Like so many other parents of high school seniors, we're in a holding pattern right now. My daughter has been accepted at three of the four schools to which she applied. We're still waiting to hear from number four, but since that fine institution wasn't her top choice, it's a moot point. Although she seems to be honing in on a decision (and a campus visit several weeks ago knocked one contender out completely), she has been thoughtful and patient about it.
Or else she's procrastinating. A more than likely possibility. After all, she's eighteen.
Meanwhile, her father and I (well, mainly I) have been doing a lot of math. For the next four years, not just her higher education expenses, but things like new cars and vacations, are up in the air. Mathematically speaking.
How much will we owe? That's the two hundred thousand dollar question.
Each of the three colleges that have accepted her have offered my daughter handsome merit scholarships.
Me: See, honey? All that hard work paid off.
Her: (eye roll)
But, each school presents a unique and complicated equation. For example, one school has a discount for students from our state majoring in her concentration. Nice, right? But, then they offered her slightly more as a merit award. The two are mutually exclusive and come with their own rules and regulations. If she takes the merit, she has to requalify every year. If she takes the discount, she can't change majors.
And none of this comes without work on our part. The FAFSA is looming, although we won't qualify for need-based aid (like so many middle-class Americans, we can't exactly afford tuition, but we can't can't afford it to the extent that someone else wants to pay it for us). But, we've saved since she was three, plus there are grants, work-study opportunities and the dreaded college loans to consider. And, she is being considered for an additional equestrian scholarship and will compete for several more sponsored by organizations in our town.
And, let's get real, it isn't as though we'll stop working while she's in school. (Don't I wish?!?) Tuition will become another bill that we pay. We're used to that. (Aren't we all?!?)
The good news (well, aside from acceptances and scholarships, which I would classify as great news) is that — in theory — some of our expenses are going to decrease when she hits the road. For example ...
1. Stabling and other costs
Wherever my daughter and her trusty steed end up, we will still be footing the bill for his room and board as well as hers. But, happily, the costs are considerably lower outside our general area. Then again, so is real estate, but we'll probably wait on that.
2. Cookie dough and other comestibles
This fairly expensive so-called "after-school snack" (so-called by my daughter, obvs) will no longer be required. Call us crazy, but my husband and I prefer our cookies cooked. The same holds true for other weekly grocery staples, such as orange soda, fruit roll-ups and cheese poofs.
3. Boots and other necessities
My daughter has only two feet, but a boot collection that somehow continues to grow. In fact, many of our trips to the mall for completely unrelated errands result in a new addition. And, I could make the same observation about leggings, tee shirts, jewelry and more. You may (rightly) view this as an inability on the part of yours truly to use the word "No." But, we have to assume that less shopping together will mean less ... well ... shopping.
Hmmm. Our monthly finances may not feel so different after all.
Now, if I can just make sure there isn't a Starbucks, Panera, Bertucci's or Chipotle (e coli scare not withstanding) near her campus, we'll be all set.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Oh, nuts! It's starting already.
Christmas is just two weeks away. But, that's not the problem. I'm actually in good shape.
Christmas cards are done. Shopping is done. Wrapping is done. Well, everything except bows and tags. (BTW, this should be interesting. Will I remember what's what, where, and for whom? We shall see.)
One of my favorite things about the season is going to see The Nutcracker. Growing up in Manhattan in the 1970s, I attended the New York City Ballet's version at nearby Lincoln Center. One year, my sister and I got to go backstage to meet Gelsey Kirkland and she gave us autographed toe shoes. Another year, we bought little furry mice in the lobby concession stand.
Still another year, we missed it because we both had the mumps.
As I grew up, there were many years I didn't go. In high school, I was too busy doing theatre (and homework). In college, I was too busy with my boyfriend (and homework). Then there were all those young professional years when ballet tickets seemed out of reach (I fondly think of that time as "The Ramen Era"). But, as I got older — and my bank account got a bit healthier — we started a new tradition.
Each year, right after Thanksgiving, my mother would come up to New England for a long weekend, and together we would see the Boston Ballet's Nutcracker. It was pretty much just us (we did bring my future mother-in-law along once) until my daughter turned four. Then, she came too.
My mother likes to remember that first trip. She and I were both in elegant black velvet and my daughter was in red. We surprised her with her own nutcracker which she brought to the performance. As the lights dimmed and the orchestra started Tchaikovsky's familiar overture, I leaned down and whispered.
"I'm so proud of you, honey."
Without missing a beat, she responded, "I'm so proud of you too, Mommy."
Since then, we've rarely missed our annual performance. Things have changed: new sets, costumes, choreography, even a new venue when the Boston Ballet was evicted in order to accommodate the Radio City Rockettes (a poor call on the part of the Wang Center, if there ever was one).
We've experienced change on our part too. Several years ago, my daughter refused to wear party dresses (she was already self-identifying as a horsewoman, and lace and bows weren't going to cut it). A few years later, I stopped giving her nutcrackers because we had no more room for them. Our collection, mostly hers and lined up on our dining room mantle, still generates a lot of comments at our tree-trimming parties.
This year, we couldn't stop for a pre-show dinner (or post-show pastry) because of a looming test in AP Bio, the bane of my daughter's senior year existence. But, we had fabulous seats and the production truly was the most beautiful I think I've ever seen. At intermission, I tried to get my companions to go out into the gilded lobby with me for a nice group photo. Neither generation was interested; the crowd was too thick, the seats too comfortable. As the second act began, something occurred to me.
'This won't work next year,' I realized. My daughter won't be here the week after Thanksgiving. She'll be in Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island. This, of course, made the lovely and bittersweet second act all the lovelier and more bittersweet.
At the end of the ballet, there's a gorgeous pas de deux between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Nutcracker (who is more of a prince consort by that time). Then, all of the inhabitants of the land of sweets dance once more and wave good-bye to Clara and her uncle/wizard/godfather/grownup-friend Herr Drosselmeyer (there's a little grey area there and more than one version I've seen has been downright creepy in a Humbert Humbert way).
In the current Boston Ballet production, there's an added coda. Clara is sleeping (on a really nice fainting couch) with her little wooden nutcracker. Each character she's met stops by and sort of enchants her one last time. She wakes and stretches in that graceful way that only ballerinas can. 'It's all been a dream,' she seems to think. Then, she lifts her hands and feels the jeweled crown on her head. She smiles in wonder and delight. And ... curtain.
So, yours truly spends the enthusiastic ovation, subtly wiping away tears (really not a good idea to let the teen know that I'm choked up). Was I verklempt because Clara's dream was over? Or because the past eighteen years have gone by way too fast?
I think we know the answer. The more pressing question is this. If I can't get through The Nutcracker without tearing up, how will I make it through the next eight months?
This is going to be nuts.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien.
Toward the end of our drive home from Vermont yesterday, we found ourselves on Route 128, the beltway that circles Boston to the North, West and South (the Atlantic Ocean is to the East). We passed the site of a new mall in the neighboring town of Wakefield. It's going to be a huge, upscale shopping center, and there are billboards out already, trying to generate excitement even though the grand opening is many months away.
The thing is, this new shopping center is located about halfway between two others, both of which have recently become bigger and more upscale with the addition of a Nordstrom. All in all, we will now have three major malls within one sixteen-mile stretch.
This seems a little unnecessary.
Really, how many malls do we need? More importantly, how much shopping do we need to do?
Apparently the answer is "a lot."
Shopping has become the national pastime. Especially for those of us with teenage daughters. I think there are several factors involved, none of them particularly positive.
Most of our friends don't go to church (or temple or mosque) together on any kind of regular basis. In fact, clergy joke about people attending church for just three occasions now: baptisms, weddings and funerals — or, more poetically, to "hatch, match and dispatch." This is definitely true for our nuclear family. So, while our forefathers and mothers might have spent Sunday at church, followed maybe by a multigenerational family dinner, we don't. Instead, we have more free time ... and less ways to fill it.
Where do we go? To malls. And, even that isn't a family activity necessarily. These days, I tend to do a drive by, dropping the teen and friends at the shopping center and then picking them up later.
What happened to hobbies?
What happened to ballgames, bike riding, field trips?
What happened to time spent together, a cohesive family, playing a game or relaxing in front of a roaring fire?
All of this togetherness has been replaced by hunts for the perfect blue jeans, amassing collections of tank tops, shorts or sandals, loading up on costume jewelry, cosmetics and bikini briefs from Victoria's Secret. I worry about my daughter growing up in such a culture of conspicuous consumption.
Believe me, she has plenty of clothes! She would argue that it only seems like it because her closet is so small. Be that as it may, she is not exactly needy. Or naked.
So, we continue to worship at the altar of Abercrombie's, Hollister, Aeropostale, American Eagle, H&M, and Delia's.
But shopping stimulates our economy, you may say. I beg to differ. Nearly everything for sale at the soon-to-be three malls in our immediate vicinity was manufactured in Asia. So we're supporting off-shoring and questionable labor practices. And, many of the customers buying these sweatshop imports are doing so with credit cards, paying exorbitant interest rates for goods that they don't need and that will probably be out of style before they are paid off.
This isn't true for every shopper, of course. But, I fear that it is for many.
And what do we do with all that stuff anyway? We rent outside space because we run out of room at home. Really, the self-storage industry is one of only a handful that not only weathered the recession but grew faster than inflation.
What's wrong with this picture?
I'm just as guilty as any other mom. Yes, I confess that I have bribed my daughter with shopping trips. I have paid for her affection on more than one occasion. (Way more than one. Way, way, way more.) All of this went through my mind as we drove by yet another mall. I would have discussed it with my daughter, maybe used these observations as a teachable moment. But she was in her own world, earbuds in place, listening to Pandora on her iPhone in the back seat.
Needless to say, we did not stop at any shopping centers on our way back from Vermont. Instead, we unloaded the car and my husband made a nice fire. My daughter studied for her theatre arts quiz and I finished a novel I'd started over the weekend.
Once her test preparation was complete, my daughter brought my iPad over and snuggled up next to me.
"Can we order that shirt from Forever 21 now?" she asked in the sweetest possible voice. She has an assumptive way of making these little requests sound like ultra-natural foregone conclusions. She still had credit on a gift card she received for Christmas. It would be a shame to waste it. Right?
So, at the end of the day, there we were, a cohesive family in front of a roaring fire ... shopping.
Well, gentle readers, I'm happy to report that we weathered the weather.
It's still snowing here, but Nemo, the "historic blizzard of 2013" has pretty much passed. Overnight, we had record-breaking winds (greatly amplified inside our two-hundred-year-old home — the entire place shuddered) and about thirty inches of snow. I say "about," because it's nearly impossible to measure. Cars and shrubbery and lawn ornaments have virtually disappeared under massive drifts.
Yes, it was a big storm. But, the level of anxiety (nearly panic) that we witnessed was just a bit ... um ... exaggerated.
My yoga teacher said it best on Friday morning (to our half-empty class). "This is New England. It snows."
The night before, I tried to do some grocery shopping while my daughter was at the stable. After more than twenty-five minutes circling the parking lot at a local Market Basket — and fearing for my very life every time a spot opened up and some bigger, faster driver nabbed it — I gave up. An endless stream of heartier customers poured out of the store with their carts piled high. Bottled water, milk, bread, toilet paper, Duraflame logs. You would think we were out in the wilderness somewhere, and not in suburban Boston. Or that we were facing a nuclear holocaust or a zombie apocalypse at the very least.
As I retreated, I decided that my family could subsist on frozen bagels, canned soup, ramen noodles and tap water for the next day or so. But, just in case I was wrong, I baked a batch of cupcakes. I also have boxes of Valentine's chocolate if things get really desperate. (If only the Girl Scout cookies we ordered had been delivered sooner!)
Snow emergencies are a not a time to worry about a balanced diet.
I can joke about it, but we have many friends without power this morning. That would certainly not be fun. Our biggest disappointment is a cancelled trip to New York to see my sister in a show. (We will try to reschedule.) Otherwise, as long as my husband's back holds out, we should emerge unscathed.
One nice thing about the storm (besides the hushed sugar coated views from all our windows), is that it turns the typical surly teenager into a wide-eyed child. My daughter who, unable to go to the stable today, would otherwise be sulking around the house is outside with an old friend, sledding. She gladly put on layers, snowpants, a ski parka and even a neck warmer (okay, not so glad about that one, but trust me there was an admirably minimal amount of eye-rolling).
The hill they've chosen is behind the antique elementary school where they went to kindergarten together. So not only will their excursion include some wintry fun, but they will probably be reminiscing a bit too.
Meanwhile, we've turned off the TV. How much non-stop storm coverage can we really take? I'm heating up some soup, and we'll spend the afternoon in front of the fireplace. I have some copywriting to do and my daughter, once she returns, has homework. We are safe and warm and dry, and very grateful for all of the above.
Later, I think we'll bundle up and take a walk through town while the roads are still clean and car-free. If I get lost in a drift, please send a St. Bernard with supplies.
You can skip the barrel of brandy and send a box of Thin Mints instead.
My family, living in New York City and working in the entertainment industry, gets a lot of tickets to VIP previews and screenings. Here in my little New England town, half an hour up the coast from Boston? Um, not so much.
That's why we were very excited to get an email inviting us to a preview showing of the new Disney movie The Odd Life of Timothy Green. Seats were "extremely limited," so (even though I'm an advertising copywriter myself and know that you should never assume that what you read is true) we quickly responded. The event was two days away and we arranged to bring one of my teen daughter's best and oldest friends along.
Getting to the multiplex that was hosting the screening was a little complicated. (Right, as if this should be a surprise?) It was a workday and I had several conference calls lined up. I then had to rush out to collect my daughter at the stable. Then rush back so she could shower and change. Then rush over to the BFF's house. Then rush to the theatre, several towns away. Rush, rush, rush. Do we see a theme here?
But, we made it and I persuaded the girls to bypass the discount shoe superstore and go right to the box office counter with me. Alas, the lovely young girl with the lip and eyebrow piercings explained, there was a mistake in the email invitation we received. The preview was actually scheduled for the following week. She would be happy to give us tickets for it in advance and to treat us to a free movie that evening.
The girls considered their options: Spider-Man, The Dark Knight, Spider-Man, The Dark Knight, Spider-Man in IMAX, The Dark Knight in IMAX. They chose ...
"SHOPPING!"
We were, after all, in a mall and we suddenly had a couple of empty hours to fill. Being the sucker mom you all know me to be (and being way too tired to think of something more intellectual, healthy or enriching), I agreed. In fact, we shopped not one but two malls that night. The girls were in their glory and all was well with the world.
A week later, we again did the mad rush to make the private screening, and this time our efforts were rewarded. Not with stonewashed day-glo lime green shorts (yes, really), but with a very satisfying little movie.
The Odd Life of Timothy Green is the story of a young couple who desperately want a baby. When they learn that they are finally out of fertility treatment options (and most likely money), they imagine their perfect child. They write all of his or her qualities on scraps of paper, place them in a small wooden chest and ceremoniously bury them. Lo and behold, a wild storm hits that night and a small boy emerges from their garden. He is (as you probably guessed) Timothy. And, he is wonderful in every way — except that he has leaves growing out of his legs.
Nobody's perfect.
This being a feel-good family film from the "house of mouse," Timothy and his parents learn how to be a family and teach everyone else valuable life lessons before the magic is all used up and Timothy has to return to that great greenhouse in the sky. Not to worry, the happy ending is as predictable as most of the rest of the movie. And we all left feeling a little teary but decidedly warm and fuzzy.
The movie is 100% pure formula schmaltz, but it is about as well executed as it could possibly be. It's like a junior Forrest Gump for a crowd that doesn't want to have to think too much.
We all loved it.
On the way home, the girls talked with me about the movie. Let me stop here for one moment to impress upon you the rare and wondrous nature of two words in the above sentence: with me. They didn't exclude me from their comments. They didn't bury their faces in their iPhones. We actually had a con-ver-sa-tion about a shared experience. OMG!
That, my friends, was well worth the price of admission. (And would have been — even if we had paid for our tickets!)
I've joked that my daughter's and my trip to London and Paris last week was a "greatest hits" tour. Indeed, between the compressed schedule and all of our wonderful bat mitzvah commitments, there was no time to dilly-dally. We had to cram as much into as few days as possible.
On Saturday, we had four hours or so between services at the synagogue and the big celebration that evening. I considered suggesting a trip to the Tate Modern or a visit to Kensington Palace, but I knew what would make my little globe-trotter happy.
Shopping! And, we knew just who to ask for advice.
The younger sister of the bat mitzvah girl is a determined tweenage fashionista. She plans to make a career as a designer and I look forward not only to buying some of her certain-to-be fabulous ensembles, but also to attending the retrospective of her work they will someday present at the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute. Until then, we will have to settle for her expert insider tips.
She immediately suggested Oxford Street if we were looking for the latest trends. And, specifically, she encouraged us to visit one very special place.
Now, I've always loved England: Shakespeare, Jane Austen, high tea, nice manners. When I think of the nation's capital, I picture Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Westminster Cathedral, those adorable red phone booths. But now and forever more, when I hear the word "London," I will think of ... Primark.
Primark is a mecca for London's hip and stylish, a vast, colorful temple of overstocked, underpriced frippery. Anything you're looking for — from lacy lingerie to sky-high heels, shorts, tank tops, pocketbooks, flip flops, mini dresses, maxi dresses and dresses somewhere in between — at prices that start at £1 and £2, and go up to maybe £25 for a not-so-very-Burberry trench coat.
This isn't exactly investment shopping. Will the stuff you buy last long? Oh, I sincerely doubt it. But, that's jolly good and hunky dory because those stonewashed, acid-rinsed, low ride, leopard print jeans are only going to be in style for the next five minutes anyway. And, speaking of the latest and greatest must-have item, my daughter was desperate for bright orange denims. We had looked everywhere (trust me, everywhere, everywhere, every-frrrrkin'-where) but to no avail. And, you guessed it.
Right there, right on the ground floor of Primark, right between the career blouses and the ladies' pajamas, was an entire ... rack ... of ... (wait for it, wait for it) ... bright orange jeans! OMG!!!
Having spent considerably more time shopping than we had planned, we quickly gathered our purchases: the holy grail of pants, some shorts, a cotton shirt, some bras, and a tunic for me (yes, even I was not immune to the power of Primark). I suggested that my daughter choose a size or two larger than she would wear in the states to be on the safe side.
Back at the hotel, we tried on our treasures. My tunic, which was an XL, fit as though it was an XS. It was silky polyester printed to look like a classic scarf. And, it did look like a classic scarf — like a classic scarf wrapped tightly around an enormous sausage, thank you very much. I was only out a few pounds so I decided to bring it home and donate it to the school's thrift shop. Oh well.
Unfortunately, I was not going to get off that easy. My daughter tried on her jeans and, alas, found that they too were cut much smaller than they were labeled. Everything was, in fact. "All right," I told her. "We'll go back to Primark after brunch tomorrow."
For our second Primark pilgrimage, we brought both our young British friends along. Their parents deserved a bit of a break after all the festivities, and it gave the girls a chance to hang out. We arranged a place to rendezvous, and I went in search of customer service. For future reference, it's in a hot, dismal corner of the store behind Primark's gigantic shoe department. One hour and fifteen minutes. I was on line for one hour and fifteen minutes. That's one hour and fifteen minutes that I will never get back again.
Meanwhile, the girls were going gaga over all their options. Once I left customer service, I found three very happy campers and we quickly paid for everything and moved on. 'Farewell, Primark,' I thought to myself. 'At least I won't have to come back here until my next trip to London.'
Wrong!
Back at the hotel that evening, my daughter tried everything on again. At home, she wears a size 3/4, so she had originally bought a pair of size 6s. This time, to be safe, she had grabbed a pair of 10s. We were shocked to see that they were at least as tight as the first pair. Shocked, that is, until we realized that the hanger had said 10 but the pants were a 6. Oh no.
Our train to Paris was the next day at 11:30 am. I pulled out my iPad and checked Primark's hours. They opened at 9. If we were there early and if the customer service line wasn't too crowded, we just might make it. So, I spent my last morning in one of my favorite cities in the world, once again, at Primark.
"You know," I told my daughter, as we settled into our seats on the train a bit later, the third and final pair of orange jeans packed safely in her duffel. "You do have the best mother in the world."
"I know," she smiled. And, I think she actually believed it. For a full hour or so.
