an hour (several towns and three highways) away, and a therapeutic riding center somewhat closer by.
"What if I don't hear back from them soon enough?" she worried. I resisted my usual jump-in-and-fix-it approach to life (to her life). There were still a few days and I decided to let her solve it herself. Worst case, I rationalized, she could simply continue volunteering at the stable she's worked at for the past six years or so. It wasn't what she wanted, but maybe it would teach her not to wait so long next time.
Not this time.
The animal shelter did get back to her. Even better, they were thrilled by her interest and resume, and very eager to hear more about her "large animal" experience. In fact, they scheduled an interview for the very next day. She went, met with the stable manager and volunteer coordinator. They quickly agreed that the internship was a great idea all around. She left with signed Senior Project paperwork and a confirmed schedule for her six-week assignment.
When she had first set up the meeting, I'd immediately thought about how I could clear my own deck. "I'll go with you," I'd offered, thinking it would be a good time to catch up.
"No, thanks," she'd responded instantaneously. "I think it's better if I go by myself."
Of course it is, I realized then.
And, of course it was.
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After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically.
I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.
I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.
Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.
All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.
To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.
A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.
(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)
Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"
By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far.
The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.
She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.
In her own sweet time.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I'm not perfect. I know I must have written last minute papers. But those rose colored glasses through which we look at our pasts get in the way when I try to remember any. My rehearsal schedule (four days a week after school with performances Saturdays and Sundays) was so rigorous I really had to manage my time.
My teenage daughter spends as much time at the stable as I did at the theatre. And in fairness to her, she is usually quite adept at getting whatever she needs to get done done.
Usually, as in almost but not always. Usually, as in definitely not last night.
Our afternoon was fairly unexceptional. I picked her up from school and asked my daily question: "What's the homework sitch?" Whatever non-answer I obtained, there certainly wasn't any indication that it would prove to be a heavier than normal workload.
We arrived home and she had a little time to kill before she had to leave for the stable. "Want to watch a How I Met Your Mother?" she asked. I was happy to put my work on hold for twenty minutes, which is all a thirty-minute episode boils down to without commercials. When it was over, I went back to my office and she headed off to her riding lesson.
Three hours or so later, she was back. By then, her father was home too and I made a quick dinner. Then, the homework began in earnest. She went upstairs while we settled in and watched a DVR'd episode of Mad Men.
As far as I knew, homework was under control.
Shows how far I knew (hint: not far at all).
Perhaps this is a problem with semantics. When I say "homework," I think of it as an all-encompassing category of any and everything that has been assigned. My daughter seems to have a narrower definition: like math problem sets or a French worksheet. 'Turns out there wasn't any homework like that. But, there was a paper due, which involved watching a two-hour documentary online and then reviewing it in a 1,000-word essay. And, I later learned, the assignment had been given the Friday before April vacation week. Also known as ten days ago.
Too bad it wasn't a science assignment because by the time I learned all the details, let's just say, sparks were flying.
Of course, the WiFi in her room was being temperamental (this is somehow always my fault or my husband's — basically whichever of us is nearby at the time). The documentary would play for about 90 seconds, then buffer for 60, then play for another 90. At this rate, forget about the review she had to write; she would still be trying to watch the thing at 5:00 am.
Super Mom sprung into action, I pulled up the documentary on all possible browsers, but had the same problem. Then I looked it up and found it available via Amazon Prime. Teenager and notebook were relocated to our family room and she was able to watch it there.
Meanwhile, my daughter was in good — or at least abundant — company. It seemed as though half her class was texting, complaining about the online video glitches. Apparently she wasn't alone in waiting until the last minute.
Somehow, I didn't find that comforting.
I went to bed at about 10:00 pm. Three-plus hours later, my daughter was in bed with her essay emailed to me for proofing. I got up a few minutes early to look at it.
Despite the drama and the late-night fire-drill, her essay was actually pretty good. She was relatively happy with my suggested edits (at 6:00 am after only four and a half hours of sleep, relatively happy was the best I was gonna get). I'm proud that she can do such capable work despite a — let's face it — half-assed process. But it makes me wonder ...
If she actually spent ten days on something that was supposed to take ten days, how much better would it have been?
There are some mysteries that will never be solved.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Did you know that until the late 1800s, communities all over the United States determined their own time? There were more than 300 different time zones in our country alone! Cities and towns set their clocks by the sunrise and sunset — so not only did the time change place to place, but it changed throughout the year. When rail travel became popular, this wreaked havoc with the train schedules. So everyone was forced to adopt a standard.
When I stumbled upon this trivia recently, I was not as surprised as you might expect. You see, I realized several years ago that time is relative. In fact, sometimes I feel like my own household has multiple time zones. Or dimensions. Or not-so-parallel universes.
Let me explain.
One might think that three people living in a single 2,300 square foot house would all be on the same clock. Mais non, it turns out there is a lot of room for interpretation.
We may all agree that it's 11:45 pm, for example. But, while the grownups equate this with "Late," the teenager protests that it's "Not." While I may be aghast that the reading for AP U.S. History isn't done yet, that same teen assures me that (a) she has plenty of time and (b) I am "so" overreacting.
Weekends present similar anomolies. Four days off for Rosh Hashanah (thank you, תודה רבה, all our Jewish friends) might seem like a liberal amount of time for rewriting a particular analysis of Virginia Woolf's Death of a Moth. Why then do Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday pass us by without so much as a book cracked, a pen put to paper, or a finger on a keyboard? Why were we, once again, wide awake and thoroughly stressed out late the night before the edited paper is due?
Oh wait, my bad. It wasn't "Late."
I'm old. I'm tired. I would go to bed at about 9:00 each night if I had my way. My daughter and I will have to disagree on the definition of "Late."
But, how about more relative terms like "Now," "Soon," and "Later?"
When I ask, "Can you please put your backpack away now?" I mean "Now." As in, "This very instant in the time and space continuum." I don't think I'm alone in this either. Merriam-Webster defines that harmless three-letter word as "at the present time or moment."
When my daughter hears the word "Now," she interprets it differently. "Now" means "Some time ... later ... maybe ... if you feel like it."
Of course, like time itself, the concept of "Now" is endlessly changeable. When my daughter wants/needs/absolutely-has-to-have something, the word takes on all sorts of urgency.
Maybe the discrepancy is because of where we are in our own relative lives. She's still fairly new at this, while I've almost certainly moved past my own halfway mark. Maybe time flies a little (or a whole lot) when you're middle-aged. I bemoan how fast my daughter's growing up. She bemoans having to study for Physics. Somehow six hours with that textbook feels longer to her than the last six years did to me.
Then again, why do I assume that my interpretation of time is the correct one? Albert Einstein asserted that "Time is an illusion." He said that "The separation between past, present and future is only an illusion, although a convincing one."
So, maybe my daughter's an Einstein after all. Who knew?
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
