Last night, my teenage daughter spread her work out all over our dining room table so she could study. This is nothing new. But, it makes it a little difficult for her father and me to watch anything since our tiny family room is not only adjacent, but connected by a pass-through in the wall between.
This makes my husband frustrated, which is also nothing new.
I see his point. My daughter's bedroom is the largest one in the house, fully equipped with everything said young person might need. It has not one but two desks, arranged in an "L" to facilitate both homework and electronics usage. The surface of these desks is a lovely golden oak, but rarely visible thanks to piles of homework, textbooks, dressage tests, entry forms, concert tickets, photographs, catalogs and magazines. And there's the rub. Her desk might be more conducive to study if it weren't so conducive to every other thing. When she needs to clear her head, it's generally too late to clear the desk.
Consequently, the dining room becomes her study hall.
As I said, I do see my husband's point. But, I support my daughter anyway, because I think studying trumps pretty much anything we might choose to watch. Last night, it was Mr. Selfridge on PBS. We kept the volume down and when one of our pre-show predictions came to pass, we silently fist-bumped rather than exclaim satisfaction out loud. Our proximity meant that any requested study aids were procured in rapid haste. Apparently, AP Bio goes down a lot easier with chocolate chips and "Popcorners" and orange soda.
AP Bio, which she is taking for four hours this morning, is my daughter's last exam. Her final final, if you will. All of her courses except AP Bio finished nearly three weeks ago. When she gets home midday, she is done, done, done.
Wow.
Chances are, she will never again study on our dining room table. Her dorm room, most likely; the campus library, probably ... but not our dining room table. And, that table has seen some action.
I can't count how many posterboards, dioramas, science fair and art projects have been carefully constructed there. Some stand out, like her biography of George Washington, a presentation on gypsum (that would be alabaster to you and me), a shadow box of Paul Revere's ride, and a model of ancient Greece's Erechtheion, complete with statues of goddesses made by spraying toga-clad Barbie dolls with Rust-Oleum American Accents Stone Spray.
She and I read Romeo and Juliet together there for freshman Honors English, switching parts scene-by-scene. That same year, we read Homer's epic poem The Odyssey. Longer (and less fun) than R&J, it was nevertheless time well spent and certainly helped her score a better grade from a notoriously difficult teacher. So that was a happy ending all around.
For the past four years, my daughter has taken over the dining room for virtually every mid-term and final, a handful of APs, SAT and ACT prep, and even her college application essays. It kept her focused and reassured me that she was actually hitting whatever books she needed to hit without being too distracted by incoming texts. On many recent nights, we've headed up to bed while she and her work remained downstairs.
But, like so many other things, large and small, these days ... her late night sessions are over.
Now, and for the foreseeable future, we have our dining room back. We can "Whoop!" and high-five and watch TV as loud as we want. And, I won't wake up in the morning to a table cluttered with sticky notes — or sticky snacks.
And no matter how melancholy I may be about the changes we go through, I can console myself with the fact that my daughter is off on a wonderful new adventure. In fact, those afternoons and evenings (and even wee-hour-in-the-mornings) paid off handsomely.
And that's another happy ending all around.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Our family's college search was a lot easier than some. Early on, we knew that we would have a significantly smaller universe of universities to consider.
First of all, the prospective schools had to offer an Equine Studies program. And not just Equine Studies: Pre-Veterinary. (My daughter decided she didn't want to be a vet the first time a beloved pony was put down at her stable.) We were looking for Equine Studies: Business.
Yes, that's an actual major and an actual, quite viable, career. Believe you me, there's a lot of money to be made (or, in our case, spent) in the business of horses.
Next, the schools had to focus on English riding, not Western. Good-bye University of Montana and University of Colorado, for example.
Then, the schools had to have equestrian teams. And not just "Hunter Jumper." Three-phase Eventing, the triathlon of the equine world (dressage, stadium and cross-country) was our — make that, her — focus.
And finally, there were some non-horse criteria to take into consideration, believe it or not. The schools had to be co-ed; and they had to be near enough to a city to allow my daughter to see her favorite bands. (For better or worse, when she isn't a rider, she's a groupie.)
According to The Washington Post, there were some 5,300 colleges in the United States. According to my daughter, there were four.
And, now there's only one.
Having completed the Common App and some very easy supplemental essay, résumé and riding requirements (two of the schools asked for 5-minute videos), my daughter did what every college-bound senior does. She waited. Luckily, she didn't have to wait long. In fact, she knew by early November about two of the schools (the two front runners, as it happened), another by Thanksgiving, and the fourth by January.
Decisions, decisions.
She had until May 1st to make up her mind, and for a while there it seemed like she was going to take all that time. Once again, I had to remind myself that I'm not her and she's not me. Back in the fall of 1979, I received an acceptance from my first choice (early-decision) school and I never looked back. One and done. As time went by, my daughter knocked one, then two, then three of the four schools out of the running. But, she still didn't pull the trigger.
"Why hasn't she committed?" I moaned to my husband when she wasn't in earshot. "Oh no. Is she going to make a case for a gap year?" Other, less stressed, parents assured me that she would make the decision official when she was ready.
A few nights ago, we were out for dinner with another couple when my phone rang. It was my daughter's mobile, so I excused myself and left the table.
"I just wanted you to know that I'm going to post tonight," she told me.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"You know."
"Oh." Silence. "What made you decide? Are you happy? Are you excited?"
"Hmm. I dunno."
And that was it. No big deal, no fireworks, no jumping for joy. She hung up and I went back to dinner. Her post simply read the name of the chosen institution and "Class of 2020!" Like so many other huge events in our eighteen years together, this one happened with a lot less fanfare that I expected. Of course, that's more her business than mine. As it should be. And now, the countdown begins in earnest.
From 5,300 to four to one. One and done.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Dear readers, you may have noticed that Lovin' the Alien has been on a bit of a hiatus over the past week. As much as I enjoy writing these posts, I'm afraid I've had other equally important things to do.
Hmmmm ... let's see. There was the stroll along the Mississippi, an elegant dinner with an old friend, touring an antebellum plantation, admiring the outrageous Halloween decorations in the French Quarter, antiquing on Magazine Street, swaying to live blues guitar, indulging in crawfish, alligator, étouffée and red beans and rice.
Plus all those mint juleps.
(Have you ever had a mint julep? They are cold and refreshing, garnished with sprigs of mint and filled with bourbon. Lots of bourbon. Lots and lots of bourbon. In fact, mint juleps and the ladies' predilection for them account for all those elegant "fainting couches" in fine Southern homes.)
My husband and I planned this trip a few months ago. Our traveling partners (in crime) were another couple whom we met through work but who have become great friends. Our teenage daughter was not invited. Despite many wonderful family vacations there in years past, she has other things on her plate. Like school, homework, riding, concerts and her college application essay. (Cue theme from Jaws here.) My sister graciously agreed to come and stay.
Plus, it was supposed to be a grownup trip. And, as graduation and then college loom on the horizon, I have to get used to grownup trips again.
This particular mini-break proved good practice.
With the one-hour time change, not to mention the late-night revelry, I woke most mornings after the teen had already left for school. So no "Good morning" phone calls. By afternoon, we were usually out and about while my daughter was racing between her own activities back home. There were entire days when we didn't talk. A few years ago, this would have been unthinkable.
Well, for me, at least. She's never seemed to have an issue with it.
Of course, this being 2015 — and one of us being a millenial — we did manage to text. There were some pressing issues (costumes for an upcoming horse event, for example, or reports on the puppy's bad behavior). But even these acronym-riddled updates were few and far between.
And, I was actually okay.
My daughter is fairly self-sufficient these days. Almost entirely so, if I'm honest with myself. And, there was a loving, responsible adult on premise if there had been any kind of emergency. Things at home went smoothly. (And things in NOLA? Well, you can just re-read the first paragraph.) On our last day, my daughter called and asked me to check my email.
It was the first draft of her essay.
I'm anticipating much sorrow when my daughter goes away next year (note to self: buy stock in Kleenex, STAT!). But, there will be newfound freedoms and happy excursions too.
When freshman year begins, I really don't want to be one of those mother-daughter teams that talks or texts every single day (no matter how appealing that sounds right now). I think it's better for college students if we give them some space and let them solve their own problems.
For the first time, I think I may be able to handle this.
I'll just be spending a lot of time in New Orleans, dahlin'.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I remember the first first day like it was ... well ... yesterday.
On the first first day, my daughter wore a red dress with a white collar and smocking at the top. She had on black patent leather Mary Janes and ankle socks with frilly trim. She had a lunchbox, a tiny backpack, and a fleece jacket with an appliqued dachshund head on one side, tail on the other, and elongated body stretching around the back. The zipper pull was a quilted bone. Her hair was perfect.
Oddly enough, I remember what I was wearing too. Black wool trousers and boots, plus a very cool sweater that was black and tan and white with asymmetrical wooden buttons and a sort of primitive fish pattern. I got it from some museum catalog and it was cooler than it sounds, really. Anyway, I don't know where it went. (Besides out of style, I suppose.) Meanwhile, my daughter's dress is carefully preserved in an attic closet waiting for some future child's first day of preschool.
I repeat, "First day of preschool." It feels like yesterday. But, at the same time, no matter how well I remember every little detail, it feels about a hundred years ago.
Sundance Preschool was in a brand new building about a mile or so from our house. It was bright and sunny with large classrooms and a playground out back. My daughter was so excited. We took about a million pictures (this was back when everything was still analog, so you had to take extra shots to make sure something came out), and the whole family (minus the dog — then again, I suppose he was represented on her jacket) drove over together.
I was just fine, happy even, imagining how my little daughter would love school the way I had. The future seemed bright and full of promise. We had years and years together ahead of us. We checked her in and went into her classroom. There were lilliputian tables and chairs, a reading corner, easels and paint, tiny cubbies ... and a coat hook with each child's name neatly printed above it.
That, my friends, is when I lost it.
My daughter would probably tell you that I've been losing it on a quite regular basis ever since.
This morning was that same daughter's first day of senior year. All I can say, truly, is ...
WTF?
How is this possible? How can she be that old? (How can I be that old?)
She woke up at 5:00 am. (Yeah, like that's going to happen again this year!) She wore her senior "We're Kind of a B16 Deal" tee and a pair of shorts. I packed a nice lunch for her and after a little (a very little) attention to hair and makeup, we took a couple of quick "First Day" pictures and she was out of here. No need for breakfast; she and her BFFs were going to IHOP after the official first day senior drive-by.
Each graduating class of our town's high school takes part in this time-honored tradition twice. (I think it's just twice; I hope it's just twice.) The junior girls drive through the town honking and screaming the morning after the prior class's graduation. And those same girls, now officially seniors, do it all again the first day back at school in September.
My husband decorated our antique red Miata with racing stripes and a big number "16" on the driver door. It was by far the flashiest vehicle out there. But, as I videotaped the convoy this morning, I was happy to notice that my daughter and her bestie stayed belted in their seats even as they raced through the town. Whether that was fear of me or of the town police, I'll never know. But, I was glad on't.
Next on the agenda is the gauntlet outside the school. Historically, the seniors have taunted the incoming underclassmen and women. This year, however, our rules-happy principal ordained that there is to be no teasing and no touching — excepting "handshakes extended in the spirit of friendship and warm welcome."
(Excuse me while I go choke to death on laughter.)
(All right, I'm back now.)
Classes for seniors don't start until mid-morning, so my offspring and her posse will have time for a nutritious breakfast at the International House of Pancakes (is there a National House of Pancakes?) before their day — and presumably their education — starts in earnest.
This morning was my daughter's last first day. She and the other seniors only have 20-minute classes along with forms to fill out and an assembly, so the day should fly by for her.
Almost as fast as the last 15 years have flown by for me.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
