Last night, my teenage daughter spread her work out all over our dining room table so she could study. This is nothing new. But, it makes it a little difficult for her father and me to watch anything since our tiny family room is not only adjacent, but connected by a pass-through in the wall between.
This makes my husband frustrated, which is also nothing new.
I see his point. My daughter's bedroom is the largest one in the house, fully equipped with everything said young person might need. It has not one but two desks, arranged in an "L" to facilitate both homework and electronics usage. The surface of these desks is a lovely golden oak, but rarely visible thanks to piles of homework, textbooks, dressage tests, entry forms, concert tickets, photographs, catalogs and magazines. And there's the rub. Her desk might be more conducive to study if it weren't so conducive to every other thing. When she needs to clear her head, it's generally too late to clear the desk.
Consequently, the dining room becomes her study hall.
As I said, I do see my husband's point. But, I support my daughter anyway, because I think studying trumps pretty much anything we might choose to watch. Last night, it was Mr. Selfridge on PBS. We kept the volume down and when one of our pre-show predictions came to pass, we silently fist-bumped rather than exclaim satisfaction out loud. Our proximity meant that any requested study aids were procured in rapid haste. Apparently, AP Bio goes down a lot easier with chocolate chips and "Popcorners" and orange soda.
AP Bio, which she is taking for four hours this morning, is my daughter's last exam. Her final final, if you will. All of her courses except AP Bio finished nearly three weeks ago. When she gets home midday, she is done, done, done.
Wow.
Chances are, she will never again study on our dining room table. Her dorm room, most likely; the campus library, probably ... but not our dining room table. And, that table has seen some action.
I can't count how many posterboards, dioramas, science fair and art projects have been carefully constructed there. Some stand out, like her biography of George Washington, a presentation on gypsum (that would be alabaster to you and me), a shadow box of Paul Revere's ride, and a model of ancient Greece's Erechtheion, complete with statues of goddesses made by spraying toga-clad Barbie dolls with Rust-Oleum American Accents Stone Spray.
She and I read Romeo and Juliet together there for freshman Honors English, switching parts scene-by-scene. That same year, we read Homer's epic poem The Odyssey. Longer (and less fun) than R&J, it was nevertheless time well spent and certainly helped her score a better grade from a notoriously difficult teacher. So that was a happy ending all around.
For the past four years, my daughter has taken over the dining room for virtually every mid-term and final, a handful of APs, SAT and ACT prep, and even her college application essays. It kept her focused and reassured me that she was actually hitting whatever books she needed to hit without being too distracted by incoming texts. On many recent nights, we've headed up to bed while she and her work remained downstairs.
But, like so many other things, large and small, these days ... her late night sessions are over.
Now, and for the foreseeable future, we have our dining room back. We can "Whoop!" and high-five and watch TV as loud as we want. And, I won't wake up in the morning to a table cluttered with sticky notes — or sticky snacks.
And no matter how melancholy I may be about the changes we go through, I can console myself with the fact that my daughter is off on a wonderful new adventure. In fact, those afternoons and evenings (and even wee-hour-in-the-mornings) paid off handsomely.
And that's another happy ending all around.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Earlier this week, I wrote about learning a second (or in my teenage daughter's case, a third) language in college and the potentially painful physical consequences of too much texting.
This morning, I'm going to combine those two topics and share highlights (or, I should probably say, lowlights) of a glossary I recently came across.
If you're the parent of a teen or tween, you already know how fast those young fingers can zip across a smartphone keypad. And, if you've been on the receiving end of texts, you also know how rare it is to see a mark of punctuation or even a vowel. And, it isn't simply a matter of shorthand. Texters have developed their own language, much of it created not just for speed but for subterfuge.
Here is a quick A-Z of some of the naughtiest (and in some cases, grossest) texting acronyms.
Be warned, however, if you bother to commit these to memory, they are sure to be replaced as quickly as ... well, as quickly as your daughter or son can text.
AYMM - Are you my mother?
BOBFOC - Body off Baywatch, face off Crimewatch
CU46 - See you for sex
DBABAI - Don't be a bitch about it
ESADYFA - Eat sh*t and die, you f*cking a**hole
FOGC - Fear of getting caught
GNOC - Get naked on camera
HPOA - Hot piece of a**
IITYWYBMAD - If I tell you, will you buy me a drink?
JEOMK - Just ejaculated on my keyboard (Editorial note: ew!)
KPC - Keeping parents clueless
LHOS - Let's have online sex
MIRL - Meet in real life
NNWW - Nudge, nudge, wink, wink
OSINTOT - Oh sh*t, I never thought of that
POMS - Parent over my shoulder
Q2C - Quick to c*m
RU//18 - Are you under 18?
SFB - Sh*t for brains
TBIU - The bitch is ugly
UFUF - You f*ck, you fix
VRBS - Virtual reality bullsh*t
WTGP - Want to go private?
XTC - Ecstacy
YCMTSU - You can't make this sh*t up
ZMG - Oh my God!
And, yes, ZMG is exactly how I feel right about now.
There used to be a gameshow (a very silly gameshow) called Bumper Stickers, in which contestants tried to decipher vanity license plates. I can imagine a new one: The Ten Thousand Dollar Text, or Wheel of Texting, or Family Fingers.
The only problem is that the average age of a gameshow enthusiast is 57.
And that's just TFO.
(Too f*cking old.)
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I recently had to have physical therapy for some pain, stiffness and "clicking" in my neck. (Yes, that's a thing. A 54-year-old thing.) With a handful of sessions, some daily exercises and an increase in "postural awareness," I'm feeling significantly better. And, looking on the bright side (because what, after all, is the alternative?), at least I don't have "text neck."
Text neck, which the Washington Post recently referred to as "an epidemic," is ...
"... the term used to describe the neck
pain and damage sustained from looking down at your cell phone, tablet,
or other wireless devices too frequently and for too long. Children and
teens are especially at risk for suffering symptoms of text neck."
My own teenage daughter is a voracious texter, but I don't think she has text neck. Happily, she spends a considerable part of each day working with horses. This can lead to many injuries, sore muscles, bumps, bruises, the occasional concussion, even "horse hickeys," but it does preclude one from all-day every-day texting and, consequently, the dreaded text neck.
(This is just another reason why all those payments to the stable have been worth it. Well, this and the fact that there are virtually no boys there at all, of which fact I remind my husband on a regular basis.)
Anyway ...
Text neck, or more officially "Text Neck Overuse Syndrome" is characterized by:
• Upper back pain, from chronic, nagging to sharp, severe.
• Shoulder pain, tightness and possibly muscle spasms.
• Pinched nerves and pain radiating down arm, into hand.
OMG.
And, if all of this doesn't sound sufficiently UN-pleasant, text neck may lead to arthritis later in life.
I repeat, OMG.
So what's a texting teen to do? According to Spine Health, there are steps to take that can counter the negative effects of text neck:
• Lift the phone to eye level.
• Take frequent breaks. (Like that's gonna happen.)
• Change position. For example, lie on your back.
• Focus on maintaining upright, neutral posture.
• Stretch and arch your back periodically.
• Exercise to build strength in your back and neck.
All of this is fairly common-sensical, right? The problem is, in human nature and teen nature in particular, common sense is anything but common. I'm a few years (okay, a few decades) past my teens, but I didn't address the pain in my neck until it actually was a pain in my neck.
As parents, we may think that teens texting is a pain in the neck. But the teens themselves don't.
Or at least, they don't yet.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Je me souviens ...
My teenage daughter used to really like French.
My husband and I have both been known to butcher said beautiful romance language. (At a hotel on the Riviera, my spouse once told the concierge that the car left its key in our room but, comme toujours, he made up for what he lacked in grammar with his enthusiasm.) When my daughter was little, we used French when we didn't want her to know what we were saying. She was particularly gleeful when her own studies (in eighth grade or so) surpassed our sorry attempts.
So much for our secret language.
My daughter enjoyed middle school French. She certainly enjoyed our mother-daughter trip to Paris. We visited Sacre Couer and the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Versailles (my favorite) and the Catacombs (hers).
We took a late night boat ride along the Seine, ate crepes and croissants, and my daughter conducted a thorough if not exactly scientific taste test of all the onion soup gratinée of the city. Throughout, we gamely exercised our skills françaises.
But, some time later in high school, between French 3 and French 4, la perle lost its sheen. There was a tremendous jump between the expectations of those two levels. They went from taking vocabulary tests (my daughter has always been a crack memorizer) to reading entire novels and doing oral presentations in class (not her favorite thing, regardless of the language).
She qualified for AP French but responded with a definitive, "Non, merci."
Those weren't her exact words, but you get the general purpose and intent.
In just a few months (mon dieu!), she'll head off to college. Although she has already declared her Equine Business major, she is enrolled in a liberal arts curriculum and is expected to fulfill a language requirement. This generated some dinner table discussion.
I suggested that she return to French, ensuring her that, as I found at my own alma mater, college courses would be much better than high school.
My husband also suggested that she return to French, with the helpful hint that if she dropped down a couple of levels, it would be very easy to score an "A."
My daughter had a different idea.
"I'm going to take American Sign Language," she told us.
Wow.
This was a different (and completely valid it turns out) solution. In fact, it may even come in very handy because I'm hoping that along with her Equine Business courses, she'll take some classes in Therapeutic Riding. Horses and horsemanship have proven very beneficial for riders with all sorts of disabilities and impairments. How amazing it would be if all of her interests and academic pursuits converged into something so special and important.
Then again, maybe it's just a creative solution to get out of a foreign language requirement.
Either way, it's her choice, n'est-ce pas?
Bien sûr.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Many moons ago, when my daughter and I were traveling with another family, I was scolded by the other mother for "Never saying 'No'."
I thought at the time (and still think today) that this was a bit unfair. I know what "No" means. I know how to say "No." I have said "No." Really. I've said "No" a lot. A lot. A real lot.
Just not as often as I might have. Or, maybe, not as often as some other mothers do. Trust me, when it mattered, I said "No."
Fork in electrical outlet? "No!"
Knife in reach on the counter? "No!"
Running off a curb into traffic? "No! No! No!"
What I didn't do was say "No" for no reason. Our marvelous pediatrician gave me great advice when my daughter was turning two. (Actually, he gave me great advice many times, many many many times, but this one is germane to my essay here.) He said:
"Here come the terrible twos. She'll be testing you all the time now. And, you're going to have to say 'No.' But, don't say 'No' unless you're going to stick with it. If that means you say 'Yes' 98% of the time, that's ok. But, once you say 'No,' you have to see it through. If you say 'No' and she cries for 45 minutes and then you give in, all you've taught her to do is to cry for 45 minutes."
Needless to say, that little speech scared me straight. And, I particularly liked the saying "Yes" part.
The thing is, my daughter was an easy child. She rarely disobeyed. She rarely threw a tantrum. When asked to describe her with one word on her kindergarten application, I chose "compliant."
(Excuse me now while I shake my head with wonder about how things change ...
Still shaking ...
Still shaking ...
All right, I'm done.)
She may not be as easy as she once was — and I may find myself saying "No" more than I used to — but, I still think that if I can help her pursue joy, I should.
Thus, I recently found myself doing a three-day roadtrip to New York and Providence with her so she could see her favorite band. This was neither convenient, nor easy, nor inexpensive. But, it was important to her. It made her happy. All in all, we had nearly twelve hours together in the car, which gave us ample time to talk about upcoming senior year activities, new horses at her stable, and questionable decisions made by some of her friends. We ate junk food and sang along to the cast recordings of Spring Awakening and Hamilton. We were roadies together, like Thelma and Louise but with a happier ending.
And, as much as saying "No" might have taught her a lesson, I think fulfilling her request taught her something too. Like, how going out of your way to make someone you love happy is worth doing. When she heads off to college in just under four months, I want her to think of her mother as someone who said "Yes" more than she said "No."
Unlike Thelma and Louise, we made it home safe and sound, exhausted and happy. You guessed it. We were safe and sound; I was exhausted.
She was happy.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Graduation is a mere seven weeks away. And, in case any of us have let that slip our minds, my daughter's school just issued a letter about it. A five-page letter. A five-page "refrigerator letter," so named because they are asking us to post it prominently in our homes. And, with a teenager in the house, what could be a more prominent position than ... you guessed it ... the refrigerator.
(After all, that's where the orange soda and chocolate chip cookie dough live.)
To the authors' credit, the letter did start out with a few words of congratulations: "with great anticipation of their bright futures." It then walked us through all of the senior activities scheduled for the coming weeks. From the mandatory (their underline, not mine) parents meeting, through the annual carnival, Senior Art Show, prom, white water rafting trip, up until the big day itself.
This is useful information and I will, indeed, post said letter (or, at the very least, tuck it into my desk planner). I appreciate knowing what's going on. Really, I do.
My issue is with the tone.
After those extremely succinct words of celebration, the letter quickly became a long list of all the terrible things our teenagers might do which would preclude their graduating along with their peers. Here, in no particular order, are just some of the potential (it truly feels like they're anticipated) crimes and misdemeanors:
• Not passing a course
• Not returning a library book
• Not paying senior dues
• Not serving detentions
• Not returning a sports uniform
• Not cleaning out a locker
• Not turning in the "Post-Graduation Plan" sheet
• Not settling up any cafeteria charges
That's a lot of "Not."
There are also things that students might not not do (in other words, do) that would result in graduation expulsion. These include:
• Being in possession of alcohol
• Being in possession of drugs
• Being in possession of tobacco ...
• Or of "related paraphernalia"
(All of the above get them kicked out of prom as well as kept away from graduation.)
Then, there are other mandatory get-togethers: graduation rehearsal ("all seniors must attend!") and a "mandatory safety procedure preparation meeting" for anyone going white water rafting.
And, finally, students are warned that "No flip-flops or sneakers will be allowed" at commencement itself. This particular outrage holds a less severe penalty. The offender will merely be sent home to change. (Phew!)
Oh, and don't get me started on the fact that they suggested that girls wear dresses or skirts.
What is this? 1961?
Nevertheless, I know that safety has to come first (or at least right after making sure you return your sports uniform and any library books). But, rather than talk quite so much about "setting up clear boundaries and meaningful consequences," I wish they would give our kids the benefit of the doubt. Yes, spell it all out, but maybe also acknowledge that our students have worked hard and — for the most part — behaved like responsible young adults thus far. I don't think words like "violation" really need to be used quite so much.
Then again, they did offer an idea for a mother-daughter activity. They pointed out that "Students should be able to say 'no thanks' if offered alcohol or drugs or tobacco." My daughter happened to be hanging out in my office when I read the letter, so I suggested we role play.
"Here, little girl," I sneered like the Wolf in Into the Woods, "Have some alcohol or drugs or tobacco."
Silence.
"You're supposed to say, 'No thank you,'" I prompted.
"No. Thank. You."
Well. My work here is done.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
