I've said it before. My teenage daughter is a groupie. It's official.
Actually, it's been official for quite some time.
She started going to concerts a couple of years ago. Mostly, she goes to hear bands that I've never heard of at venues I've never been to. In fact, when one of her bands makes it big (like Imagine Dragons did after they were covered on Glee — oh, and won a Grammy — or like Walk the Moon has with "Shut Up and Dance With Me"), it irritates her to no end. Suddenly ticket prices soar; suddenly it's harder to get autographs, drumsticks, playlists and selfies; suddenly her bands play at 21 and up clubs where she can't go.
The horror!
Recently, the concerts have become bigger — I'm sure she would argue "better" — experiences. For example, we had the all-day vigil outside the House of Blues; and our mother-daughter evening in Boston. Now, she's crossing state lines.
This past weekend, my daughter and a bestie went down to Providence, Rhode Island to see a band at some waterfront venue somewhere. This concerned me. I've pretty much, almost, sort of gotten over my fear of her driving. But, going to and from her stable is one thing. Driving on highways to another state is ... well ... another.
Luckily, my husband pointed out that driving to Providence on a Friday in the summer would not be a very good idea. You see, in between Boston and Providence is this peninsula called Cape Cod (you may have heard of it). The highway I was so afraid of would be a parking lot, and they would get there at about half past never.
Hooray for public transportation!
The girls left our town later than they had planned (but earlier than they would have if I had insisted that my daughter go change into a different tank top that didn't showcase her bra quite so much). They drove to the nearest T station, got on a train to Boston, and then took the commuter rail down to Providence. By now, my daughter knows that frequent texts and a selfie or two go a long way toward calming my nerves. She sent a picture of the two of them enjoying a particularly nutritious South Station breakfast: pretzel bites.
By all accounts (and a handful of text messages), their day in Providence was great fun. They found "the cool neighborhood" with its own Urban Outfitters. They got elaborate henna tattoos on their hands. And they arrived at the concert venue two hours early so they could snag and save front row seats. The last train back to Boston was at 10:40 pm and they were to be on it. No excuses, no kidding. They had to catch that train on pain of death. (Really. If my husband or I had to drive two hours to rescue them, heads were definitely going to roll.)
Despite the looming curfew, they had a wonderful time. They met the band and got autographed CDs. And, they made the train. They were home by about 1:00 am. I was already asleep upstairs. My husband was asleep with the puppy on the couch.
As is my way these days, I reminded myself that I was fairly autonomous at my daughter's age. In fact, I was younger
than she is when I went to visit colleges. A high school classmate and I
took Amtrak from New York to Boston, and stayed with an older girl from our school in
Harvard Square. I took the bus to Tufts, and toured the campus by myself, hitting all the
important things — the arena theatre, a dining hall, a dorm, the library — then took the bus back. On the next and last day of my visit, I
went into Boston, where I fell in love with Beacon Hill and Faneuil Hall and the Charles River and the North End. I applied to Tufts early decision and didn't look back.
I realized a while ago that my daughter's life is more exciting than mine these days. While she was in a state of bliss in, oddly enough, the state of Rhode Island, I realized that I might also be in a state.
A state of agitation.
A state of anxiety.
A state of emergency.
Then I decided that it would be better for all involved if I took a little trip to the state of acceptance. It was a much better place to be.
I just wish they had henna tattoos there.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
We have a phrase we use at ad agencies: "Project creep." It's when you think you understand the parameters of a project, establish a budget accordingly, and then as time goes by, the project ... well ... creeps. It grows; it morphs; it evolves; it changes.
And never in the agency's favor.
So, you think you're designing a six-page brochure for a software client. Then, halfway through, they remember to tell you that the center page is actually a centerfold, meaning there are four extra pages. Or a healthcare client neglects to inform you that the flyer you're writing has to be translated into Spanish, Mandarin and Creole. Or a financial services client reminds you that there need to be eight versions of that direct mail piece and they're sure they mentioned it at some point to someone. But, in all of the cases above, the budgets and schedules remain the same.
This is what we call "project creep."
In truth, I've experienced a lot less "project creep" since founding my own agency thirteen years ago. There are so few of us and we work so closely with each client that less creeps through the cracks.
But, I was reminded of "project creep" the other day.
We have a deal with our seventeen-year-old daughter. She has a handful of favorite bands and loves going to concerts, many of which are on school nights. She would, of course, absolutely die, if she missed Magic Man or Walk the Moon or Panic at the Disco, so we've agreed that she can go to their concerts. Provided:
- All homework is completed
- She and her friends pay for their own tickets and "merch" (band swag they sell at the venue)
- She maintains her Honor Roll GPA
- She gives us not one iota of grief getting up the next morning
Going to concerts used to mean that we or some other parents took the teens into town or picked them up afterwards (and there were times when we were somehow on duty both directions, wtf?). But now, with their freshly minted licenses in hand, the kids drive themselves. Not all the way into Boston (I've been driving 25 years and I find parking there daunting), but to the nearest public transportation.
And, that, my friends, is where the recent "creep" crept in.
We had agreed that she could see some band she loves at the House of Blues. It was actually a weekend gig, so it should have been simpler than usual.
Mais non.
The day before the show, we suddenly learned that our daughter and her BFF planned to leave the house at 4:45 am so they could catch the very first train into town at 5:20 am so they could be on line outside the House of Blues by 6:00 am.
As you've probably guessed, the concert did not start at 6:00 am. Or any time near it.
The reason for the pre-dawn departure was that the first two people in line with disposable cameras were going to win a once-in-a-lifetime prize. The band's official photographer was going to take those cameras backstage and snap all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime candids of the band before, during and after their set. The only way our girls could win this once-in-a-lifetime contest was if they guaranteed their place at the very head of the line, so of course they had to be there as early as humanly possible.
It was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In a "project creep" sort of way.
We said, "No."
"But you said I could go!" she protested. "You knew about it! And I always go early and stand on line!"
She had a point. We did, indeed, say she could go (to the concert). We did, indeed, know about it (the concert). And she did, indeed, always go early and stand in line — early like four hours before (the concert).
Not EARLY like 6:00 am.
Spring comes late here and it would still be fairly dark when they arrived at their not-yet-open destination. I personally wouldn't want to be on Boston's Landsdowne Street at 6:00 am. Lined with clubs and bars, and across the street from Fenway Park, it's not exactly the safest area and certainly wouldn't be very populated on a Saturday at ohmigod-o'clock.
As you can imagine, if you are the lucky parent of a teen whose plans are threatened to be thwarted, much drama ensued.
I don't know if I was particularly tired or she wore me down or I had a flashback to my own teens when I pretty much owned Manhattan and didn't yet fear death. At any rate, we finally came to a compromise. She could go, as planned, but I expected a check-in text every half hour. No ifs, ands or buts.
"Or," I told her, finger in her face, "I will drive into town and hunt you down and drag you out of that line and home!" For good measure, I added, "And you will never never ever go to another concert again!"
How she kept from laughing is beyond me, but she readily agreed.
True to her word, she did text me every 30 minutes on the dot. They were informative and affectionate messages:
we're here
here
still here
Eventually, I did get a more effusive message letting me know that they had won the contest and their cameras were now in the hands of the photographer. Oh, and they met the band (again) and she got a drumstick (again). Then, I got an actual call (gasp!) to let me know that her battery was dying but they were going to charge her phone behind the bar and she wouldn't be able to text again until after the show. But she would, she promised, and "thank you soooooooo much" for letting them do this.
My husband and I had a nice dinner, watched an episode of Mr. Selfridge, and eventually went to bed. But, I'm a mother, so I didn't fall asleep until I heard the gate ...
and my daughter creeping in.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
