Final Final Exam

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.   

The List

There are only two weeks left of Junior year! What a year it's been — and it's almost over. In fact, I'd be waving my arms and cheering and doing a Snoopy dance if it weren't for the fact that between my daughter and the happy day she walks out of the high school for a much-needed summer break are final exams, a huge research paper and a strange but elaborate role play exercise about college admissions.

So many milestones. Although my daughter earned her driver's license last year (talk about a Snoopy dance!), it wasn't until recent months that she was permitted to drive her friends anywhere. School, concerts, laser tag, the stable. Suffice it to say she has enjoyed that particular privilege enormously. We left her alone overnight for the first time. (Thanks to social media and a helpful other-mother, I was kept abreast of the goings on at our house. But, my daughter and I have agreed not to talk about that anymore.) She took SATs, ACTs, two APs (and a partridge in a pear tree). We toured a couple of colleges in earnest.

And, whether it was deliberate or not, for better or worse, I've stopped micromanaging her homework.

Every concerned mom I know has to balance how much she helps. We all draw the line at different places. Some well-meaning parents I know have ghost-written papers (and even college essays). On the other hand, in a handful of particularly stressful situations, I've had (non-parent) friends encourage me to "let her fail," asserting that it would teach her a lesson and build character. My instinct has always been somewhere in between. I'm happy to edit and proofread, but not to write. I'll quiz her on history or science facts even when I'm bleary-eyed with fatigue. I'll gladly contribute my time as well as money to posters and dioramas. I've been known to run out for glue sticks and markers or buy the Kindle version of a book many hours after the library's closed.

'Pains me to admit it, but it's in my nature to nag. Or maybe it's just one of those skills we magically acquire after fourteen hours of knee-buckling labor. At any rate, for the past several years, much of my daughter and my conversation together has gone something like this ...

Me: What's your homework like tonight?

Her: Meh.

Me: Do you have much?

Her: Some.

Me: Well, why don't you get started and I'll bring you a snack.

Her: K.

This is followed by more specific check-ins as the evening wears on.

Me: How's the math coming?

Me: Do you need me to proof that paper?

Me: Can I quiz you on your French?

Me: Have you started studying for Physics yet?

(I won't waste your time with her monosyllabic answers. I'm sure you can fill in those blanks yourself.)

Lately, I've nagged a lot less. I may be overtired (or simply "over it"). Or it may be that I've started to trust her. Either way, I think we're both relieved by my newfound lack of involvement.

The other day, I was cleaning up her room for her (another thing I've been nagging about less). I was straightening her desk which was absolutely covered. My job was to make piles that would look a little neater. But, be assured I know better than to throw anything away. What looks like scrap paper with scribbles could actually be the autographs of a  favorite band. A used Dunkin' Donuts cup might have sentimental value. The number she wore on her horse's bridle in a recent competition will be added to her collection of similar numbers from similar competitions.
 
Under the aforementioned treasures, I found a list that included every school deadline between now and the end of the year. It was organized as a calendar and color-coded by subject. At first, ever the queen of organization, I was proud of the effort, not to mention the magic markers, that went into this list. Then, my admiration turned to anxiety as I saw assignments I hadn't heard about before. Was she really going to have an eleven-page paper ready in two days? Had she started studying for pre-calc?

I stopped myself and took a deep breath. She's on top of it, I reminded myself. After all, she's made it this far.

And, just look how pretty her list is.

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

Home Is Where The Homework Is

We live in a nearly 200-year-old house (one of the newer models in our pre-Revolutionary neighborhood, actually). It has charm and personality, nooks and crannies, crooked wide pine floors and rooflines that rival Nathaniel Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables in neighboring Salem. There are pass-throughs behind staircases and trap doors down to the cellar ("Pirates," we've convinced more than a few young visitors). A primitive and decidedly spooky oil portrait of one of the home's ancestors hangs above the fireplace in our front room.

Generally speaking, my husband and I agree that history and character trump new and modern amenities. Once in a while, I daydream about a walk-in closet or a master bath with a Jacuzzi tub. And I do envy MacMansion owners who get to hear that satisfying little "swwwiittzz" noise when they close a window that actually ... well ... closes.

Lately, I've found myself wishing that we had one of those newfangled real estate inventions: the ubiquitous, so-called "great room."

Because, if we did, my teenager and her father would stop fighting about where she does her homework.

My husband has a strong case. When we moved into this house more than sixteen years ago, we (generously, selflessly, saint-ish-ly) gave our then toddler daughter the master bedroom. The largest room in the house, it has exposed beams and a vaulted ceiling. It was originally a rather sickening pink, but we since repainted and carpeted it for her in a cool blue. It's filled with treasures: riding ribbons and trophies, a select assortment of stuffed animals and "pillow pals," autographed pictures and CD liners from her favorite bands.

Originally, the room housed a wonderful dollhouse, a tea party table and chairs set, and a toy ranch complete with stables, paddocks, and countless plastic livestock. When she started getting homework, toys were moved to the side and a small oak student desk was brought in. By middle school, the small desk was too small, so we added a butcher block table and created an L-shaped study area. In all our parental wisdom, we congratulated ourselves on this well-eqipped, ergonomically excellent solution. Desk lamp? Check. Laptop with monitor, printer, keyboard and mouse? Check. Filing system? Check. Shelves and drawers? Check. School supplies? Check. Swivel chair? Check, check, check.

So, what happened?

First of all, the desk area is rarely if ever uncluttered. Piles of paper everywhere, pictures, iPhone accessories, tchotchke treasures. There are empty orange soda cans, popcorn bags and bowls with the crusty remains of Ben & Jerry's.

Next, and despite my husband's skepticism that this is a real issue, her textbooks have gotten bigger. When open, the AP World History one looks like the Audubon Society Baby Elephant Folio.

Then, there are all the distractions. Magazines and beauty products, not to mention the constant barrage of incoming electronica.

So, my daughter, recognizing that homework is next to godliness, chooses to bring her books (including the elephantine ones) down to the dining room. She sets herself up there and does seem to be able to concentrate and get things done. The only problem is that our TV room is right next door — next door but without the benefit of an actual door. So whether my husband wants to watch the news or I want to troll through old Masterpiece Theatre episodes, we can't do so without disturbing our little bookworm.

First world problem, I know, I know.

Many moons again, when our daughter was a mere baby (or maybe not even one yet), my husband and I agreed — in principle — that we would always support each other. That we would present a unified parental front. This homework-in-the-dining-room situation has pretty much undermined our best intentions.

You see, my husband still wants to watch the news.

But, I think homework trumps all. 

At least for about fifteen more months.

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

One Thing At A Time

In his youth, my husband waited tables for many years at diverse fine dining establishments. (He was also once the "Wharf Rat," wearing a fuzzy life-sized rodent costume in honor of a seaside restaurant's concept cocktail — but that's another story.) When we go out for dinner, it drives him nuts if a member of the waitstaff doesn't work efficiently. For example, if he or she is carrying a pitcher of water to someone else's table, passing by your half-empty glasses along the way. Or if they come over when you've finished eating, ask if you'd like coffee or dessert, then leave with your new order in hand but without any of your finished plates.

I never worked at a restaurant, but I did sell shoes all through college and after hours to supplement my first job in publishing (because the salary they were paying made it very clear that they only wanted to work with young people who had trust funds). The same concept of efficient traffic applied there as well. If I was going back into the stock room for a pair of red suede boots, I should pick up the pile of discarded high-heeled pumps and strappy sandals on my way.

Despite years of yoga, I still try to do more than one thing at a time — often with alarming consequences. My office is on the top floor of a nearly 200-year-old house. The stairs are steep, winding and uneven. When I need a coffee refill, I'm never content to simply carry my mug downstairs. Oh no, that would be too easy and shockingly inefficient. Instead, I grab the cup, my empty yogurt container and spoon, the outgoing mail, rough drafts to be recycled, and my cell phone. This leaves no free hand to hold the stair rail. 

Suffice it to say, I don't need yet another broken foot.

Nevertheless, fractured metatarsals aside, I'm not satisfied unless I'm accomplishing as much as possible. People like me typically point with pride to such obsessive and foolish behavior as "multitasking."

Of course, my teenage daughter and her generation have brought the concept of multitasking to a whole new level. When she heads up to her room after dinner to do homework, there's a lot more going on than one might think. Yes, she has her colossal AP U.S. History textbook open, notebook next to it, pen at the ready (only 24 pages of notes tonight, no worries). But, she also has her laptop running. She's uploading a video to Vimeo, streaming iTunes and emailing a teacher. Meanwhile, her iPhone is also in use. She's participating in multiple group texts, reviewing another teacher's PowerPoint slides, taking and posting study selfies, and playing Trivia Crack.

My best friend has three children several years older than mine. (Two are in med school and one is pursuing a PhD in nursing — underachievers all.) She told me that it took her youngest much longer to finish homework than the other two. The reason being that by the time the youngest was in high school, the kids had smart phones and access to all of the life-enhancing apps I've outlined above.

The idea of simply sitting in one place and studying for an hour or two (or four) is absolutely alien now. So I wonder are we raising a whole generation of people with attention-deficit disorder? Or are we witnessing the rise of a race of super efficient multitaskers extraordinaire?

And, if so, how will we pay for all those broken feet?

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

Mid-Terms

Mid-Terms
(Sung to the tune of Michael Jackson's Thriller)

It's close to midnight.

But someone here's still working in the dark.

She's got her laptop, 

Hoping she'll succeed and make her mark.

She wants to scream but panic takes the sound before she makes it.

She starts to freeze as index cards dance before her eyes,

She's paralyzed.

'Cause this is mid-terms, mid-terms week,

And no one's gonna save her with the answers that she seeks.

She knows it's mid-terms, mid-terms time.

She's fighting for that grade and it's an uphill, uphill, uphill, uphill climb.

She hears a door close and on the steps she thinks she hears a shoe.

Her parents would help — if, that is, they had the slightest clue.

Geometry, it doesn't make much sense. The test is looming.

But all the while, she feels her college chances slip away.

Filled with dismay!

'Cause this is mid-terms, mid-term tests.

She wishes she had studied a little harder with the rest.

She knows it's mid-terms, mid-terms week.

She's running out of time and really starting, starting, starting to freak.

An exam each day, and there's really nowhere left to hide.

The tests are coming, they're closing in on her on every side.

Honors English: Copperfield, Gilgamesh, Of Mice and Men ...

Biology, French, World Cultures ... oh, if only she could trade,

And go back to eighth grade.

'She can't, it's mid-terms, mid-term days.

She knows she'll soon regret her former care-free lazy ways.

Because it's mid-terms, mid-terms time.

And it's an uphill, uphill, uphill, uphill climb.

(spoken)

Darkness falls across the land,

Mid-term tests are close at hand.

Terror seizes freshman blood,

All throughout y'alls neighborhood.

The saddest cries in the air,

The grim prospect of three more years.

And grizzly ghouls each dawn awake,

Because they stayed up way too late.

And though she tries to cram her head

That A+ isn't firm

For all mere freshmen come to dread

The evil of the mid-term.

Testing

We all dream of the moments of truth when the world — and our teenagers, especially our teenagers — will see us for the heroes we truly are. We will know exactly what to say and do. We will inspire the artist, mend the broken heart, lift the wrecked car off the child pinned underneath.

Well, I just missed one of those opportunities. All right, it was nothing quite so dramatic. But, it was a test of sorts.

Compliments of Columbus Day and teacher training, my teen daughter recently enjoyed a four-day weekend. Here are some of the things she did: 

• Had dinner with friends visiting from out of town
• Competed in a 3-phase equestrian event
• Rode at the stable not once, not twice, but three times
• Went to see Perks of a Wallflower
• Had frozen yogurt at Orange Leaf
• Hung out at a friend's house
• Attended a formal bar mitzvah bash
• Watched back episodes of Switched at Birth on our old iPad
• Played videogames on her new iPhone

Here's what she did not do:

• Study for her World Cultures test

While her sainted mother was aware (and more or less approved) of all the items on the first list, she was blissfully ignorant of the single item on the second. I learned about the exam the night before the exam. Late, in fact, on the night before the exam.

It wasn't pretty.

We were warned that high school was going to be a tough transition. No more recess. No more hand-holding. No more easy A's racked up by my daughter and her classmates in middle school. Until last night, I thought my daughter and I were on the same page. Her schedule includes two study halls, which are to be used for homework and ... well ... study. (Duh.) Her schoolwork has to come first, then she can ride and compete and shovel manure to her heart's content.

When queried over the long weekend, my daughter kept repeating, "My homework's done." And, if we are going to be literal, she was telling the truth. The homework due the day after the break was, indeed, done. Preparing for the test, however, was not. In fact, it was being thoroughly ignored.

News flash, my dearest daughter: if the teacher gives you a week or ten days notice about a big test, chances are he thinks you need ... oh ... a week or ten days to prepare. I'm just guessing here.

I knew we were in trouble when she came up to my office to complain that the school's website was down. I shrugged it off. After all, if the site was down the teacher would understand and give kids an extra day, right? Wrong. It turns out that the material my daughter was trying to download was the study guide for the test. It would hardly behoove us for her instructor to find out that she hadn't looked at it until the last day.

But, if there's anything that teenagers are adept at, it's work-arounds. She texted a number of classmates and found one who could email the worksheets to her. Problem solved? Not exactly. 

More like problem exposed.

The short-lived panic about the website opened up an issue my daughter was clearly trying to avoid (just like she was trying to avoid studying in the first place). The jig was up. Mommy Dearest now knew that (a) there was a test, and (b) her little scholar had not held up her end of the bargain. 

The evening will not be remembered fondly. My daughter crammed for her test (on top of having to read two chapters of Lord of the Flies — for the record, one of the most miserable novels ever written). My husband and I fumed and marched about spewing what must have sounded like we were completely out-of-touch and Monday-morning-quarterbacking. "You got yourself into this mess ..." "You were not responsible ..." "It's up to you to know how much work you have to do and pace yourself ..." Blah, blah, blah.

Not that we were wrong. No, we were right. It's just that our timing was not very effective. We finally went to bed and I heard my daughter give it up about an hour later. 

This morning, my daughter was clearly worse for wear. She took a long long long shower, which prompted more parental badgering. As I heard her finally coming downstairs, I vowed to wait and discuss the situation after school. I would just say one quick insightful thing and let it go until later. I imagined my best self, offering firm but compassionate and blessedly brief words of wisdom.

And, I may have. But, she shrugged me off with that look of utter disdain (the look that all mothers of teens know and loathe). And, I lost it. So much for brevity or moderation. I launched into a fairly verbose recitative of all her failings, complete with extravagant threats that we both know will never be carried through. I definitely didn't sound like my best self. 

She sneered and left. At least for the moment, we had a common enemy. Me. I flunked this particular test.

Let's just hope my daughter does better on hers.