Friends who grew up in the 1960s and 70s sometimes shake their heads about how lethargic today's teenagers are when it comes to protests and activism. After all, it's hard to paint a sign or stand on a picket line when you rarely look up from your mobile device. Even choosing a college and a concentration has become an exercise in ROI, or "return on investment," rather than an opportunity to learn about something that matters. (Good thing we weren't doing that math back when I selected Drama and English as my double major).
These same friends also notice that, by and large, our teens are more conservative when it comes to recreational ... um ... shall we say "activities." Whenever we compare notes about our sons and daughters, we invariably fall back into the same stories of our own high school debauchery. Smoking lots of pot, for example. Or drinking to excess — and driving afterwards. While none of us wants our offspring to get into trouble, legally or chemically, the undercurrent always feels like "Oh those poor kids, they're missing out."
We may be the first generation to bemoan our children's good behavior.
It also feels counter-intuitive. Typically, we criticize the younger generation. We were more polite; we were better students. "We would never have given our parents so much back talk."
Riiiiight. Probably because we were all too stoned to do so.
Anyway, there was an interesting story released by Reuters News Agency this morning. It seems that 2015 continued a long decline in teen use of alcohol, cigarettes and drugs. The study, which included a survey of 44,892 students grades 8-12, was funded by the National Institute on Drug Abuse.
Here are key findings:
* 7% of students used cigarettes, the lowest number since tracking began 41 years ago.
* 40% of students used alcohol in the past year; 22% in the past month. These numbers sound high but, again, they are the lowest ever tracked. Binge and "extreme binge" drinking also fell.
* 24% (averaged across grades) students used marijuana during the past year. This number has remained steady over the past five years.
Teens also reported decreased use of other drugs, such as ecstasy, heroin, amphetamines and synthetic marijuana.
So researchers (not to mention educators and parents) are curious about why we're seeing the decline. Contributing factors may include tougher laws, better education, community efforts, advertising campaigns, smoking bans in restaurants and public places, as well as increased taxes on cigarettes and alcohol. Nothing deters teen behavior like teen poverty.
Smoking, drinking and drug use contribute to a host of medical issues (in teen years and later in life), and cost communities hundreds of thousands of dollars. So, no matter where the credit lies, this is all good news.
In some cases — maybe, perhaps, possibly, against all odds — parental advice may even have been responsible for positively influencing teen behavior. After all, there's a familiar (if rather cynical) saying: "Do as I say, not as I do."
I guess, today's teenagers are doing what we say, not what we did.
For more information, you can visit the NIDA website here.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Often I see glimpses of my husband in our teenage daughter. Her natural athletic ability, for example. Her sense of humor. How fast she drives. Some of these attributes are good and some ... not so much. Some make me pull my hair out.
But, I digress.
Other times, I see myself in her. I take pride in her creative writing, in her diligence and determination. Her obsessive appetite for particular TV programs. Sadly, she's inherited my sweet tooth as well.
But, again, I digress.
Then, there are situations in which I watch her and think "Who are you?" and "How can we possibly be related?"
We're going through one of those now as she hones in on the college decision that she'll (and we'll) be living with for the next four years.
When I was a senior, my college prep counselor (who knew me btw; he was one of my math teachers) took a look at my transcript and my SATs, asked what I wanted to major in, and made a single suggestion. "Tufts has a great drama program and they love early decision applicants." I went, I saw, I applied. They said, "Yes." I said, "Yes." And we were done. Signed, sealed, delivered before Christmas my senior year. One thing, one very big thing, crossed off my list.
This was 1979, and early decision was still a fairly new idea. Forget about all its modern permutations: early action, rolling admissions, restrictive early action (WTF?), as well as plain old vanilla regular decision.
Everything is much more complicated nowadays, although with most schools accepting the "Common App," there's a lot less paperwork. Still, it's mid-December and a compulsive young person (such as myself 35 years ago) can already know where she or he will be going.
Not my daughter.
She applied to just four colleges (less than most of her peers in our high-achieving little town; her very focused intended course of study made the universe much smaller). Her applications were complete in late October, neatly within any early action or rolling deadlines. She was almost immediately accepted into two schools, which happened to be her first choices, at the time. I say, "at the time," because times have already changed. Now, we're waiting to hear from the other two. And, my daughter (not a particularly patient young woman under normal circumstances) seems perfectly content to wait.
I would be pulling my hair out!
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand — and even support — my daughter's thoughtful consideration during this important time of change and choice. After all, chances are she will spend a substantial chunk of her formative young adult years at whatever fine institution of higher learning she chooses. Then there's all the associated fallout: friends and significant others, where you live and what you do. I have never attended a Tufts reunion, but my decision to go there affects my life every day.
Nevertheless, my seventeen-year-old self was way too eager to debate, contemplate, ruminate or meditate (Hmmm ... I seem to have missed my calling as a middle-aged white rapper). My daughter is taking her time.
She has an equestrian scholarship application due tomorrow, but no other paperwork or tests to worry about. In essence, the admissions ball is not in her court at the moment. Once she hears from her other two schools, we may have to do some additional campus visiting (bake-off style, perhaps). But, there's no rush.
You see, she has until May to make her decision.
I just hope I can last that long.
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.
Stupid teen pranks are older than I am — and they most certainly pre-date my daughter. Setting cherry bombs, toilet papering neighborhoods, crowding into telephone booths (or Volkswagens), even drag-racing seems downright nostalgic now. "Oh, those krazy kids!" It's not that the stunts weren't dangerous — watch Rebel Without A Cause, if you have any questions — it's just hard to take them so seriously when they're coupled with poodle skirts and bobby socks and ducktail hair.
Pubescent pranks are probably here to stay. But, there's something about living in the technology age with social media and digital cameras and instant access to all things (and everyone, everywhere, all the time) that has made teenagers even more eager to do stupid things than their adolescent ancestors. Not just teens either, full-fledged grownups are guilty too.
For example, a few years ago when my daughter was still in middle school, I wrote about "The Cinnamon Challenge." This completely dumb activity involved eating a spoonful of cinnamon and then choking. ('Sounds like a fun time to me. Um ... NOT.) Apparently, videos posted of participants spewing powdered cinnamon out of every facial feature were hi-lar-i-ous and earned hundreds and thousands and millions and bazillions of hits.
Doctors warned that the game carried a real threat of asphyxiation. But, since when does that deter a determined teen?
Other trends of recent times include "Planking," lying rigid on a surface that wouldn't normally be meant to hold a recumbent human body. Stupid? Yes. Safe? Not always. A teenager actually fell to his death after planking on a terrace railing. (See earlier response "Yes" to earlier question "Stupid?")
Then there are the idiotic and extremely dangerous pranks like "The Choking Game" and "Eye-Balling Vodka." Yes, that's as disgusting as it sounds. Yet somehow not quite as disgusting as some of the other ways teens choose to get drunk while avoiding calories and that tell-tale booze smell. (I'll spare you the details, but if you're curious, watch the infamous swim party episode (1:7) of Girlfriends Guide to Divorce.)
The latest trend to pop up on my radar (which means it's probably been out there for weeks, months or even years) has got to be one of the dumbest things I've ever seen. It's called "The Condom Challenge," and is a young adult mashup of a traditional water balloon fight and "The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge," with some prurient titillation thrown in for good measure. The new gag is best pulled off with two people. One fills a condom with water and dangles it over the other person's head, then lets it go. The condom temporarily covers the recipient's entire head in a latex bubble before bursting and soaking her.
What a great way to spend one's time!
But wait, there can be complications. The latex might not break; the prank's victim might fall and hit her head; she might pass out or suffocate or pass out and then suffocate.
And, I've left out the most important piece of the prank puzzle. As any self-respecting millennial will tell you, the entire experience must be recorded for posterity and posted, here, there and everwhere.
Congratulations. Now, you know about "The Condom Challenge." I guess it could be worse. I mean, no one's died yet.
But, they might.
Die of embarrassment that is.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien.
It's Saturday, which means that my teenage daughter and I get to sleep in an extra hour before we start our daily dance.
That's not a poetic symbol (or even a euphemism) for life or anything. It truly feels like we're dancing.
I take three steps toward my partner; she either ignores me or spins around with an exasperated flourish. I retreat, gingerly stepping backwards, mindful of discarded clothes and schoolwork and empty snack bags that litter her carpet. But, I return minutes later to face the music again. This goes on for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty minutes — despite my best efforts and despite not one but two alarm clocks she's set to sound intermittently.
It's a sinister salsa, a terrifying tarantella. A dance to the death.
And, to date, my daughter is winning. She rolls over, reaches out for the snooze alarm and — "Olé!" — we begin again.
Sometimes, when we're in between moves, I'll head down to the kitchen to cut some fruit or pack her lunch. I need to make coffee, feed the dog and get ready for my morning walk. Or I might have some overnight emails from clients or colleagues to review. Often, after my fourth or fifth trip up to the dance floor, I'll ask my husband to take a turn.
"Nooooooo," I'll hear the child wail from the bed. "I'm soooo tired."
"This has to stop!" I'll hear her father say.
Yeah, right.
It's not like I don't know what's going on here. My daughter is tired. She does have too much homework. She does spend too many hours at the stable on her horse. (She also spends too many hours on Netflix watching One Tree Hill. WTF?) And of course, there's all that texting she's expected to do. And Snapchat and Instagram and Vine and ... God knows what else. (God may know; I certainly don't.)
Plus, there's scientific (And therefore irrefutable, right? Unless you're the GOP. Wink, wink.) evidence that teenagers need more sleep — and at different times — than we grownups do. When my daughter argues that going to bed earlier won't help, she's actually half right.
So, here I am. One mother of a human alarm clock. We dance back and forth every morning, as we dance around the fact that we only have a few months of mornings left. I can't very well fly to Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island at 6:00 am each day once college starts in the fall.
Of course, she can take the route my freshman roommate (and so many other enterprising students) did back in 1980: only register for classes that begin after 10:00 am. But, that might limit what she studies.
Or, perhaps she'll rise to the occasion. She'll make her own bed. She'll do her own laundry. She'll read and study and write papers without my nagging. She'll dress appropriately for inclement weather. She'll take her vitamins. And, she'll get up on time.
I hope so.
But, I think I'll buy her another alarm clock. Just in case.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien.
Remember when the holidays were simpler?
Back when I was growing up in New York City, Thanksgiving was the official start of the Christmas season. But not because big box retailers were open on holidays or at 4:00 am or advertising "doorbusters." (Interesting trivia, btw. Look up the word "doorbuster" and you'll find "a special discount price available for a limited period, typically during special early-opening hours." But it's also defined as "a firearm with special attachments for forcing entry through a door." Hmmm. A coincidence? Maybe not. More like a warning. Basically, you want to stay away from any Walmarts on Black Friday in open carry states.)
But, I digress.
In my childhood, Christmas started when Santa Claus and his entourage rode by at the end of the Macy's parade. We shopped — slowly and sanely — over the next three weeks or so. Although last minute trips to Woolworth (Remember Woolworth?) were fairly common too.
When I see Black Friday footage online or on the news, I'm ashamed of us. Really, people! One day earlier (or earlier that day, depending on where you shop), you sat around a table with loved ones, thanking God or whomever for all you have. Whether you believe the Pilgrims were peaceful settlers or murderous invaders, today's holiday is supposed to be about gratitude, right?
So where does all that gratitude go when flat-screen TVs and Tickle Me Elmos — "Doors open at 5:00 am!!! Limited supply!!!" First 50 customers only!!!" — are on sale?
Out the window, apparently.
Here are a few things I'd rather do than participate in Black Friday:
• Eat kale, raw, without salt or anything
• Get a root canal
• Read my daughter's book list for Honors English 12
There are many (many, many) more.
So, let's all forget Black Friday. (And its digital spin-off Cyber Monday.) This year take a minute for (and take your teen to) givingtuesday.org to start a better tradition. The movement #GivingTuesday was started four years ago at the 92nd Street Y (in my hometown). It's meant to be "a global day of giving fueled
by the power of social media and collaboration." Instead of kicking off the shopping season, #GivingTuesday kicks off the charitable season. It celebrates and supports giving and philanthropy.
Although it's still a new idea, #GivingTuesday has already generated a lot of interest, buzz and much needed support and donations for worthy causes, ranging from schools to not-for-profits, religious organizations, community and social causes, and more. Today, #GivingTuesday is supported by 30,000 partners in 68 countries. It's generated 15.4 billion print and social media impressions (32.7 million on Twitter alone) and more than 750,000 hashtags. Most important, since 2012, it's been responsible for a 470% increase in online donations.
What a better use of our money and time than crushing each other to grab a coffee maker or a Barbie Dream House.
Put the "giving" back in Thanksgiving.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien.
Sometimes, things just work out. And, isn't it nice when they do?
For the past few weeks, my teenage daughter and more than 100 of her closest friends (or at least, classmates) have been putting in serious hours practicing football. Yes, football. Most evenings, some weekends, for two or three hours at a time. This is on top of schoolwork, her job at the stable, training with her horse, and focusing on college applications. My daughter is one tired young lady.
As of Saturday, she's also a champion.
Yes, she and her team soundly beat the town — and arch-rival team — next door. All I can say is ... "Thank goodness."
Actually, there is much to be grateful for as we head toward the Thanksgiving holiday later this week. First of all, she got through the entire experience without an injury. (All I could think about was that after riding and jumping horses for the past twelve years, she'd wind up with a concussion from Powder Puff Football.) My worries weren't completely unfounded. There were some casualties during practice and I did see at least two girls limp off the field in Saturday's game.
The annual event may be named after something soft and harmless, but these women meant business, believe me.
With so many girls participating, many didn't see much action. But, my daughter did get to play, several times, and even snatched two of the other team's flags, including the very first one of the game.
Apparently, this is a good thing. (So I was told.)
Even before the big game itself, we had plenty of serendipity and luck. From finding cleats on sale to pulling together all the required outfits for "Spirit Week." (Somehow a pair of camouflage pants from freshman year, two sizes smaller than her current jeans, still fit. It was like our own personal Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.) At the last minute (what else is new?), my daughter realized that she really wanted a new dress for the post-game "progressive dinner." I time-shifted some of my own commitments so we could make a mad dash to the mall. We found the very thing she was looking for at the very last store we visited — and 30% off! — before racing back so she could get to her final scrimmage.
When all was said and done, the camaraderie and school spirit we saw on Saturday was really something to behold. I've rolled my eyes countless times through this process, but I confess, I'm a believer now. Never exactly a sports fan (man, that is the understatement of the year), I was perfectly happy to be there, to cheer when I was supposed to (even though I didn't really have a clue why we were all cheering), to congratulate the victors and celebrate with other proud parents afterwards.
My daughter's Powder Puff game was actually the first football game I ever went to. So, I'm particularly happy that it had a happy ending.
You see ... chances are, it will be my last football game as well.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
