.
The possessed man who sit across the table from me was, at one time, a happy-go-lucky guy whose only concerns were NYC real estate and art. He is another friend who is part of the One Perfect Daughter Club. His strikingly beautiful, blue eyed, blond haired daughter was adopted from Texas. The little troll of a man with his piercing dark eyes and leprechaun beard said—“yes, yes—we tried to play the race card because, you know, my wife is Cuban, but the kid looks like some corn-feed cheerleader from one of those square states.” He said with real disappointment in his voice.
.
“Yeah…that beauty is a real millstone around the neck--if only she looked like you, she might have been awarded the Lord of Rings scholarship.” I said in an attempt to cheer him up that was unsuccessful.
.
Another friend tells a tale of college admission intrigue….
“I don’t care what else you write” she said to her son” —you just better get in there that you have two mommies. The admissions people will overlook the fact your parents’ names are Suzy and Betsy—so write about it and make it good. “ said my friend as she related the story of prepping her son to write his college essay.
.
Apparently it is not until you are in the mix do you really get caught up in. Mr. Troll, I thought, would never get involved in something as trivial as college selection, but low and behold—he talked of high school summer programs leading up to the college applications, special trips to Cuban for that fruitless race card…and all the other strategies that the REALLY “crazy” parents were trying. And you have got to wonder—is all worth it?
“Do you read my text messages?” The Beast asked feigning nonchalance, but I could tell there was anger behind the question.
“Sweetheart, I can’t even manage to go on the school’s Parent Portal to check whether or not you handed in homework. I am not even sure if I can turn on your phone.”
“You can’t” she said triumphantly “It is locked” and then added with pride—“with a very difficult password.”
The Beast is just like her father—smart and annoying with all things electronic. I, on the other hand, would still be using a rotary phone if I could find one anywhere.
Not sure what started this line of questions...so I decided to asked one of my own: “Should I be reading your text messages? Is there something I should know, but you don’t want to tell me?” I tried to sound concerned, but not panicky—the way I really felt.
“Zoe’s mother read her text messages and found out she was dating Craig and she told Zoe she had to break-up because she was too young to date.”
“Really? Did Zoe break-up with Craig?!” I said—intrigued by the power.
“Of course she did.” My daughter said—with anger clearly in her voice. “ Her mother said she had to.”
“Interesting.” I said. “would you break-up with someone if I told you to? Even if you felt I was wrong?” trying to gauge just how much power I had without knowing it.
The Beast looked straight ahead through the windshield as we passed the strip malls and the odd accountant offices on our way to the orthodontist’s office—not saying yes or no. The husband and I raised a polite and honest, but hard-headed child so I did not expect an answer.
It is strange about our car conversations when we go to the dentist—it is just far enough away from our house to provide the beginning of the a good story, but never quite long enough to get full satisfaction. We pulled into the parking lot and, of course, we were late and the conversation could not be rekindled.
But I guess these are the questions:
How much can you dictate your child’s life?
Why didn’t Zoe ’s mother know she was dating someone before her stealth text reading?
What works better--an iron grip or constantly reminding them—that we love them and want them to be safe.
So I said to The Beast on the way home. “ I want to tell you ‘ No drugs, no sex, no alcohol’, but these are things I can’t stop you from doing…I can only hope (to quote Ms. Churchlady) that you make good choices.”
I have mixed feelings about the whole texting scandal…I am not sure if I am more angry at—Zoe’s mom for reading her daughter’s texts or for Zoe for blindly obeying her mother. Does she not know that “Good Girls Seldom Make History.”
Six pairs of gnome eyes stare at me from my desk…the gnomes are refugees from daughter’s room as we tear apart walls and paint. They mix well with the silk screened poster of a horse in vibrant primary colors (a gift for my daughter on her birth), the Native American “courage” fetish (my sister gave me that when I started a new job so many years ago), the big pink H (brought back by The Beast and the Husband from their visit to the Sesame Street backstage over a decade ago) and the cup from Lithographers’ Union (scored at Housing Works Thrift Shop in NYC). These tokens of my past and present are mixed in with my old philosophy books, poetry collections and theater of the absurd books that my father passed down to me. This is one small corner of our house. But everything in our house is a memory and also a reflection of who we are…who we were…who we want to be.
Like my childhood home, we live in a busy, messy house which constantly annoys The Husband. We do not live in an Ethan Allen Showroom House. Sometimes when I pick up The Beast from a random birthday party at a McMansion development and I am forced to enter these showroom style homes. Here, where every bit of personality has been scrubbed from living spaces, I desperately search for information about the parents. I look for books, travel souvenirs, hobbies, interests, yet there is nothing to help me.
Walking past the matching wing chairs that flank the seemingly never used fireplace and into the perfect kitchen which makes me clandestinely look for Alice from the Brady Bunch—I wait for The Beast to collect her things from the basement “family room” after a sleep-over. I smile at the flawlessly coiffed mom in leisure attire. She is holding a small dog that is so perfectly groomed he looks like a plush toy come to life. I think—drugs would make this experience truly enjoyable or, maybe, scarier. I wait for the commercial to start, because for a second I think I am transported to a commercial for a cleaning product when suddenly I remember—“oh that is right—this IS reality. “ I continue to search for clues about who these people are or what they do or what they are interested in…a photo of a vacation, a memento of an event, signs of interest in cooking, music, art so I can strike up a conversation….but there is nothing but clean. I finally sink back into the alternate commercial reality and I know my lines…“How do you keep the white rug by the fire place so clean?”
Sometimes when life is surreal—you just have to go with the flow and wait patiently until the commercial ends.
Laughing and screaming through the summer storm, as thunder rumbles around us and rain starts to pelt us, we tumble toward to our red VW microbus. A mass of rubber boots, rain ponchos, shorts and tan little bodies all pile into the side door of the bus. Before anyone is in their seat….or for that matter…before even the door is closed…we are traveling to the front beach to better experience the storm moving over Cape Cod. This was my mother’s reaction to storms—“Let’s get closer so we can see it better and really feel the thunder in our chests!”
My grandmother, on the other hand, was home at the beach house hiding in a back bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights out and jumping in fear with every thunder bolt or flash of lightening.
I asked my grandmother once, why was it that she was so scared of storms whereas her daughter loved them. She said that her mother was deathly afraid of storms and she passed that trait on to my grandmother when she was little.
My grandmother said she was determined not to do the same to my mother—she wanted my mother to be strong and fearless. My grandmother realized she would have to pretend not to be afraid of anything. So all through my mother’s childhood, my very fearful little grandmother would bravely sit quietly through storms, swim with my mother in the cold and rough Marblehead waves and keep her eyes open on scary amusement park rides.
My grandmother said with pride—“and see your mother is not afraid of anything. She won swimming championships, she traveled to NYC and started a new life by herself and now she runs toward the storms. That is what I always wanted for my daughter—to be brave and strong. “
So as I watch The Beast running towards her future with a wild abandon that excites and frightens me—I want to grasp her hand like when she was little crossing a busy street, but instead--I smile calmly. I take a deep breath and try my best to convince her I am not scared because I too want my daughter to brave and strong.
I tell my child all the time--"It is not that I don’t trust you or that I feel you lack common sense…you just have no idea HOW incredibly morbid by imagination is—please call when you get to where you are going"
The Beast, unlike her mother, thinks the best of everyone. I am sure she has Beethoven’s 9th symphony cheerfully playing in the background of her psyche at all times, while I have the 5th symphony as the sound track of my life—that of death approaching me and all my loved ones…
At the subway turnstiles I steel myself …”I love you. Remember to stop and think if you are unsure. Never be too polite to tell some creepy guy “NO!” and I mean LOUD. Remember “NO!”…no other word is needed—everyone knows what it means and people will help….but you will be fine. I will be the one to worry—remember…PLEASE CALL WHEN YOU GET THERE.”
She takes her Metro Card out and like a pro slides it through the turnstile and turns briefly to me with a smile to tell me to be brave. She is off—without a concern. She knows where she is going—she has the inspirational Ode To Joy theme song playing in her head as she bounces down the subway stairs and off to SoHo and her new life as a teen writer.
It is so hard to let go—and to balance my clawing fear against the knowledge that independence is something to be encouraged—hanging with city kids in niche bookstores, eating exotic food from hipster food trucks, daydreaming in cool designer boutiques….
It is the beginning of an adult life, of life that is widening beyond…sniff…us
She arrived back at my office after her solo subway travels. She had a glow of success radiating from her. The office IT guy comes up and says, “You know, city kids ride the subway all the time by themselves. It is not a big deal.”
She looked him up and down and said “No! It is a big deal for me and I am proud. You cannot take that away from me.”
Hearing the word NO—my co-worker Debbie, like all good New Yorkers, comes over to assist—“You tell him girl!” she cheered.
And that is what we give our kids when we let them go—we are giving them a confidence and a pride that no one can take away from them.
.
Although I live in a town where many parents have been thoughtfully building a clear trajectory for their children from preschool to Harvard—we, of course, have not. We want our child to be successful in life, but what is success? If the path to a successful adulthood leaves out childhood— what is the point?
.
As The Beast approaches college age her interests are varied—writing, world history, international travel, online design communities, Japanese anime, Chinese language, music, cooking…to be honest…we are not even really sure anymore—we can only hope her eclectic interests point her in the direct of a college that is ideal for HER….with lots and lots of scholarship money.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Texting and Boyfriends
“Do you read my text messages?” The Beast asked feigning nonchalance, but I could tell there was anger behind the question.
“Sweetheart, I can’t even manage to go on the school’s Parent Portal to check whether or not you handed in homework. I am not even sure if I can turn on your phone.”
“You can’t” she said triumphantly “It is locked” and then added with pride—“with a very difficult password.”
The Beast is just like her father—smart and annoying with all things electronic. I, on the other hand, would still be using a rotary phone if I could find one anywhere.
Not sure what started this line of questions...so I decided to asked one of my own: “Should I be reading your text messages? Is there something I should know, but you don’t want to tell me?” I tried to sound concerned, but not panicky—the way I really felt.
“Zoe’s mother read her text messages and found out she was dating Craig and she told Zoe she had to break-up because she was too young to date.”
“Really? Did Zoe break-up with Craig?!” I said—intrigued by the power.
“Of course she did.” My daughter said—with anger clearly in her voice. “ Her mother said she had to.”
“Interesting.” I said. “would you break-up with someone if I told you to? Even if you felt I was wrong?” trying to gauge just how much power I had without knowing it.
The Beast looked straight ahead through the windshield as we passed the strip malls and the odd accountant offices on our way to the orthodontist’s office—not saying yes or no. The husband and I raised a polite and honest, but hard-headed child so I did not expect an answer.
It is strange about our car conversations when we go to the dentist—it is just far enough away from our house to provide the beginning of the a good story, but never quite long enough to get full satisfaction. We pulled into the parking lot and, of course, we were late and the conversation could not be rekindled.
But I guess these are the questions:
How much can you dictate your child’s life?
Why didn’t Zoe ’s mother know she was dating someone before her stealth text reading?
What works better--an iron grip or constantly reminding them—that we love them and want them to be safe.
So I said to The Beast on the way home. “ I want to tell you ‘ No drugs, no sex, no alcohol’, but these are things I can’t stop you from doing…I can only hope (to quote Ms. Churchlady) that you make good choices.”
I have mixed feelings about the whole texting scandal…I am not sure if I am more angry at—Zoe’s mom for reading her daughter’s texts or for Zoe for blindly obeying her mother. Does she not know that “Good Girls Seldom Make History.”
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The Ethan Allen Houses
Six pairs of gnome eyes stare at me from my desk…the gnomes are refugees from daughter’s room as we tear apart walls and paint. They mix well with the silk screened poster of a horse in vibrant primary colors (a gift for my daughter on her birth), the Native American “courage” fetish (my sister gave me that when I started a new job so many years ago), the big pink H (brought back by The Beast and the Husband from their visit to the Sesame Street backstage over a decade ago) and the cup from Lithographers’ Union (scored at Housing Works Thrift Shop in NYC). These tokens of my past and present are mixed in with my old philosophy books, poetry collections and theater of the absurd books that my father passed down to me. This is one small corner of our house. But everything in our house is a memory and also a reflection of who we are…who we were…who we want to be.
Like my childhood home, we live in a busy, messy house which constantly annoys The Husband. We do not live in an Ethan Allen Showroom House. Sometimes when I pick up The Beast from a random birthday party at a McMansion development and I am forced to enter these showroom style homes. Here, where every bit of personality has been scrubbed from living spaces, I desperately search for information about the parents. I look for books, travel souvenirs, hobbies, interests, yet there is nothing to help me.
Walking past the matching wing chairs that flank the seemingly never used fireplace and into the perfect kitchen which makes me clandestinely look for Alice from the Brady Bunch—I wait for The Beast to collect her things from the basement “family room” after a sleep-over. I smile at the flawlessly coiffed mom in leisure attire. She is holding a small dog that is so perfectly groomed he looks like a plush toy come to life. I think—drugs would make this experience truly enjoyable or, maybe, scarier. I wait for the commercial to start, because for a second I think I am transported to a commercial for a cleaning product when suddenly I remember—“oh that is right—this IS reality. “ I continue to search for clues about who these people are or what they do or what they are interested in…a photo of a vacation, a memento of an event, signs of interest in cooking, music, art so I can strike up a conversation….but there is nothing but clean. I finally sink back into the alternate commercial reality and I know my lines…“How do you keep the white rug by the fire place so clean?”
Sometimes when life is surreal—you just have to go with the flow and wait patiently until the commercial ends.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
How Not To Be Scared
Laughing and screaming through the summer storm, as thunder rumbles around us and rain starts to pelt us, we tumble toward to our red VW microbus. A mass of rubber boots, rain ponchos, shorts and tan little bodies all pile into the side door of the bus. Before anyone is in their seat….or for that matter…before even the door is closed…we are traveling to the front beach to better experience the storm moving over Cape Cod. This was my mother’s reaction to storms—“Let’s get closer so we can see it better and really feel the thunder in our chests!”
My grandmother, on the other hand, was home at the beach house hiding in a back bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights out and jumping in fear with every thunder bolt or flash of lightening.
I asked my grandmother once, why was it that she was so scared of storms whereas her daughter loved them. She said that her mother was deathly afraid of storms and she passed that trait on to my grandmother when she was little.
My grandmother said she was determined not to do the same to my mother—she wanted my mother to be strong and fearless. My grandmother realized she would have to pretend not to be afraid of anything. So all through my mother’s childhood, my very fearful little grandmother would bravely sit quietly through storms, swim with my mother in the cold and rough Marblehead waves and keep her eyes open on scary amusement park rides.
My grandmother said with pride—“and see your mother is not afraid of anything. She won swimming championships, she traveled to NYC and started a new life by herself and now she runs toward the storms. That is what I always wanted for my daughter—to be brave and strong. “
So as I watch The Beast running towards her future with a wild abandon that excites and frightens me—I want to grasp her hand like when she was little crossing a busy street, but instead--I smile calmly. I take a deep breath and try my best to convince her I am not scared because I too want my daughter to brave and strong.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Please Call
I tell my child all the time--"It is not that I don’t trust you or that I feel you lack common sense…you just have no idea HOW incredibly morbid by imagination is—please call when you get to where you are going"
The Beast, unlike her mother, thinks the best of everyone. I am sure she has Beethoven’s 9th symphony cheerfully playing in the background of her psyche at all times, while I have the 5th symphony as the sound track of my life—that of death approaching me and all my loved ones…
At the subway turnstiles I steel myself …”I love you. Remember to stop and think if you are unsure. Never be too polite to tell some creepy guy “NO!” and I mean LOUD. Remember “NO!”…no other word is needed—everyone knows what it means and people will help….but you will be fine. I will be the one to worry—remember…PLEASE CALL WHEN YOU GET THERE.”
She takes her Metro Card out and like a pro slides it through the turnstile and turns briefly to me with a smile to tell me to be brave. She is off—without a concern. She knows where she is going—she has the inspirational Ode To Joy theme song playing in her head as she bounces down the subway stairs and off to SoHo and her new life as a teen writer.
It is so hard to let go—and to balance my clawing fear against the knowledge that independence is something to be encouraged—hanging with city kids in niche bookstores, eating exotic food from hipster food trucks, daydreaming in cool designer boutiques….
It is the beginning of an adult life, of life that is widening beyond…sniff…us
She arrived back at my office after her solo subway travels. She had a glow of success radiating from her. The office IT guy comes up and says, “You know, city kids ride the subway all the time by themselves. It is not a big deal.”
She looked him up and down and said “No! It is a big deal for me and I am proud. You cannot take that away from me.”
Hearing the word NO—my co-worker Debbie, like all good New Yorkers, comes over to assist—“You tell him girl!” she cheered.
And that is what we give our kids when we let them go—we are giving them a confidence and a pride that no one can take away from them.
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