Sometimes my heart has a mind of its own.
After five wonderful days in London, I helped my teenage daughter pack her bags. We took the Tube to Victoria Station, and then the Gatwick Express to the airport. I went up to the British Air desk with her to check-in (as an unofficial "unaccompanied minor" — in other words, she didn't need an escort or a humiliating placard hanging round her neck — she couldn't use the kiosk). We found the departures line, which turned round a corner toward security.
And that was it.
In a moment, she was out of sight and I retraced our steps back into the city. Alone.
So, in my head on that long ride, I played out all that we had done and all that my daughter was about to experience. She was going to Barcelona to stay with the family of a delightful girl we hosted last summer. Her ten days would include riding at an elegant Spanish dressage center, touring one of the most beautiful cities in the world, trying new foods, learning about a new culture, making new friends. I knew (in my head) that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I also knew (in my head) that my daughter was so fortunate, so blessed to be able to do such incredible things.
But, in my heart ... ? Well, that's a different story.
Of course, I don't want to keep her from these adventures. My hopes and plans revolve around her becoming a confident, independent adult. It's not like I'm going to lock her up and shield her from the world. (It would make me rather like the mother in Carrie, wouldn't it? And we all know how that turned out.)
This wasn't our first parting either, just a slightly more exotic one. When she was only six weeks old, I went back to work, leaving her for ten whole hours each day with a nanny (who, thank goodness, was wonderful and quickly became part of our family). Throughout her early years, I frequently went away on business, assuaging my guilt by buying her unnecessary tchotchkes at airport gift shops all around the country.
The first year she went to sleepaway camp, I cried the entire way home from Connecticut (two-plus hours of tears; my husband was very understanding). Really, it was pure torture. Three weeks with no contact except letters and postcards. It was a horse riding camp and she adored it. I counted the days until her return. She went again the next summer, and to a different camp the next. I got braver.
Many of my friends are empty-nesters now. They tell me to enjoy it. To relax, go out, get to know my husband again. I try. Without my daughter, I revisited some of my favorite parts of London: Kensington Gardens, for instance, and Portobello Road. I did all the things I wanted to do. But, there was an emptiness in my chest. A sort of hunger behind my solar plexus. And, when we returned to the States without her, everything was a little lonelier than I remembered. For the next week, I threw myself back into work (not difficult after ten days off and 450 emails). I tidied up her room. The time passed slowly. But, it passed.
Last night, I stood in Terminal E, outside customs at Logan Airport. I knew her flight had arrived, but the process is notoriously long. So, I brought recent copies of The New Yorker and Vogue. Still, it was hard to concentrate.
And, suddenly, she was back.
She was back with a million stories to tell — and quite willing, happy even, to be hugged in public.
I know I'm going to have to start steeling myself. These partings will only increase in length and frequency. And, college is looming. It's still two years away, of course, but at this stage, I know that two years will fly by. It isn't nearly enough time. I know this in my head.
And in my heart.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The first time my now teenage daughter went to a bar mitzvah, she was barely five. It was one of the greatest events of her little life.
She wore a diminutive Dior dress (a showroom sample my enterprising mother found in New York), she had an "updo." She sat at a table with other kids — and away from her parents. The bar mitzvah celebration included a DJ, dancers, stuffed animals, sunglasses, crazy hats and more. As we drove back to our hotel late that night, she fantasized aloud about her own bat mitzvah.
Um ... minor problem.
"We're not Jewish," we explained.
As elated as she had been with all the festivities, that's how deflated she was at the news. It seemed quite unfair if you asked her. Not that she really wanted to learn Hebrew or read the Torah, but the party part? Yes, quite unfair.
Since then, we've been to several bar and bat mitzvahs together. Sometimes we've even participated in the celebration — we lit candles for our nanny's two girls, and my daughter wrote and read a friendship speech two years ago.
Even though my daughter once longed for a bat mitzvah of her very own, she's definitely in awe (and a bit intimidated) by all the work that leads up to our young friends' readings in temple. Yet, in all the years, I've never seen a bar mitzvah boy or bat mitvah girl flub their lines. Even kids who are shy or quiet in their everyday life rise to this important occasion. (We did have one small girl who broke down in tears while she made a little speech about how much she appreciated her parents and sister. But, she kept going. And, honestly, it was all the more meaningful.)
The 13-year olds aren't the only ones expected to speak either. Whether in the temple or at the spectacular after-party, moms and dads (and sometimes siblings) share their thoughts about how hard their child has worked and how proud they are of him or her. These are emotional tributes at an emotional time. Because we generally know the family, we usually feel honored to be part of it all.
But they rarely make us laugh. Out loud. A lot.
Last week, at a spectacular bat mitzvah party (after a truly impressive performance in temple), we were treated to a bit of cross-generational humor that I'd like to share with you.
Our young friend's father made his way to the dance floor (no easy feat, given the presence of smoke machines and laser lights, and waitresses passing sushi on platters of dry ice) and educated us all.
After the usual remarks of awe and appreciation about his daughter's accomplishment that weekend, he proceeded to fill us all in on some of the key words and phrases she and her friends use to communicate. Ever the successful businessman, he even had a PowerPoint deck.
TBH To be honest
Ravé Rave or party
Optimus banterous Talk of the town
Q Scandalous Lots of fun
Tha Bae's Your friends
BTW By the way
NGL Not going to lie
Dungers Outfit
Totes swag Really great
LUSMS Love you so much
This being jolly old England, it was particularly fun to note any variances between the UK and US. (At times, I felt like I was learning text talk by way of Harry Potter. It was smashing.)
He ended the speech by putting all of it together in a special message for his daughter, which he read aloud to the delight of partygoers old and (especially) young:
YO, TBH, YOUR RAVÉ WILL BE V OPTIMUS BANTEROUS. Q SCANDALOUS WITH THAT BAE'S.
BTW, YOUR DUNGERS IS TOTES SWAG. LUSMS!
The party was, most definitely optimus banterous. All the more so, TBH, thanks to our young friend's proud papa.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Even under the most ideal circumstances, packing for a trip can be a challenge.
(Not that I would know about anything remotely like ideal circumstances. I am, after all, the mother of a teenager.)
Prior to our recent trip to London, life in our household was a bit chaotic. We juggled sophomore final exams (not fun, believe me) and two horse injuries (a bruised leg and a cut eyelid, not fun and also quite expensive — those vet bills add up). We had to coordinate a house-sitter (my sister) and rides to the airport (my sister-in-law). And then there was that little snafu with the wrong helmet.
But, eventually we got it all done, got to the airport, and got on our plane. The flight was fine. As per usual, both my husband and daughter were able to sleep. And, as per usual, I was not. I can't help it. The seats are uncomfortable and my mind is racing. I watched Frozen and read a few back issues of The New Yorker.
These days, hotels in London are prohibitively expensive. But, I was able to find a "flat" (as a Yank, I can't help but smile) in Hampstead. I'm a big fan of Airbnb, and you would be too. A one-bedroom apartment, full kitchen and bath, five minutes from a Tube station for about one-third the cost of a single hotel room.
Jolly good!
Early Friday morning, a little bleary-eyed, we had arrived and were unpacking for our stay. Suddenly, I heard ...
"Oh nooooooooooooo ....!"
My daughter held up her riding boots. Two of them. Both left.
"Mom, I'm soooooo sorry."
Let me explain. Back home, she owns two pairs of these boots. The older ones are used for lessons and mucking about the stable. The newer ones are in better shape and she wears them for clinics and competitions. But, here's the rub. Both pairs are so perpetually caked in mud and dust that it wasn't obvious which was which. Despite my constant "clean your boots" refrain. (All right, that's another story.)
Being rather a stress-freak by nature, I try to maintain my cool in these situations. ("It's a thing, not a person.") This wasn't the end of the world, I assured her. It was an inconvenience and would cost us some money. That's all.
Little did I know.
In addition to all our fabulous bat mitzvah activities, London sightseeing, fish and chips, and pubs, we would just have to find a tack shop and buy some boots. How hard could it be? We were in England, after all.
The Brits love their horses. From Velvet Brown to Lady Mary to Queen Elizabeth herself. In the movie What a Girl Wants (which we watched at least a hundred times when my daughter was younger), not-yet-crazy Amanda Bynes hugs her stuffy grandmother. The older woman explains "No hugging dear. I'm British. We only show affection to dogs and horses."
Thanks to my smart phone and our adorable flat's adorable WiFi, I found a tack store about four miles northeast of us. Of course, we didn't have a car and the Tube didn't go there, but we would manage somehow. Meanwhile, my husband jumped online and found a famous sporting goods store, Lillywhites, that had a large selection of boots and a location in central London. (Must say "Well done, old chap!")
We were tied up with bat mitzvah activities all weekend, and my daughter was heading to Spain Tuesday, so Monday morning she and I went to find Lillywhites. Despite a huge selection of equestrian gear online, the store had only one pair of boots that looked more like fashion wear than sports gear. I asked if there was any other place we could look and the associate immediately said, "Harrods," but warned that they would be "rather expensive."
Rather was right!
Harrods, arguably London's most famous and fashionable department store, did indeed have a lovely equestrian department. In fact, they had my daughter's exact boots. Really. For exactly $513 more than we paid for them back home. Really. They were a higher price to begin with and we had to factor in the dismal exchange rate.
To my daughter's credit, she didn't even think about asking me for them.
That afternoon, we toured Shakespeare's Globe and that evening, we had tickets for a show — only a couple of hours in between and it was my daughter's last day in London. My husband to the rescue again! He found a Decathlon Sports store and this time called ahead to make sure they had boots in stock. My daughter and I raced to the Tube and took it out (way out) to Canada Water, a freshwater lake and wildlife refuge (and, sporting goods mall, apparently) where we met several of the queen's swans and finally, finally found some boots.
We made it back to the flat in time to change and go to the show. And my daughter made it to Barcelona the next day with two boots.
One left. One right. One happy girl. One tired mama.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I haven't posted for a while, but I have a really good excuse. I was out of the country.
(How I love saying that! As someone who didn't make it across the pond until I was 25, it has been a source of adult delight that I'm fortunate enough to visit other countries from time to time. And particularly wonderful that I'm able to take my teenage daughter.)
Two years ago, my daughter and I went to London for the amazing bat mitzvah of my best friend from high school's oldest daughter. Ten days ago, we headed back for the equally amazing (yet utterly different) bat mitzvah of the girl's younger sister.
Although the celebrations were unique, we experienced some distinct similarities. In both cases, we had only about 36 hours between the end of school and the start of our trip.
Can you say ... "Stress!"
It would have been bad enough to face two finals Wednesday prior to a flight on Thursday, right? Wrong. My daughter had to add a concert in Boston (One Republic with The Script — two of your favorites, right? Mine too. Not.) and a trip to the stable. There was no way she could actually fly across the Atlantic Ocean for two weeks without saying a sentimental good-bye to her trusty steed. In between all of her commitments, I needed to do laundry, wrap up some client projects, write an essay about the 4th of July, and pick up my sister who was coming in from New York to housesit.
"British Air, take me away!"
Everything was more or less under control, when I heard my daughter pull into our driveway. She immediately called up the stairs with what sounded like worry — no, it was more like panic — in her voice. She realized as she was walking into the house that she had grabbed another girl's riding helmet instead of her own. No big deal?
No. Big deal! Big, big deal.
After our bat mitzvah weekend in London, my daughter was scheduled to fly to Barcelona, where she would be riding with our friend (and recent exchange student) at one of Spain's premier dressage centers. There was no way she was going without a helmet and, sadly, there was no way she could simply borrow the one she had inadvertently borrowed. It didn't fit.
Of course, my daughter needed a shower and hadn't even begun to pack. And, we were getting precariously close to our departure time. So, ever the quick-thinker, I put my sister in charge of the duffel bag and drove to the stable myself with the purloined helmet in hand. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back. (Sixty minutes total that I really didn't have.) Crisis averted.
I'd warned my sister that they needed to work efficiently, but also think through everything carefully. My daughter's agenda included four dress-up bat mitzvah events (two nice dinners, services, and a wild party at a Camden Town club, complete with DJs, dancing girls, smoke machines and lasers), comfortable shorts and tops for sightseeing, riding clothes and gear, and beachwear. (We've had some packing issues in the past. Too many of this, too few of that. Most recently, it was an ensemble for an evening at the theatre: heels, a dressy top and trendy belt all meant to go with a particular skirt that somehow hadn't made it into the suitcase.)
But, I was pleasantly surprised. I arrived home (expecting chaos) and found a number of well-organized piles ready for inspection. Everything fit (including two tubs of frozen cookie dough for our Spanish friend — don't ask) and we weren't even over our weight limit. Within the hour, our driver arrived and we headed to Logan airport.
We had somehow pulled it off (yet again).
Or so we thought ...
Next post: "Footwear Follies" or "The Battle of the Boots."
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The other day, I caught up with an old colleague. We compared notes about the latest marketing trends and quickly moved into more personal territory. The last time we shared an office, our children (three total, his two and my one) were very little. Today, mine is wrapping up her second year of high school and his oldest has just finished college.
Like every conversation I have with parents these days, we were soon bemoaning the pressure we're all under (moms, dads and offspring alike). His take was a little different from mine. He seemed to put a lot of the blame on mothers.
Say what?!
That's right. Today's moms (he specifically said "moms") are helicopter parents. We enable our kids; we don't want them to feel any pain. Because of us, they are not resilient enough.
I see his point, but I don't think it's just moms. In certain socioeconomic groups (upper middle class), I think it's all parents. He may just notice it more with moms because, by and large, moms still do most of the hands-on childrearing.
Of course, this discussion led me to some soul-searching. Am I one of those moms? After this past weekend, I'm afraid I qualify as such.
In a big way.
To my daughter's credit, she has had a lot on her plate lately. The fourth and final (Wahoo!) quarter of sophomore year is wrapping up. So, there have been projects and essays, debates and quizzes, last minute reading assignments and ... of course ... finals. Her first test (a tough one), as well as a portfolio presentation for her photography elective, took place Friday.
She had also offered to help her riding instructor by making a slideshow about the stable for a fundraiser. The woman needed it Saturday, and — whether by necessity or not; we'll have to agree to disagree — my daughter started it Friday night. She pulled still photos and video clips together and edited the project in iMovie. Then, she finally (it was quite late) went to bed while the file "exported."
Rousing my overtired teen Saturday morning is never easy or particularly pleasant. It turned into a downright disaster when she realized that the file had crashed overnight and she needed to start over.
Here's a little math for you. She had to leave for the stable (she works there on the weekends) in twenty minutes. But, rebuilding the iMovie file would take about two hours. The solution to this equation? Drama and despair!
"Why did you wait until the last minute?" I asked her.
"It's not my fault!" she protested.
"Well, it's certainly not mine!" I protested back.
Wrong. Apparently it was indeed my fault (as so very much is) because her computer isn't good enough and who gave her the computer? Me. After much ranting and raving (and raging), I took things under control and declared that we would leave ... NOW ... for the stable and her job. Then, I would return home (no Zumba this morning, I guess), build the slideshow, and then drive it to the stable. She pouted most of the way there and left the car without much of a "good-bye." As planned, I drove back home and spent about an hour or so, building a new slideshow in iPhoto as well as locating, saving and exporting the one she had done in iMovie, as well as creating a separate file of photo jpegs, so that the instructor could create something herself if the other two solutions didn't work on her system.
After twenty-plus years giving presentations at conferences, I'm all about audio-visual redundancy and plan Bs.
I loaded the files onto a CD and drove it to my daughter's instructor's house; she had it in plenty of time for her event. I was the hero of the day (in my eyes at least). But, I know (and knew then too) that I had missed a teachable moment.
Or what I think of as a mom-ent of truth.
In hindsight, what I should have done is this. I should have given her a simple choice. She could (a) call the stable owner, explain that her slideshow project for the instructor was delayed and that she would be a couple of hours late for work. Or she could (b) call the instructor, explain that she had overcommitted and that she wouldn't be able to deliver as promised. In either case, she could say she was sorry (she truly was). She made a mistake (she really did). And she would think twice the next time.
I should've done that. But, I didn't. And consequently, if the current wave of critics is correct, my daughter will not grow up to be independent or responsible. I have made her life too easy.
But wait a minute, please. That's not why I did it.
I did it, quite simply, because I could. There were commitments made and tasks to perform, and given the deadlines and available resources, it made sense for me to do exactly what I did. This was not so much the work of an overindulgent mother, as that of a skilled project manager.
When I see things that need to get done, I get them done. That's who I am. That's what I do. And whether I spoil my daughter or not (I do), and whether I missed an opportunity to teach her an important life lesson (I did), I like to think that I'm also setting a really good example.
There are worse things she could grow up to be than a person who follows through.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
When I'm not blogging (or helping with sophomore homework), I run a boutique ad agency. We're small (or, as I prefer to promote us, "nimble"), and we specialize in technology and higher education, with a little retail thrown in. Our budgets are fairly lean and we hold ourselves accountable for our clients' ROI, that's return on investment.
So, when I see some of today's TV spots that cost hundreds of thousands and even millions of dollars, I'm always a little surprised. Sure, I'd like to have carte blanche to create my own 60-second Cecil B. DeMille, but the left side of my brain would surely interfere. "Do we really need all those special effects?" "Is a Rolling Stones song in the background absolutely necessary?" And "Couldn't that money be used for something more important?"
No, no and yes.
Often, I just shake my head and wonder "What were they thinking?" I imagine the creative team somehow selling the most outlandish idea to a roomful of clients. In fact, a current campaign is baffling me these days. Not just because the creative is corny (it is for sure, and it's also downright creepy), but because I think the ads are sending a bad message about human nature.
The essence of the campaign is that some people are just born cleaner, whiter and well ... better.
Hmmm. Me no like.
The series is from the household product Mr. Clean. The brand itself focuses on a fictional character, a bald white guy in a spotless tee shirt with a single shiny gold hoop earring. In the new spots, however, Mr. Clean has been given a backstory.
"No one can say for certain where he came from, but they're certain he was born to clean. See, while most little boys always find ways to make messes, he always found ways to get rid of them ..."
The mixed media spot (live action except for a very eery computer-generated Mr. Clean) starts off with a Supermanesque storyline. The baby shows up at the worn out couple's home on the prairie. Sure, they take him in, but apparently he's their new houseboy. (Child labor laws, anyone?) He goes to school, travels the world and becomes the zen master of "getting rid of grime." And, of course, "He wasn't doing it for himself; he was doing it to help others." The saga is paid off with the tagline "When it comes to clean, there's only one Mister."
Why does this bother me so much? Maybe because of the animation (seriously, it reminds me of David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth — any minute I expect Mr. Clean to take out his contact lenses and shine his red extraterrestrial eyes at us). Maybe because the brand is boasting too much.
Maybe because if there is a shred of actual human nature behind all of it, I'm doomed.
You see, my own teenage daughter is very zen about grime as well. Zen as in, nothing about dirt or disorder disturbs her in the least. Her room is cluttered, her bed unmade. There are soiled dishes on her desk and nightstand. And, her bathroom (thank goodness our house has more than one) is a fragrant mix of teen facial products and discarded riding clothes and boots. Kiehls Blue astringent topped with sweat, mud and manure.
Someday, if baby Mr. Clean shows up on my porch one evening, I'll make sure he's safe and sound. Then, I'll call child protective services.
As soon as he's finished with my daughter's room.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
We were returning home from a weekend in New York. As we crossed the border and got onto the Mass Turnpike, we put the radio on and I heard that Hillary Clinton would be signing copies of her new book in Harvard Square the following week.
I immediately sent myself an email reminder. There was no way I was going to miss it.
Several years ago, I was one of those people who felt, not just sad that Clinton pulled out of the presidential race but, downright betrayed. Not by her, certainly. No one could accuse her of giving it any less than her all. I was angry at my country — a place that is made up of slightly more women than men (just under 51% according to the 2013 Census), but still couldn't accept a woman in the White House. I was particularly bitter about my own friends and their half-assed excuses:
"Hillary isn't electable."
"She's too harsh."
And my favorite, "I have nothing against a woman president. Just not that woman."
Well, I was pretty excited by the prospect of meeting that woman. The tickets would go fast (Cambridge is a very blue town in a very blue state), so I asked my team of experts for help. My husband and teenage daughter are concert groupies (different bands for sure, but same level of dedication). They are adept at scoring even the most elusive tickets. I was advised to go onto the event website just before the sale started and then hit "refresh," "refresh," refresh."
It worked!
I was so startled when the screen suddenly came up asking how many tickets I wanted (limit: 2) that I almost hit "refresh" again. But, I didn't and within a minute or so, my transaction was complete. Good thing, because within three minutes or so, the event was sold out.
On the order page, on the confirmation page, on the tickets themselves and on multiple email reminders to come, I was given a list of rules surrounding the event. When we could line up, when we would get wristbands, when the doors would open. What we could — or more specifically could not — bring in with us. No bags (even purses). No cameras. Everything had to fit in a pocket.
I joked to my husband that between IDs, wallet, car keys and phone, I would have to wear cargo pants.
"Not a pretty look," he texted back.
Nevertheless, that's what I ended up wearing. Black silky cargo pants (with generous pockets) and an embroidered white blouse. I also wore comfortable shoes. Even with tickets in hand, we'd be standing on line for a long time.
My husband is a Hillary supporter, but we agreed that it would be better to use the second coveted ticket for our daughter. She was very happy to forego homework and she was a lot less stressed about what to wear (probably because all of her things ended up in my pockets).
By the time we got to Harvard Square, the line stretched the equivalent of two and a half blocks. (It snaked back from Mass Ave, past the Harvard Crimson, the old Hasty Pudding and the Harvard Lampoon, as well as many coffee shops to which we did not go, having been warned that there were no restrooms in the bookstore.) Over the nearly three hours we waited, the line continued to grow. In fact, we were (as our wristbands indicated) numbers 430 and 431 out of the thousand who attended.
There were secret service, which was very cool. And metal detectors. There were Cambridge police officers too. But despite the barricades and checkpoints, the atmosphere was like a party. Like a party of smart, determined women. (I would say the female/male ratio was about 10-to-1.) The conversations naturally drifted toward our childhoods, our education, our experience with feminism.
And our utter support for the yet undeclared candidate we were about to meet.
Finally, we got into the bookstore itself, only to find that the line snaked through virtually every bookcase. There was an excited buzz that, despite official notices to the contrary, HRC was posing for selfies. Unfortunately, the rather humorless men and women there to protect her soon put a stop to that. But, we were still pretty thrilled.
Ms. Clinton was absolutely lovely. She cordially thanked me for coming and signed "Hillary" in bright blue across the front page of her book. (Apparently we're on a first name basis now. Me and my BFF Hill.) I thanked her back (for too much to get into), but my daughter was less tongue-tied.
"I just wanted to tell you that 2016 will be my first presidential election. And, I'm going to vote for you."
Hillary smiled broadly and then laughed. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen."
"Well, that's just great. You have a good summer."
We were politely, but firmly, moved along and neither of us could stop grinning until we reached Panera and our after-hours dinner.
It continues to amaze me that my daughter, who is too shy to speak up at book club or join a cafeteria table of classmates she only sorta, kinda knows, holds her own with rockstars.
And future presidents.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
