Misty, Water-Logged Memories of The Way We Were

We live in a small seaside community about 45 minutes north of Boston. The town is on a peninsula, so we are literally surrounded by water. Summers are beautiful. Winters are picturesque.

Floods happen.

This past week, we had a sudden and severe rainstorm. Because it happened at high tide, many of the town's drains, which typically send rainwater out to the harbor, couldn't keep up.

The storm hit right as my tween daughter was getting ready for school, making a rather challenging part of the day even more of a struggle. Within minutes, it seemed, our patio had a foot of standing water. My husband had to run out and move our cars to higher ground. He then raced off to help my in-laws who have a history of flooding. In his defense, he assumed we were fine because our basement has a French drain down its length and not one, but two automatic sump pumps.

My daughter and I bundled up in layers of foul weather gear, went out the front and waded through a neighbor's property which was slightly less engulfed than ours. We drove the mile to her middle school through intersections that were fast becoming lakes. The parking lot at the school had already flooded and police officers rerouted us (and the dozens of families behind) to a side entrance. It was all very dramatic. In some low-lying places, less fortunate cars had stalled and were practically submerged. I carefully watched the water levels around the cars ahead of me to avoid the same fate.

Through it all, I looked forward to getting back to the house, enjoying a nice hot hazelnut coffee from my beloved Keurig single cup brewer, and working on some new ad copy for a client. All with the peace of mind that comes with having not one, but two automatic sump pumps.

This is the part of our story that my daughter would refer to as a "Fail." In fact, it was an "Epic Fail."

The equation was very simple. Way too much rain, way too fast equals storm drains backing up equals nearly three feet of water in our basement. The pumps were still pumping, but the water was running right back in. By the time I returned from school, my husband was already down in the cellar, thigh-high in water, trying to decide whether or not to shut the power off. Plastic cartons and cardboard boxes were floating by him.

At this point, I stood at the base of the cellar stairs (it was really the fourth or fifth stair up because the lower ones were under water) and did something I'm not terribly proud of.

I whined.

It was probably more like a high-pitched moan, urgent, pained, helpless. Less human; more feline in distress. "My agency samples ...?" I pleaded. "Halloween decorations ...?" "My books ...?" "All our LPs ...?" My husband shrugged and shot me a look that conveyed, "Hey, I'm dealing with bigger issues here." Then, I remembered another box that was back there.

"Oh no! My dolls!"

Time stood still and my words hung there. Then, after twenty-five years together, this became one of those moments that go down in household history as an example of my husband earning major major major good guy points.

Here's what was on his mind: the water heater ($$$$), the furnace ($$$$), the washer and dryer ($$$$) — all of which were sitting in two-plus feet of water.

Here's what was on my mind: my Madame Alexander dolls.

And, here's what happened. He stopped what he was doing and waded into the back basement, found the plastic tub marked "Dolls," pulled it out and brought it, dripping, upstairs to rest on the tiles in front of our dining room fireplace. Any thoughts of work (or even coffee) went out of my head as I started my rescue and recovery mission.

At first, it seemed the damage would be minimal; the dolls on top were only a little damp. But as I dug deeper, I found dolls face down in several inches of water. Wet hair, sopping gowns, matted velvet shoes. Jo March, a favorite 10-inch portrait doll was not only wet, she had been decapitated. The forty year old rubber bands that held her limbs to her torso had crumbled away. If my sound effects on the stairs had been pathetic, the noises I made now as I pulled these cherished playthings out was downright anguished.

These dolls were my most treasured childhood possession. They aren't really valuable; many show signs of much loving wear and tear. Beth's apron had been mended. Alice in Wonderland's leg was replaced after she was struck with a dreaded form of doll flesh eating disease. When my daughter was little, I displayed my collection along with new ones she received for birthdays and Christmases on shelves around her room.

But, unlike her mother, my daughter was never much of a doll person. She quickly outgrew Barbies and Polly Pockets. We invested much time (and even more money) at American Girl Place in New York, but once she had read all the books and set up a little dormitory under the eaves on our top floor, she lost interest in those dolls as well. The Madame Alexander dolls were always my thing, not hers. But they looked adorable around her room.

Until the horses came. As my daughter spent more and more time at stables, her room began to look like one. Horse bedding, horse posters, horse show ribbons, and Breyer horse models. Breyers quickly became her collectible of choice and eventually the dolls (mine and the ones that were supposedly hers) were packed carefully away. I couldn't bear to part with them and maybe someday they would be loved again. After all, being a doll person may skip a generation.

Here's something to remember: overpriced archival acid-free tissue paper doesn't offer much protection ... when it's WET.

So, I picked the bits of soggy paper off my dolls, carefully undressed them, spread them out on huge beach towels and brought out all our electric fans plus my blow dryer. In addition to Jo's having been dismembered, there were only minor casualties: some red dye that had run on a white apron, a bedraggled feather fan on an elegant French miss, a few hairdos that had seen better days. Wary of putting them away until they were completely moisture-free, the dolls remained on view the next couple of days. Our house looked like the home of one of those crazy lonely ladies who order dolls from the Home Shopping Network and talk to them like they're family.

It is now four days since our flood. We're supposed to have hot water again soon. We've already made countless trips to the dump. And, we're planning a massive exodus to the nearest laundromat. I've vowed to clear out any and everything that we no longer need. As my Scarlet O'Hara doll would vow, tiny plastic first raised high, "As God is my witness, that flood is not going to lick me!"

Events like this one — painful, expensive, frustrating events — help put things in perspective. After all, despite all the drowned belongings, I can still say (as I often do to my daughter), "They're things, not people." No one was hurt. We didn't lose our home. Apparently, we didn't really need most of the stuff in our basement. There was a reason why agency samples were down there rather than family photos.

My future granddaughter's dolls, however, are now safe and sound (and in Jo's case, rebuilt), in acid-free, archival storage boxes, under my bed. Two stories above sea-level.

Tweens: From Play Dates to Playmates?

The sexification of underage girls continues to make news. Earlier this year, we had Abercrombie Kids selling padded bra bikinis for eight-year olds. More recently, one of the diminutive divas of the so-called reality show Toddlers and Tiaras was dressed to thrill as the hooker with a heart from Pretty Woman.

The adorable little prostitute in question? Just three years old.

Both stories gained the parties involved (a major retailer and an ambitious stage mother in need of major therapy) tons of publicity. While many of the news reports expressed outrage, the media soaked the stories for all they were worth. Whether you're looking to sell bathing suits, sell your daughter or sell advertising dollars, clearly there is money to be made.

So, are any of us really surprised that the company that tarted up America's girls next door would want in on the act? Playboy has just licensed its famous bunny head to Diva, an Australia-based chain of jewelry and accessory stores that targets tweens and teens.

A little background. The bunny logo was designed in October 1953 by Arthur Paul. Today it is one of the world's most recognized trademarks. According to Playboy's website, the rabbit was chosen "to depict the lighter side of life, the rabbit being, to many people, the "playboy" of the animal world." By embracing the bunny, men are embracing their right to live like Hugh Hefner. Smoking jacket, L.A. mansion, beautiful blondes. Ah yes, the so-called lighter side of life.

For men maybe. But the way that the bunny logo is used on female models and cocktail waitresses doesn't feel quite so light. Whether as a piece of jewelry, silk-screened on a tee or tattooed on a breast, the bunny seems to communicate that the woman in question has received at best an admiring nod and at worst a brand like a piece of livestock. Her body is so bodacious that it would be a crime to keep it under wraps. The ultimate seal of approval? Playboy itself is staking a claim.

People may think I'm overreacting. After all, Playboy is still fairly tame compared to Penthouse and other adult publications. I actually think that's part of what bothers me. By combining the wholesome with the salacious, the wide-eyed girl in braids whose school uniform — oops! — happens to be unbuttoned down to there, Playboy seems to condone lusting after neighbors and nieces. It's the same issue I have with Hooters. (Are you a restaurant or a titty bar? Make up your mind!) I'm all right with pornography and adult entertainment when it's promoted as such. When it involves consenting adults and only consenting adults. It's the blurring of the lines that worries me.

And, to my mind, selling Playboy-themed jewelry at a store that caters to the junior high and high school set is some serious line-blurring.

So, a girl my daughter's age buys a necklace (or worse, one of the little bow ties that harken back to the heyday of the Playboy Club) at Diva. What is she saying? "When I grow up I want to take my clothes off for money." Or, "Look at my breasts now." Our little girls are growing up too fast as it is! And, I for one, do not want men leering at my daughter in the same way that they oggle Miss November.

Finally, I have to add that sexualization aside, a brand that objectifies women has no place in a shop that is dictating what's hot and what's not to impressionable young girls. Playboy playmates are held up as desirable for what's on their chests, not what's in their heads. If you have any doubts, check out an old episode of The Girls Next Door. Hef's three girlfriends (why settle for one, after all, when you're celebrating the lighter side of life?) are busty and blonde, but they aren't exactly a brain trust.

I know that girls want to look pretty and even feel sexy, but please let's help them set their sights a little higher.

I Know How She Does It

I always assumed my beautiful little daughter would grow up to love the same things I do. Oh well ... That was one of many (many, many) expectations I had to reset. I'm a neat freak; she's a slob. I like dressing up; she prefers dressing down. I love wandering through museums; she'd rather wander through the woods ... on the back of a horse.

So, I was very pleased when she agreed to go to the movies with me this weekend. I love movies, any movies. The more movies, the better. My daughter was humoring me, but I didn't care. We were going to the movies!

We selected I Don't Know How She Does It. I'm a big big fan of the book; I related to working mother Kate from the very first page when she was distressing a store-bought pie in order to pass it off as homemade at the school bake sale. "This is so me!" I thought. And, indeed, in 2002 when the book was published, I really was living a parallel life of the novel's heroine. I was juggling a marriage, a home, a preschool child and a high pressure job. I was flying to Seattle every other week for an important client. I was bribing my daughter (and assuaging my guilt) with unnecessary airport souvenirs. I hadn't quite stooped to pretending other people's pies were my own — but only because I hadn't thought of it.

Bloody brilliant!

Anyway, I wasn't so sure I would like the movie. Film adaptations often fall short of books — especially beloved books. And, the choice of Sarah Jessica Parker worried me. From the preview, it appeared that much of the movie's story would be told in a first person narrative. Could we really sit through ninety minutes of SJP's voiceover without hearing Carrie Bradshaw?

We were willing to try. We bought two popcorns and a diet coke (we also smuggled in some Reece's mini peanut butter cups — shhhhhhhh) and settled into our seats. The movie hasn't received great reviews and the theatre was fairly empty, so we had our choice of seats and plenty of room to spread out. After what seemed like an age of ads and features and trailers, it began.

There she was! Distressing that pie! Once again, I recognized myself. Sarah Jessica Parker did a terrific job making you believe that a woman who is lucky enough to love her job and lucky enough to love her family has pretty much run out of luck. Everyone conspires against you: the impatient boss, the conniving coworker, the judgmental in-laws, the holier-than-thou PTA moms. My only criticism would be that Kate, understandably frazzled, was a bit too disheveled from the get-go. It would have been more fun to watch her crumble over time.

Parker was backed up by a solid supporting cast: Christina Hendricks, Kelsey Grammar, Seth Meyers, Jane Curtin. Greg Kinnear, a personal favorite since his early days on Talk Soup, was endearing as Kate's long-suffering husband. And, Pierce Brosnan was appropriately dashing as her business associate, would-be romance. (My daughter, by the way, editorialized mid-movie that Brosnan gives her the creeps ever since he attempted to sing in Mamma Mia! I told her she wasn't "the target audience.")

We both thoroughly enjoyed our afternoon at the movies. But, the best part was the drive home when I shared my own working mommy stories. Like ...

The time I was pulled out of line at an airport gate to have my bags hand-checked. (This was right after 9/11.) The very serious security woman had quite a shock when she unzipped my bag and three enormous Power Puff Girl pillows popped out. Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup must have been happy to be released. They were squeezed in so tight, I had to sit on my carry-on to close it.

Back when I was pregnant and had to leave one meeting at a utility company six times to throw up. My female coworker explained, "Oh, don't worry about her. She's just having a baby." The all-male room violently shuddered and gasped out loud. They thought I was having said baby ... like, NOW.

Once when I went to a client's office to make an important presentation and learned afterwards that I had glitter all over my suit jacket because we were going through a fairy princess phase. (Hey, when you think of all the things that could end up on a toddler's mother's jacket, glitter ain't so bad!)

The countless zingers I received from well-meaning relatives and stay-at-home moms. The playdates that I couldn't reciprocate. The store-bought bake sale contributions. Staying home from work because of her conjunctivitis. (Going to work with my own conjunctivitis.) The time I missed a flight in Chicago and sat in O'Hare's Terminal 2 sobbing because I wasn't going to get home in time to tuck a particular little person in.

But, through it all, I wouldn't have changed a thing. All right, maybe I wouldn't have missed that flight. And, maybe I would have kept a lint brush handy. It was tough and often (so often!) I felt like I was shortchanging my job or shortchanging my family, and always always always shortchanging myself.

But, I set a good example for my daughter. When I told her (and tell her) that she can succeed in a man's world, she knows I believe it because she's seen me do it.

It ain't always easy, but I do know how she does it. And so does every working mother.

What's The Matter With Adults These Days?

I've heard that there are some very informative and entertaining morning shows on TV.

Personally, I wouldn't know.

You see, from the moment I get up until my daughter is safely out the door, I don't sit down. There's breakfast to be made, lunch to be packed, homework to be nagged about, dress code to be double checked. There are plenty of last minute firedrills too ... "I can't find any clean gym shorts." Or "Can you proofread and print my 10-page science report?"

My husband does, from time to time, clue me in on any news he thinks is ... well ... newsworthy. These include hardcore journalism subjects like the arts, book reviews, fashion week, guest appearances by my favorite performers. But, this morning, he recorded a Today Show segment that I found particularly upsetting.

The story focused on Internet gossip in a small Missouri town. Not just any town, but Mountain Grove, where my mother grew up and where my sister, brother and I spent many of our childhood summers. According to reporter Kevin Tibbles, a number of residents there have been targeted with vicious gossip on a website called Topix. And, it is tearing up the community.

Mountain Grove is located about an hour from Springfield in the southern part of the state. Its population is 4,500 people, up by about 25% from the Mountain Grove I knew in the 1960s and 70s. The town's small size was only one of the features that made it such a contrast to my home in New York City.

We lived in a high rise in midtown Manhattan with a terrace, elevators and a doorman. But, in the summers, we enjoyed a different set of amenities. My grandmother's house on West First Street had big yards, front and back, a robust vegetable garden, an attic in which to play dress-up, and a cellar filled with canned peaches and pickles. We used to boast that we had the best of both worlds. Sophisticated city living during the school year, and clean country air and bare feet in July and August. And, one of the biggest differences was the anonymity of the big apple compared to the "everybody knows your name" feeling of small town America.

Well, it appears that some of the people in Mountain Grove not only know each other's names but have chosen to smear them online. The Today story included a woman who was accused of running a sex club and another who has been called "a whore with AIDS" and is planning to move away as soon as she can.

It's important to point out that the entire town is not participating. But, Topix, which claims to be the leading news community on the Web, "connecting people to the information and discussions that matter to them in every U.S. town and city," does have over 500 users in its Mountain Grove forum. Do some quick math and you realize that it's a significant percentage of the town's adults.

And, that's what troubles me most. We are talking about adults. When my daughter and her friends get into a little trouble online (and, believe me, they do — although, thankfully, nothing too serious), I chalk it up to immaturity and inexperience. We discuss what's appropriate — and what's not — frequently. My daughter would roll her eyes and say, "Yeah, way too frequently." The lessons I try to teach are also being echoed by school principals and guidance counselors. I always assume that she'll get through the troublesome tween years and grow into a respectful cyber citizen someday.

But, maybe I shouldn't be so confident. Look at the examples out there. Not just the mean-spirited posters in Mountain Grove — who I firmly believe are just a small if vocal minority of its citizens and whose behavior is in no way unique to that town. But, what about popular celebrities and our elected officials? There are too many scandals and far too many news stories about inappropriate tweeting, texting and emailing. Whatever happened to privacy? And good manners? And spelling?

Kids will be kids. In my day and age, pre-caller I.D., we made crank phone calls. We could be mean. There were certainly bullies. Gossip is nothing new, but even the most salacious whispered tidbit didn't circulate the way an online observation can today. We all know this. In theory, we all agree that it's a terrible thing. But, the bad behavior continues to grow and to get attention. I had never heard of Topix before this morning. If I want to start a nasty rumor, I know just where to go.

Many years ago, Stephen Sondheim wrote a poignant and very intelligent song for his musical Into the Woods, called "Children Will Listen." In it, he warns that we have to be careful of the things we do because children will look to us as models. They listen (sometimes), but more importantly they observe.

Let's hope that when it comes to living life out loud online, my daughter's generation will do as we say, and not as we do.

Hot Child in the City

After spending two summers in Connecticut, my daughter tried a new riding camp in Vermont this year. The cross-country course was better. The food was worse. The cabins were better. The activities were worse. The other girls?

"BESTEST EVER!!!!!! BFFS 4EVER 4LIFE!!!!!! OMG!!!! THEY ARE MY BESTIES!!!!!"

But, all good things come to an end, and a three-week eventing program is no exception. Parents arrived Saturday, watched their daughters compete in a three-phase show, stayed overnight nearby while the girls had an awards banquet, and before you could say "I'm gonna miss you so-o-o-o-o-o-o-o much," it was all over. Back to their separate lives in their separate states.

But, not to worry. This is 2011 after all. The girls became instantaneous Facebook friends. And after much texting, "poking," instant messaging and picture-posting, it was unanimously decided that a camp reunion was in order.

Several of my daughter's aforementioned "besties" live in the greater New York City area (New Jersey and Westchester county), so, the big apple would be the ideal place to meet. Although we're up in Massachusetts, I'm always game for a trip to my hometown. Grandma's bed and breakfast was available, so we set the date and a whirlwind of planning commenced.

Anyone who knows me will assure you that I am the queen of theme. So, I took it upon myself to come up with some ideas for this shindig.

"What if you all meet at the Central Park carousel?" I asked.

Blank stare. I kept going. "Horses? Y'know, horses? You guys all love horses?"

"Oh-h-h, that's a go-oo-od idea. Yeah. Uh-huh. I'll think about it." my daughter answered. From experience, I recognized this as "Lamest idea ever, Mom. I don't think so."

"Too bad the "Horse" exhibit isn't at the Museum of Natural History anymore," I continued.

"No offense, Mom ..." she began.

Time out. When my daughter says "No offense, Mom ..." I steel myself for something offensive. It reminds me of the line "With all due respect ..." as used in The Sopranos. Whenever one of the underlings started a statement, "With all due respect ..." you always knew they were about to disrespect Tony. And, Tony didn't react well to disrespect if you remember. Blood, guts, gore ... not well at all. Suffice it to say that my daughter is just lucky I'm a copywriter and not a mafia boss.

"No offense, Mom. But I don't think they're gonna want to hang in a museum."

I realized she was probably right, and promised to keep thinking. Meanwhile, one of her friends (who is clearly a better party planner than I am!), came up with an inspired and exacting itinerary. It went something like this:

12:30 Arrive Times Square, Meet at Forever 21

12:30 - 1:15 Shop at Forever 21

1:15 Walk to Abercrombie

1:30 - 2:15 Shop at Abercrombie

2:15 Frozen Yogurt Break

2:30 Walk to American Eagle Outfitters

2:45 - 3:30 Shop at American Eagle Outfitters

3:30 Walk to Italian Restaurant on 46th Street

4:00 Early Dinner Reservation

6:00 (Tearful) Good-bye

The girls were thrilled. Me? Not so much.

"Okay," I said. "So you and your friends are going to rendezvous in the greatest city in the world and you're going to spend your time in ... mall stores?"

She grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

Best advice I ever heard back when she was going through the terrible twos? "Choose your battles." This field trip of tween consumerism was not a battle I chose to choose. "Fine," I said.

At the appointed hour, we arrived at that historic New York landmark, Forever 21. There was much screaming and hugging and flinging one's tweenage self into each other's arms as the girls reunited. The moms introduced ourselves and wondered aloud at our daughters' enthusiasm and their determination to make this all happen.

The afternoon was a huge success. BESTEST DAY EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not only did each participant acquire new tee shirts and socks and jewelry and makeovers (Sephora happens to be right next to Forever 21 - OMG! Can you believe it?), but they had photos taken with a real ... wait for it, wait for it ... Abercrombie model!

"He should pull his pants up," I responded when my daughter proudly displayed her picture that evening at my mother's.

"Good one Mom," she chuckled. "Hellooo? He's an Ab-er-crom-bie model." She put the picture in her pocket and headed into the kitchen to hunt for snacks.

Famed New York Times reporter Meyer Berger once said, "Each man reads his own meaning into New York." Clearly, each mother-daughter team does too. For me, New York will always mean Broadway theatre and magnificent museums and incredible people-watching and long walks in Central Park. I've shared so many of these things with my daughter already. But, as she grows up, she'll find her own reasons to love the city so nice, they named it twice.

Spending the BESTEST DAY EVER with a crew of beloved friends isn't a bad place to start.

Like Daughter Like Mother?

When I had my daughter in 1997, I asked all the cool artsy urban friends I had collected over the years to help me stay cool and artsy and urban. I was thrilled to be a mother but a little afraid that I would suddenly become a stereotype. Y'know, a modern-day Stepford wife.

"Please," I urged them, "If you ever catch us in mother-daughter Lilly Pulitzer dresses, stage an intervention."

There was no reason to fear. Short of one matching pajama set (extremely cute flannel Nick and Nora pj's with sock monkeys on them), my daughter and I have never been interested in looking like two peas in a pod. She wears orange or lime green or bright red. I wear black or black or black (hey, I'm from New York). She wears tight jeggings or jodhpurs. I wear flowing yoga pants. She wears bikinis. I wear one-pieces. When it comes to our taste in clothes (like our taste in radio stations, snack foods, and popular fiction), I'm happy to report that the generation gap remains unbridged.

It doesn't bother me that my daughter is uninterested in emulating my style. (Most likely, if you asked her, she would roll her eyes as if to say, "What style?") And, I am certainly not trying to look her age. Sure, I would love to be thinner and younger; I would love to wear skinny jeans. But, they would be my skinny jeans, not hers. There's a good reason why the company NYDJ, "Not Your Daughter's Jeans," can charge over $100 a pair. Those of us who are no longer 20 (or 30 or even 40) are built differently.

My daughter and her friends are devoted to the latest trend. It's not so much that they want to be individuals yet; they actually want to look exactly alike. But, they definitely don't want to look like their dear old moms. This was recently reinforced in a study released by Temple University's Fox School of Business. Researchers surveyed 343 mother-daughter pairs. The average mother was 44; the average daughter 16. (This makes the average mother a little younger than yours truly, and the average daughter a little older than mine.)

The study indicated that when it comes to fashion, daughters were not influenced by the mothers. (Duh.) But a surprising number of mothers were influenced by their daughters. They termed these moms, "consumer doppelgängers." These women look to their teens for guidance on the latest styles and make-up. As the study's author Ayalla Ruvio explains, "Mimicking her daughter is like a shortcut to what is hip and cool."

Uh-oh. Now I guess I know why I'm not hip and cool — I have lots of issues with my daughter's choice of clothing. These should sound familiar to many moms. Low-cut jeans are cut too low. Short shorts are just too short. Bra straps belong inside not outside. Flip-flops do not a pair of party shoes make. But, generally speaking, my daughter is presentable if not downright cute when left to her own devices.

That said, even if I could fit into her Hollisters, I wouldn't want to. (If I could fit into Heidi Klum's mom jeans? Now, that's another story.)

When we go to the mall together (and these trips have increased along with my offspring's awareness of the benefits of retail therapy), we hit all the teen hot spots: Forever 21, Abercrombie, Hollister, American Eagle. But, the only person walking out with a purchase is my daughter. In exchange, I get a few minutes at Chico's, Talbots and J. Jill. More my size, my colors, my style (for what that's worth). I consider this a win-win. Trying to squish my 49-year old thighs into "Super Distressed Super Skinny Jeans" designed for someone who hasn't hit puberty yet? I think I'll pass.

And, that's okay with my daughter too. While the girls surveyed in the Temple study were proud if their mothers look attractive and stylish, it's embarrassing if the moms are obviously trying to look younger. So, there's no need for me to try and dress any age other than my own.

I embarrass my daughter enough without trying.

For another perspective on the Temple University study, read Dr. Ford's essay in Women's Voices for Change.

Morning Glory

"Good mornin', good mornin'!"

Y'know the scene in Singin' in the Rain when Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor realize that their evening was so late ... it's early? They've pulled an all-nighter figuring out how to transform the silent movie The Dueling Cavalier into the talkie The Dancing Cavalier. With their problem solved, they realize that the sun is already on its way up — which, this being an MGM musical, gives them yet another reason to sing and dance. It's a famous and memorable sequence in a well-loved Hollywood classic.

It's also a terrific way to torture your tween. Trust me.

You see, I am my daughter's alarm clock, among the many many (thankless, overworked, underpaid) jobs I have. Don't get me wrong; she has a clock. She has a clock that she picked out herself two years ago. She has a clock that has a brightly lit display in which every digit is a different fluorescent color. She has a clock that has an alarm so loud and so shrill that I can hear it three rooms down the hall even if I'm in the shower.

Unfortunately, my daughter, an otherwise normal and healthy young woman, is apparently deaf and blind at 6:30 in the morning. Which is why yours truly must take on the role of said clock. She sleeps right through the alarm. However ... she can't sleep through me.

When she was little, I couldn't wait to wake her up. She was a good sleeper and she was always sweet and cheerful in the mornings. She was happy to get up. She was happy to see me. We typically snuggled a few minutes before choosing an outfit (that we actually agreed about, imagine that!) and starting our day together. Since I worked full-time in a city an hour away, those minutes we had together before I dropped her off at daycare were particularly precious to me. To both of us, I think.

Well ... suffice it to say that mornings are different now. Like everyone else her age, my daughter can't seem to get enough sleep. We've tried earlier bedtimes. But, she has too much homework and too many activities (and, between you and me, too many friends with Facebook accounts) to get to bed any sooner than she already does.

Of course, the problem, she insists is that school starts too early. Not that she's staying up too late. (Nah, going to bed late and getting up early couldn't possibly be related, right? Those two factors could never turn a perfectly normal tween into a stark-raving, fire-breathing, head-spinning little monster, could they? Didn't think so.)

Here's our new routine. "Good morning, sweetie," I offer cheerfully.

She doesn't move.

I walk in and open all the blinds. Her room has seven windows on three walls; when the blinds are open, it is b-r-i-g-h-t. I adjust the bedspread and the covers and her stuffed animals (mostly horses but a few squirrels — I'm really not sure why), all of which are now on the carpet.

She doesn't move.

By now, I'm feeling some pressure. Let's see, I still need to make breakfast, pack lunch, double check that all homework is complete and in the backpack, get a sense of any after school plans, start my own day. So, I begin coaxing, then coercing, then nagging, then threatening.

And, if at any point, I really want to make her cringe, I sing ...

Good mornin', good mornin'!

We've talked the whole night through,

Good mornin', good mornin' to you.

Good mornin', good mornin'!

It's great to stay up late.

Good mornin', good mornin' to you!

I never have to sing it twice.