life according to me

Category: Teenagers

All Summer in a Day

It’s funny that when you’ve waited long for something and it finally arrives, time slows to a crawl. It’s there, right on your doorstep but not quite ready to enter because it’s not quite time. I’m not the only one affected by this because I can hear my son in his room next door not doing much of anything. Yet again, checking the insistent tone in my voice, I’ve had to tell him that he needs to pick up his room. That I do not want to be left after we’ve dropped him off at school to come back home and see what’s left of his teenaged boyness strewn around the floor and on every surface, forcing me to acknowledge for the thousandth time how fast time passes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was suspicious that I had plans for his room in his absence. Plans like, ridding our house of all evidence of his having inhabited the space for nearly a decade and putting up ruffled curtains, or painting it pink.

I’m sitting here instead of forcing things to move along more quickly in the day, but it’s conditioned response. My reasonably gentle prodding requires being within earshot of him to make sure he’s doing what he needs to do to get ready. It takes more time in the long run, but it’s good for me on the patience practicing front, and it’s good for him because let’s face it: he’ll be doing all of it on his own after tomorrow without the up close and personal variety of insistent prodding or reminders. They’ll be relegated to email and Skype instead.

Have you washed your hair? Done your laundry? How are your classes? Is your roommate a nice guy? Are you brushing your teeth, flossing your teeth, staying on top of your organization?

The contents of his day-to-day existence have steadily begun to fill my office — stacks of jeans, shorts, and tee shirts lining up against the bookcases. We stand looking at them as if they were something remarkable.

Me: Are three pair of jeans enough?

Him: I probably need a couple more.

Me: (holding up a dingy yellow tee) This one’s seen better days. If it’s a favorite, leave it here, otherwise, throw it in the discard pile.

Him: What’s wrong with it?

And then another laundry lesson begins about light colors being separated from dark when the weekly wash is completed. He’s been doing his laundry for a couple of years now, but I have to make sure, telling him something he knows already.

Economy sized bottle of detergent. Check. Even larger economy sized toilet paper package. Check. Body wash, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss…check. I wandered through the book section at Target last week after sending him off to get his personal supplies, the image a doting mother leading her 18-year-old son around to choose his deodorant not appealing to me even though I know he wouldn’t mind.

The sounds of hustle bustle next door have stopped again and a quick look around me reveals a few more items lying in wait– guitar, art supplies, a few of his favorite books — but I can tell he’s once again parked in front of his computer. The computer that’s staying here. The new laptop arrives today, just in time to be experimented with and the Wacom tablet hooked up to make sure everything works. Are 24 hours really enough for a day like this?

It’s 10am and things are finally going into the soft duffle bag with rollers we purchased a few years ago with this very moment in mind. Thankfully, there’s a second for the bits of this and that he’ll need — things that feel semi-familiar.

Will you have your own desk? Is there a lamp? Are there hangers in the closet? I’ve asked all these questions before and have been patiently told, yes. Yes, they’re all there. But what about something for your desk? Something to keep pencils in, or folders for important papers? He and the MoH were there on a dorm tour recently, so I’ve been assured that everything is just fine. But no mini fridges, no microwaves, and no used furniture is allowed. And definitely no pets, which is sad for Lizzie who clearly loves him more than anyone else here. He’s had to push her aside more than once as he filled the large duffle bag, trying to keep her out of it. For now, she’s content to make a nest on the clothes he’s put aside to wear tomorrow, her paws kneading the worn fleece before settling down to bathe, confirming that he’ll have cat hair on his clothes when he leaves just like any other day.

By this time tomorrow, we will have dropped him off at his dorm and helped him carry everything to his room. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet his roommate, but I’ve been told he thinks he can handle making his bed himself. Of course this is something I’ve always known, but he’s yet to make his bed once in his life, so the experience should be interesting. Bear in mind I’ve not made his bed many times, either, but I can think of many things I’d rather do than to make up a bunk bed. I wonder if he’ll have the top bunk or the bottom?

He’s semi-packed now and in the shower. We’re off to get his bi-annual haircut, pick up some new earphones and maybe assemble a junkfood stash for his dorm. It would be perfect to be able to put him in my car so he could take care of these last minute things himself, leaving me to fuss over the details, but after all the hassle of getting his driving permit, lessons, practice, and a last second driver’s test, he doesn’t like driving. Go figure. At least he’ll have some ID, right?

I wonder how he’ll feel about being in a big city away from just about everything he’s always known and depended upon?

Oh, my.

August 25, 2010
Empty Nest Syndrome

It’s been just more than a month since I finished my year’s obligation and I’ve busied myself with all sorts of things I wouldn’t exactly describe as constructive. The weather here has been far less than summery, with the only warm day arriving today when within sight of the Pacific we’ve actually mustered up an admirable 82 degrees. With an almost non-existent summer, I can only say that constructiveness must be connected to the things I expect at any given time during the year. A matter of rote. Habit.

Better said, I’ve been spending my time processing the fact that I not longer work doing something I’ve done for more than 20 years, but this time for good. I’ve also been processing that after mothering three boys, my youngest is headed off to school, leaving the MoH and I with a seriously empty nest. I think that, more than anything, with all of its unknowns, has caught us completely by surprise.

It’s a bit of a choking sensation for me, felt when I least expect it. It overwhelms me with its intensity, and I unrealistically imagine bears and woods, sinking boats, and other disasters I can’t help my son from. How ridiculous is that? Seriously.

But we still need to find our corners occasionally to weep silently in the middle of an unrelated conversation until one of us notices that the other has stopped his or her side of the conversation. And then one of us knows. We know that the empty nest syndrome has enveloped one of us and so the other quietly excuses him or herself to allow the sorrow to pass.

What the hell.

This should be a time of celebration. It should be a time for looking forward to all that lies ahead. The future. Opportunity. Yadda yadda yadda.

I try. Honestly, I do. And it works most of the time on most days.

I busy myself with planning a trip to the UK in the fall. As someone who lived her professional life married to a school calendar, trust me. I want to travel in the fall when everyone else is at work or in school. It’s just that one moment on that one day on that one afternoon. All it takes is a look, and then I’m toast.

We’ve purchased bedding for his dorm room. We’ve paid for the housing and food. We’ve reviewed books and supply lists and have made plans to purchase them here then drive them up. But time is dwindling. More than 30 years raising boys. More than 20 years teaching other people’s children.

It will take a bit of time to adjust.

August 17, 2010
Road Trips and Empty Nests

It’s that odd time of year when the heaviness of gloomy June skies have given up the fight and succumbed to summer. In a few short weeks, all the weather you might attribute to the most southern corner of California has graced us with its seemingly relieved presence: blue skies clear enough for skywriters to appear, warm dry Santa Ana winds, damp nights when the sea air only begrudgingly wafts through open windows, and this morning, fog.

The RTR is on summer break and for the first time in his life since beginning school at the age of three, he’s home alone for nearly the entire 10 weeks. No camp, no classes, no arranged visits with relatives, and absolutely no agenda. Since I’ve been back to work for a couple of months now, he’s here each day most likely lost in a world that is unique to him — one more and more filled with what it appears to be his choice of direction in life. He draws and paints, develops fierce mechanical robot images and plays interactive video games at his computer. He wants to study game design.

I’d like to say that the past few years that I’ve been at home, I’ve had a positive influence on his quiet life, and at this point hope that whatever did come from our time together — more than we’ve spent together in his life — is far more lasting than what I’d originally intended: to keep an eye and ear out for him with respect to school and responsibility in general.

Yes, I actually said that. But I’ve learned quite a bit with this youngest of mine, and although we’re quite a long way from finding out whether he’s truly the strongest of us all, or whether he’s the absent-minded gentle boy I’ve always thought him to be, I suspect he’s a little of both, and we’ve barely a year left to send him on his way to find out for himself.

We’ve had little time or money for an elaborate vacation this year, and so we seized the opportunity to fly to San Francisco to tour the school he wants to attend. The plan was to spend a day in the city, take the tour the next morning, and then rent a car and drive up to Mendocino, a town I’ve wanted to visit forever.

Outside of my coming down with the strangest flu of sorts and being completely out for the count for two solid days, we made it to San Francisco just fine. I wouldn’t have missed the tour of this school for anything because I honestly have many hopes attached to it like I suppose most parents are inclined to, even if the circumstances surrounding that desire aren’t the best.

When the RTR was a freshman or sophomore, a visitor came to speak at his art class and the person made such an impression that the RTR made an effort to tell me about it without my routine inquiry about his day. I’ll never forget listening to him tell me about it because the focus of his interest was that he only needed a high school diploma to get in. No SAT scores. No AP credit. Just. Graduate.

It has been quite the journey since that day, and we’ve watched him do quite well in all of his classes each Fall semester, and then fall completely apart in the Spring. We’ve planned with him, discussed options for Plan B or C when Plan A clearly wasn’t working, we’ve tried to motivate and outright bribed him. We’ve threatened with images of our version of the real world although we weren’t completely convinced we wanted to be the part of that option we might have to be.

Deciding to save my breath and his ears this year has been a definite giving in. Yet again, I’ve caved to the strength of the passive genes my boys all clearly have. It’s amazing. But the school was amazing, and while on that tour, I found myself envious, pushing away the what ifs and if onlys that kept rising up in me. It’s an urban campus with buildings spread out all over the city with a timed shuttle that carries students to and from their classes and dorms. I watched as a student here and there walked by, laptop bags slung over shoulders, ears wired to iPods, Starbucks in hand. I imagined my son there and saw him fitting in at least from an external appearance — minus the coffee.

The million dollar question — no, make that almost $30,000 since that’s what will come out of our pockets to pay for this each year — is whether being in that environment where he won’t have to deal with calculus, or arcane subjects that aren’t directly related to his focus of study, where he’ll be able to take studio classes right away instead of having to wait until general ed requirements are satisfied will help him understand that life requires us all to complete basic tasks we don’t necessarily want to, nor enjoy. That sometimes, they are painfully challenging, but we have to do them anyway. That in spite of our angst, we often grow the most and admit to learning the best from those lessons that seem only to be hurdles in our path. Like parenthood at times. Like being the parent of children who quietly meander in a direction only they seem to understand at a pace that I swear is intended to make me crazy.

I’m convinced now that I’m down to my last year and facing empty nest syndrome square in the face, that I’m the one who has learned the most. I’ve learned that if I had it to do all over again, very few things would change. But I would wonder about the strangeness of life’s plan and our response to it. To whom it carries along and to those it mystifies.

I will also hold my breath this last year and continue to wonder why, why, why, why if all he needed was a high school diploma to get into that art school, he would seemingly intentionally fail a semester of English. He told me he just didn’t do the work. That he waited, and then it was too late.

Yes, life’s like that. It’s like that all the time.

July 20, 2009
Comfort and Limitations

It’s dark when the alarm goes off and my husband hits the snooze button to squeeze a few more precious minutes of sleep from his restless night. I lay there not quite wanting to open my eyes and tentatively move my sore limbs, regretting my decision to tear down a fence in the back only a little, thinking, not bad for an old chick, as I become familiar with each ache.

The sound of the shower motivates me to swing my feet to the chilly floor and shuffle downstairs to turn on the kettle for tea. One English Breakfast tea bag goes into the stainless travel mug for my husband and I fill the coffee pot to the six line for myself, dumping two mounded scoops of coffee into the basket before remembering to actually turn it on.

The cat is looking at me from her perch on the arm chair and I’m wondering why she isn’t yeowling at me like she normally does at this point in my morning routine, hurrying me along so that she can have a fresh bowl of food. I glance at the dog’s dish to make sure my son has fed her before heading down to tend to the cat, proceding with caution on the stairs because I know she’ll come barreling down them right as I’m ready to take another step and I don’t want to be a feature story on the 5PM news. But she doesn’t today, and I look back to see her staring at me, seemingly as uninspired in this routine as I am. I tap the spoon on the rim of the cat food can and peer around the corner to see her headed down the stairs. She stretches each hind leg, then looks up at me and yeowls, as if to say, it’s about time.

(more…)

March 25, 2009
School Underway and All Systems Go…so far.

With the first week of school under our belt, life should settle into a comfortable, but relentless pace. Sounds dramatic, even if it isn’t wholly accurate. Suffice it to say it should be relentless for the RTR and I, who are most comfortable in our house potato state.

We prefer to characterize ourselves as easily entertained. Simply entertained? Okay, how about low maintenance in the entertainment department.

The junior year in high school blew in for my youngest this past week, and with it the expectations of a cool 150 pages of U.S. History and exam each week, and a studio art class that will, by the end of the year, allow him to produce a portfolio that is quite the humdinger. There’s a project due every Friday and with the supplies and studio fee, the MoH’s plastic is about $375 heavier. Unbelievable.

The decision to take Statistics instead of Calculus seems to be working — sure there’s homework every night, too, but it’s the “easy” class and he gets that done first. Physics fits in here somewhere, but I haven’t figured that out yet. The English teacher seems to be nowhere in sight. AGAIN. I know that this recurring theme is some perverse punishment meant solely for me — dedicated English teacher and passionate writing teacher that I once was.

The English teacher is the only one of his teachers that didn’t send home a syllabus. I’ve never figured out how that’s even ethical… Okay, so, here’s my kid for a year. Teach him, but I don’t need to know anything about any of your plans because I’m just supposed to trust that you’re a professional, because you know, all teachers are professionals and have the exact same practices, right? And that when my kid begins to show signs of faltering, and he will, trust me, that we will have absolutely nothing to go on to pitch in and support him like we know you expect us to, or we’ll be forever known as slacker parents, which wouldn’t be true, but you’d think it anyways.

You can tell I’m pretty much over school right?

Between my own education, my career, my boys education…I dunno. I think I gave at the office. But I think I’m going to enjoy my job as Chief Buttress in the History and Art departments this year.

Ah, yep.

September 6, 2008
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008
Back to School: Ho Hum

The long Labor Day weekend always marks the official end of summer here, with people heading to the beach one last time. And just like that, it’s over.

The three days yawned on for what seemed like five with the three of us taking it easy. Other than spending Saturday at the horse races with the RTR and a cousin (who decided that picking horses is a lot more challenging than playing Texas Hold’em), we made like house potatoes. I put off the perfunctory school shopping until yesterday when we hit the sales Macy’s advertises so well, and then doubt if we actually picked up anything on sale. Funny how that works, isn’t it? The total time to choose and try on four shirts and three pairs of shorts was less than waiting in line to pay for those school clothes. Nice. Well, the wait time — not so much the price tag.

Yes, summer is definitely over.

There’s more traffic in the morning going past our house and with us in it, the school carpool started up again. Same kids, new clothes, different school year. Talk of how it feels on the first day, the first class, and how by the second day, it’s all old news. By the time we pulled up to the curb, they were talking about when the first three-day weekend would be, then the week off for Thanksgiving. Then the Christmas break.

It was pretty funny, actually, because I know that some teachers were most likely feeling the same way. In fact, during my second student teaching assignment, on the first day of school, I overheard a teacher in the bathroom stall next to mine, talking to a colleague about how many days were left until Veteran’s Day.

So in celebration of the first day of school, I’ll pass along to you something I was sent in an email yesterday. Although when I read it, I knew there could be no way it was true (see this at Snopes), I know from experience that the feeling behind it can, for some who work in schools, definitely be true. Seriously. Let’s face it — kids have to go to school, kids have parents, and those parents aren’t always delightful humans to work with. Although I have some interesting stories of my own about working with parents, the stories I have about working with teachers are just as interesting.

People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones…

SCHOOL ANSWERING MACHINE

This is hilarious – no wonder some people were offended! This is the message that the Pacific Palisades High School California staff voted unanimously to record on their school telephone answering machine.

This is the actual answering machine message for the school. This came about because they implemented a policy requiring students and parents to be responsible for their children’s absences and missing homework.

The school and teachers are being sued by parents who want their children’s failing grades changed to passing grades – even though those children were absent 15-30 times during the semester and did not complete enough school work to pass their classes.

The outgoing message:

Hello! You have reached the automated answering service of your school. In order to assist you in connecting to the right staff member, please listen to all the options before making a selection:

To lie about why your child is absent – Press 1

To make excuses for why your child did not do his work -Press 2

To complain about what we do – Press 3

To swear at staff members – Press 4

To ask why you didn’t get information that was already enclosed in your newsletter and several flyers mailed to you – Press 5

If you want us to raise your child – Press 6

If you want to reach out and touch, slap or hit someone – Press 7

To request another teacher, for the third time this year – Press 8

To complain about bus transportation – Press 9

To complain about school lunches – Press 0

If you realize this is the real world and your child must be accountable and responsible for his/her own behavior, class work, homework and that it’s not the teachers’ fault for your child’s lack of effort: Hang up and have a nice day!

If you want this in Spanish, move to a country that speaks it.

(The last line wasn’t in the piece I linked from Snopes, so someone must have added it as it made its way through the email highway. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t get political today, so I’ll just leave it there like an elephant in the livingroom.)

Ah, yes. Happy Back to School.

September 2, 2008
Babysitting 101? Not.
Your husband asks you if it’s okay that a nephew comes to stay for a few hours one night while his family is out on the town. You say, “of course,” because how difficult is it to watch a 5-year-old? After all, you’ve raised three boys of your own, and taught countless children. Right?

You:
- are fairly certain you still have some of the trillions of Legos your boys collected and that you begged the two older ones to take away, to sell on eBay, or maybe build a shrine to their mother with — somewhere.
- feel more than a little anxiety when you can’t find the Legos, but resourcefully drag the little pool table that no one ever played with from the dark fuzzy region under the RTR’s old bunk bed so your nephew will have something to play with.
- tell the RTR that since his older brothers entertained him endlessly when he was growing up that he needed to entertain his little cousin and that this would be called Paying it Forward.
- order pizza because that makes everybody happy no matter what
- finally remember that the box of Legos you saved are shoved in the garage with the Christmas decorations — somewhere
- ask your nephew if he wants to play with the Legos or go to the pool with the MoH who’s planning on doing some laps
- should remember that five-year-olds don’t always completely understand the concept of a choice
- smile when you see that the RTR has gotten out the army men and know that should keep them busy for about 10 minutes
- tell the little guy after he says that now he wants to swim, that Uncle MoH has already gone, and should be back any minute now
- feel relief when the pizza arrives
- smile when he quietly asks where the trash is, then sticks his head in the can and barfs up more than you’ve ever seen a little boy barf — and you’ve seen a lot of barf.
- feel his cool forehead, wipe his little face and let him rinse his mouth, but think, “Dang. He must do this a lot. He’s not even upset.”
- watch him run back up the stairs to play like nothing happened.
- see him come back into the kitchen and barf again, then ask him what he had for lunch, hoping nobody else in his family was barfing since that would sort of spoil their evening at the theater.
- point to the clock explaining where the big hand needs to be for his mother and father to come get him.
- carry your Mac into the livingroom, placing it on the floor so he can watch Star Wars with the RTR and get comfy with a blanket.
- hope he nods off even though he doesn’t look like he’s going to.
- watch him barf again even though there’s not much left to barf.
- wonder what his parents are going to think we did to him when they get back.
- know you’ll probably never be asked to babysit your nephew again.
- decide babysitting is different than riding a bike or jumping rope.
Who knew?
August 11, 2008
That Summer Feeling

It’s the last day of school and because 99.9% of us have spent time in a seat in a classroom counting the days and minutes and seconds until we could say, “It’s the last day of school!” we know it’s a special day.

And then there’s another portion of us who stood in that classroom in front of those kids, and later, in front of those teachers, and thought the very same thing. This particular experience gave new meaning to the phrase, barely contain my glee…

Okay, so for some — those of us who still have children at home — this day conjures conflicting emotions:

A. You’re ecstatic that you no longer have to get up at 6:30 (or even 6:57) for your 7am car pool responsibilities.

B. You’re in a quandry because your almost 16-year-old son will be home every single day for 10 weeks (too old for camp, not able to attend summer school to make up crappy grades in Spanish and Algebra II because his perfectly delightful and generous but most likely too indulgent parents are taking him to Italy) attempting to put a pet rock to shame with inactivity and behaving quite charmingly the entire time.

A. You’re seriously glad that you no longer have even more children — little ones — at home who now need you to be the summer tour director, organize appropriate television viewing time, snack time, nap time, play group time, reading time, craft time, and errand-running-time with said children in tow which was always so much fun.

B. There’s no B on this one. Trust me.

A. You no longer have to ask (prod, cajole, encourage, motivate, hold a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing…) aforementioned teenager if he has homework to do, classwork to finish, quizzes or tests to study for, papers to sign, grades to keep an eye on, or projects to complete, and compose yourself long enough to stimulate chronic eye twitching.

B. You no longer have time to do all of the above because it’s the last day of school and all of the above didn’t exactly work, so you’ve resorted to Plan Z in preparation for the next school year. Already.

A. Even though you’re a million years older than you once were when you couldn’t wait for the Last Day of School, you still remember that the Day After the Last Day of School was a very special day that meant you’d lay in bed as long as you possibly could waiting to feel that feeling you’d waited for all year. You know. The, “IT’S SUMMER AND YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL!” feeling. The one where your days stretch in front of you, yawning with possibility.

B. Since The Day After the Last Day of School is Tuesday this year, and that’s normally a car pool morning for me, see the first “A” above.

A. You’ll finally, finally get to see your wannabe artist son’s art portfolio knowing it will make you smile, appreciating his ability even though the world wants to browbeat artists, guilting them into thinking that begging on a street corner spouting formulas and quadratic equations in Spanish will gain them more handouts than painting or playing a violin. Okay, so an electric guitar maybe?

B. I’ll finally get to maybe think about possibly considering looking in his backpack, hoping against hope that there are no apples in the bottom, left to ferment for weeks. But if there are apples, I’ll be reminded that sometimes apples do fall far from the tree, and that is fortunate.

Happy Last Day of School!

June 16, 2008
Teenagers, school, and grey hair.

How do we get to Friday so quickly now when it used to seem as if it was forever hovering in the distance of my pseudo nine-to-five work week? It’s amazing, and I’m left feeling yet again that I need some kind of a drive through where I can order a few more hours each day with a super-sized box of salty hot fries.

And I’m pensive. But that shouldn’t stop my Friday Follies, because I’ll indulge in a bit of Peaflock egocentrism instead of worrying about the economy, or whether I’m being green enough. About whether the RTR will persist in his subtle efforts to resist all half-assed attempts at parental pressure to become a neurotic type-A studentisto at some point in the future. Smart young man.

So how is my almost 16-year-old last birdie in my nest doing these days? I thought you’d never ask. Outside of continuing to be the gentle and respectful, scruffy around the edges, but hugging type person that he’s always been, I’d like to say he’s seen the light and has become an organizational sensation with a sparkling bedroom. A notebook that one might be able to detect some semblance of order. A backpack whose lumpy contents I don’t have to wonder about.

He hasn’t.

But his bathroom is cleaner than ours now, because The Gramster is sharing it with him. It looks like a real bathroom now with a mirror you can actually see your reflection in. And he’s loving the guitar, the lessons, and even his cool guitar teacher. I keep asking him when he’s going to get House of the Rising Sun down so I can sing, and you know, I think he’s working on it. I’ll let you know if I actually get a gig on YouTube so you can spit your cereal milk or coffee all over your keyboard.

But school? Well, let’s just say we’re gently reminding him that if there’s not a solid “C” in Spanish and Algebra II, then the MoH has decreed that when we get back from Italy this summer, he’s getting a J.O.B.

So I’m still trying to figure out exactly whose consequence that is since the RTR doesn’t have a driver’s license, and since I remain challenged to completely understand which higher plane of existence he spends most of waking moments on, I’m not comfortable with the idea of him being behind the wheel of any vehicle. Too. Scary. That means that I would become the J.O.B. taxi.

I hate driving. Thoroughly.

Besides, I think our philosophy is losing credibility faster than you can yell, “Phony!” at me. If I haven’t raged enough about it before, or, if you were smart and skipped through the pretty pictures of those twenty or so posts, you know that I do have rather strong opinions about the general quality of public education. In spite of the two decades I spent working as an educator — a damn good one, thank you very much — I’ve always believed that what we do best is try to fit all children into the same sized hole. And because my pensiveness is about my son today, and not public education, I’ll leave it at this: If I truly believe that, then how, how, how do I continue to find myself veering toward that norm? It’s amazingly difficult to pull away from that force.

So how is the RTR winning this? About two months or so ago, his art teacher invited a spokesperson down from a school in San Francisco to speak. The funny thing about it is that each day when I pick him up at school, we have the same exchange:

Me: How was your day?

Him: Pretty good (although this fluctuates between other responses such as, fine, average, normal, okay…)

Me: Did anything new and exciting happen?

Him: No.

It’s one of those warm, fuzzy mother and son moments that we smile about. So it figures that the one day I forget to play the tape, he actually has something to say:

Him: Mom. You know how you always ask me about whether something new and exciting happens at school?

Me: Yah?

Him: Well today, a person came to our art class.

Me: What did he talk about?

Him: Well she was from this art school in San Francisco and it sounds really cool. You don’t have to have SAT scores.

Me: Really? *Oh. Swell.*

Him: Yep. And when she asked if anyone wanted information, I raised my hand.

Whoa. This is the part where I have to control myself and not act like I’m giddy that he is showing an interest in something that doesn’t resemble tiny military figurines or tanks, World War II and YouTube comedy segments. He’s spoken to someone from admissions on the phone twice.

Do you know how difficult it is to keep up with the whole, “It matters that you WORK hard in school, because in life you have to WORK hard if you want to find the right kind of WORK for yourself instead of just finding a job that pays well- blah-blah-blah-dee-dah-work-work-work…” diatribe when the school your son has decided he’s attending has this philosophy:

The Academy of Art University maintains a no-barrier admissions policy for all undergraduate programs. The Academy was built on the educational philosophy that all students interested in studying art and design deserve the opportunity to do so.

All he needs is a high school diploma. Period.

Okay, so… and parents who are willing to pay the tuition.

But it’s right up his alley of interests. So go figure.

Guess the MoH is going to have to whip out his checkbook. But the RTR is still taking the SAT next Saturday.

Just. Because.

And the next two years will fly by as we continue to pander to the great education god in the sky and resist temptations to walk the streets with signs that plead, “Will clean your bathroom for son’s GPA.” Okay, so maybe not.

He told me the school doesn’t recognize GPA, either.

Go figure that his non-plan looks like it’s going to work. Just think about all the grey hairs and wrinkles I could have saved worrying about that sweet kid.

May 30, 2008