Earlier this week, I posted a story about some so-called calculator apps that offer users (read, "teens or adulterous spouses") a way to hide secret pictures (read, "sexts"). The post generated a lot of emails.
Some friends thanked me (and, no doubt, ran rather than walked to their offspring's cell phones to search for fake apps).
Others questioned whether parents should micromanage their child's mobile. How much supervision is too much? How much is, in reality, snooping?
Privacy vs. protection. It's a tough call sometimes and it can be a very fine line.
When
we first broke down and gave my now teenage daughter a cell phone, I
thought we were so on top of things. We knew her passwords; we checked
her emails. She gladly friended me on Facebook. She agreed to all the
parental surveillance because ... OMG! ... dreams do come true ... OMG!
... she was getting an iPhone! (OMG!)
It's
been six years now, and any control we had then (or, at least, thought
we had then) has pretty much gone bye-bye. We're still friends on
Facebook, but my daughter and her peers rarely use it anymore. (How can
you blame them? It's full of old people. Like me.) I don't know her
passwords, her user names, where she has accounts. All that oversight kind of evaporated over time.
Did we get lazy? Maybe. Did she also make valid points about her own maturity and privacy? Yes.
At
any rate, despite the big bad of technology, my daughter (at almost 18)
has about the same amount of autonomy I had. The devices change. But,
the secret life that your parents don't know much about? Well, that
remains the same. Not that I was any kind of bad girl, and (I assume,
hope, pray) neither is she. It's just that when you're "17 going on 18,"
you need some privacy. I wouldn't have wanted my mother going through my diary any more than my own daughter wants me snooping around her cell phone.
I don't
recommend checking up on your teen's online activity unless you have some reason for
concern. Chances are, you're not going to find anything to make you
happy. After all, how many kids text their friends to praise their
parents' parenting ways? If your child is doing fine in school and
doesn't seem to be having any trouble with alcohol, sex or drugs (or
even rock and roll), let them have their privacy.
On
the other hand, if you have legitimate worries (falling grades, changes
in health, signs of depression, or trouble at school or with the law),
that's different. Or if your daughter or son is too young to know what's
right and what's wrong online. Then, invading their privacy becomes more than your right. It becomes your responsibility.
For anyone who argues that you should never break your child's confidence, let me tell a sobering story. When my daughter was still a tween, our PTO presented a number of programs on online safety. One evening, we learned about a boy who had been savagely bullied online and eventually committed suicide. His father had respected his son's privacy but insisted that the boy write down all his passwords and leave them in a sealed envelope. After the suicide, the father was able to use those passwords to track down the kids who had made his son feel so hopeless. They were then held accountable (in whatever half-assed way juveniles are held accountable for online cruelty and harassment — yes, that comment's meant to be as bitter as it sounds). All the parents were nodding and making mental notes to go home and get those secret passwords onto paper and into sealed envelopes.
I wanted to scream. "But, it's too late! The kid is dead!"
In hindsight, doesn't that father wish he had looked at his son's texts and emails sooner? You know he does.
Of course, this is only one story and most (statistically it would be: "virtually all") online activity doesn't end so tragically. But, I don't think you can condemn scrutinizing kids' usage altogether. If there are warning signs (legitimate, objective warning signs), go for it.
Risk their wrath; that's your job.
Just ask yourself if you're doing it for their sake or for yours. And be as honest with yourself as you've asked them to be.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
A few days ago a friend, who happens to be the terrific mother of two tween girls, posted a video and asked me to blog about it.
Pamela Casey, a District Attorney from Alabama, created the quick clip to warn parents about "Calculator%" an app that appears harmless on your child's phone but can be unlocked and used as a secret photo album.
Turns out there are several apps that provide the same functionality.
Private Photo (Calculator%) is getting the most attention right now. The app lets your teen store private photos and videos, hidden
behind an actual calculator. Once he or she puts in a secret passcode, they're able to access a private area, where files are securely stored and remain completely confidential.
Smart Hide Calculator is also a fully functional calculator app. But, once the teen enters his or her password and presses the '=' button, they're able to "hide" or "unhide"
pictures, videos, documents or files.
SpyCalc offers a free ad-supported version as well as a paid one. Again, calculator functionality hides a secret storage area, where kids can hide photos. SpyCalc also allows users to take pictures directly and store them directly
in the calculator app, ensuring privacy even sooner.
KYMS is another option for hiding photos and videos behind a calculator. It adds better video quality, document protection for PDFs and text, plus a password recovery feature.
The descriptions of these apps stress privacy but don't go so far as to use the word "sexting." But, of course, that's what they're meant for. (There are plenty of other "private photo album" apps that don't bother to use a calculator as camouflage.) As parents, we find the underage sexting phenomenon particularly frightening — especially when the news is filled with horrifying statistics and prep school sexting rings.
In reality, according to a recent story in Psychology Today, far fewer kids are sexting than the sensational headlines imply — between 3-7%, rather than the 50% reported last year.
So try not to worry. Chances are, your teen's calculator app really is helping them with homework.
And, at least now you know what to look for if things don't seem to add up.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically.
I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.
I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.
Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.
All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.
To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.
A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.
(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)
Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"
By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far.
The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.
She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.
In her own sweet time.
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.
Earlier this week, I complained about having never gone to sleepaway camp. (Complained? Exulted more like it.) But, my sister, brother and I did go to daycamp several summers in a row.
The only one that really stays with me was the summer before I started sixth grade. Even though we were practically teenagers (no one had coined the word "tween" yet in 1973), they made us take a nap each afternoon. There were these scrawny little mats and after lunch the counselor would turn off the light so we could sleep. Of course, none of us did sleep. So, instead, she read aloud from Judy Blume's adolescent classic Are You There God? It's Me Margaret.
We were fascinated!
The whole getting-your-period thing seemed incredibly mysterious and grownup. The counselor (who, at nineteen, was also incredibly mysterious and grownup) had fun with it, taking us to the pharmacy around the corner and showing us pads and belts. She also warned us never to use a tampon or we wouldn't be virgins anymore. One of my fellow campers (a girl far more informed and precocious than I) asked the counselor if she herself was indeed a virgin. I don't know whether the older girl was caught off guard or just eager to share, but nap time became a lot more interesting after that.
My own daughter went to a number of daycamps over the years. She started when she was three years old, attending camp at her preschool (which was pretty much exactly like preschool but over the summer). Then she moved on to gymnastics camp at the local YMCA.
Soon, of course, she wanted to attend horseback riding daycamp, and she did so for a number of years. This was considerably more expensive than any other option, so those first summers we switched off — a week with the horses a week at the gym. (You can probably guess which weeks were her favorites.) Right before she entered middle school, she and a BFF went to "Adventure Camp," where they hiked, canoed and rock-climbed.
It was all very ... well, adventurous.
Our daycamp days are behind us. In fact, these days, my daughter helps run a camp. But, the past few weeks have been a trip down daycamp memory lane for me. Each day when I arrive at the Y for Zumba or Dance Mania or Yoga, I'm confronted by tiny armies of campers.
And not just any campers.
There are kids dressed as Harry Potter with his signature round glasses, striped scarves and magic wands. There are girls in long gauzy dresses and sequined crowns. There are older kids in lab coats with bright red "blood" stains.
The Y has really taken the concept of camp to new and exciting places. Why just go to "camp," when you can attend "Princess Training," "Treasure Hunting," "Hogwarts 101," "Superheroes," or "CSI: Forensics." Of course, there are plenty of fitness programs represented as well: "Sportsmania," "Soccer," "Dance" and "Making Waves." But, I love it that the Y has created camps for kids who may be more bookish, imaginative or just plain nerdy.
After the most grueling classes, I emerge sweaty but smiling. A quick look around the Y and one might think the inmates were running the asylum (maybe next year, they'll add a "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" theme). The kids are having a blast and isn't that what summer should be about?
The counselors (gamely dressed as evil queens, mad scientists or the faculty from Hogwarts) seem to be having fun too. At least as much fun as my old counselor did.
And hopefully they're not sharing quite as much.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I never went to sleepaway camp.
Although I was desperate to be independent, the idea of all those bugs and sleeping bags and bugs and lousy food and bugs and outdoor showers and bugs and dirt roads and ...
Oh, did I mention bugs?
Not for me, really.
Boarding school, on the other hand, was my idea of a dream come true. I pictured a sprawling manor house (Pemberley or Hartfield or Manderley — before the fire, of course). Other bookish girls like myself. Kilts and jackets. Secret passages. A moor.
But, I digress.
When my now teenage daughter was twelve she went away to camp for the first time. Twenty-one days about two hours away, down in Connecticut. It was a riding camp, naturally. All horses, all the time. She wrote a handful of letters, but wasn't allowed to call us, and it may have been the longest three weeks of my life. Definitely tougher for me than for her.
When we finally arrived to pick her up, she had made fast friends, ridden at least twice every day, and she even won the blue ribbon (first place, baby!) at the final horse show. Of course, there were some things she hadn't done — like use sunscreen or shower. ("We swam in the lake, though," she assured me. "Once.") She was brown as a nut and smelled a little ... shall we say ... eau de horsey. I was too happy to see her to reprimand. But, I did make her shower before we all got into the car for lunch in Hartford with her grandmama.
The next year, she went back to the same fragrant place, but after that she moved to a different camp in Vermont with even more horses and even less supervision. (Less supervision; more stress for mom. Can you say "Pinot grigio, take me away?") But seriously, each three-week separation was easier for me and I rationalized that it was good training because — sooner or later — she would be grown and off to college. Then we purchased a horse ("finally," my daughter would say). So, we stopped sending her to camp. We assumed that was a given. (Hello? A pony costs like way more, way way more, like ten times more than camp does, trust me.) She was surprised though. She had assumed she would continue going to camp and that we would ship the horse along as well.
Um ... that would be no.
These days, my daughter actually works at a horse camp, a daycamp at her stable. She coaches younger riders, supervises their "barn chores," horseshoe crafts, lunch, water balloon fights, and more.
She comes home exhausted, hot, tired and ... oh, there's that smell again. That distinctive perfume that barn mothers everywhere recognize. We have to. It's in our laundry and our cars, our daughters' bedrooms, and all over their expensive North Face jackets.
But, I'll take it. My daughter is here each evening (when she's not out with her friends, that is). She's not in Connecticut. She's not in Vermont. She's here.
And, after a nice — long — shower, she smells just fine.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Our family vacation ended yesterday.
As we've done for many years, we sailed on an antique windjammer up in Maine for four days. Three of the four, we were completely shrouded in fog. On the last morning, the fog finally broke ... and it rained.
Not our best trip, weatherwise.
But, we saw four bald eagles, three harbor seals, and a pod of porpoises. We ate way too much (definitely held our own at the "all-you-can-eat" lobster bake). We met such nice and interesting people. We played with the captain's adorable four-year-old son. I got through ten back issues of The New Yorker. And, my daughter made a dent (a small dent, but a dent nonetheless) in her summer homework.
Last night, we came home to a happy, if slightly chubby, puppy. (He seems to have finagled his way into some extra treats from our housesitter while we were sailing.)
I also came home to 187 work emails.
Not spam emails. Not notes from friends emails. Not opt-in subscription newsletter or retail coupon or airline update emails.
Work emails. 187 work emails. Each more urgent than the last.
"Ah ha," you may be thinking, "She forgot to tell her clients and colleagues that she was on vacation." No, they knew. In fact, most of the emails began with "I hope you're enjoying your time off."
(Um ... I might enjoy it more if you weren't sending me emails.)
It's frustrating. You look forward to a family vacation (well deserved and not nearly as long as it should be). You work twice as hard as usual so you can actually go. Then you come home to twice as much work as usual waiting. So basically, in addition to unpacking and laundry and grocery shopping, you spend your last day of freedom trying to catch up so your head doesn't explode on your first day back.
Of course, this dismal situation isn't unique to me. My husband is catching up on his emails even as I type. And, my daughter still has two and a half chapters of bio, six more chapters of civics, three papers and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. (In her defense, she tried reading that last one on the boat. She made it through page eight before she — literally — fell asleep.)
Back to my emails, though. I'm sorting through estimates from printers, feedback from clients, requests for proposals, background information to write copy, artwork to approve, minutes from board meetings, and an invitation to speak at a conference in October.
And I thought my head was in a fog on the boat!
Some of the emails are important. Some, not so much. Many could just as easily have waited until I got back officially. And, then there are the exponential emails on a single topic because everyone hits "Reply all." Too often, emails are sent after hours, even though nothing can really be done about them until the next business day. It feels like people are playing a game of electronic "hot potato." You see, once it's all in an email in my in-box, it's off their plate. Or their desk. Or maybe just their mind.
I'm glad someone can relax.
So, should we just forgo the family getaways? Give up on the mini breaks?
Is all the work and worry before, after and — in our almost always wired world — during a vacation really worth it?
You better believe it!
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
