School Days

School has barely started yet and the requests and the obligations are already starting. I am not complaining. I love to do and give. I am the first to respond to the emails offering my services. However, I am wondering where the time goes. Didn’t the kids just get out of school? Didn’t we just begin 12 weeks of lazy days, biking at the beach, basketball in the back yard and staying up late playing Apples to Apples and Bananagrams? Oh, how I am going to miss these long, lazy days of summer.

It is now time to return to packing lunches, the morning rush, the dreaded homework, racing to all the after school, extracurricular activities and driving, driving and more driving. This past week was jam packed. I think I spent almost everyday in the kitchen. I somehow managed to survive.

This torte was the last thing on my very long list. Our school has a tradition of welcoming the teachers and the staff back to school with an appreciation lunch. Nothing says “back to school” like Peanut, butter, and jelly” and this torte was may way of saying, I appreciate all that you do for our community and my children.

As millions of parents prepare to proudly watch their high school seniors march down the aisle toward their next academic milestone, there’s no denying that, this summer, in many homes plenty of attention will be focused on the upcoming college launch. In honor of college-bound graduates and that higher education road trip, I’d like to share one of my most popular essays from my book College Bound and Gagged: How to Help Your Kid Get into a Great College Without Losing Your Savings, Your Relationship, or Your Mind. This essay was one of the winners of the 2010 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition, which I think reflects the fact that we’re all in sticker shock.

It fell out of the most important letter of the year. A thin adhesive sticker tucked inside the anxiously awaited university acceptance letter.

“Mom, I got in!” my son exclaimed. “Now you can get off my back.”

I might have cried, but I was too busy thanking a higher power for giving me my life back. The admissions office insisted I didn’t owe them that phone call. Like proud parents everywhere, I took the highly coveted university decal mobile. Clinging to the rear window of our SUV, the victory sticker symbolized closure from a process I thought would never end. This would be the last and most expensive decal on the journey of parenthood. Soon the nest and the bank account would be empty.

“What will you do with your time now that you won’t have to nag him to write essays and study SAT words?” my mother asked.

Shopping for vintage clothes was for me something of an art. Or maybe a sport.  I had a little talent for it.  When I was a teenager, I almost exclusively wore antique (what we called it then) dresses.  Shirts and coats as well.  The only vintage pants I remember buying were those old high-waisted navy sailor pants.  Those were so friggin’ bitchin.   But they were made of wool and itchy.  I was all about the look though, and an itch I could tolerate for the look.

When I started driving, I would head out to a favorite store on Wilshire in that strange hood just before Santa Monica, near Barrington.  The Junk Store.  A semi-nasty person owned the place and when I tried to purchase my first item there — a black velvet 1940’s coat with big padded shoulders and white, sorry to say, elephant ivory buttons — I was told to go straight home and get a written note from my parents.  

A lot of parents were coming in complaining about and returning their kids’ purchases.  I thought, “WHAT?  My mother loves my style and everything I buy and wear.  I also make my own money and it’s not my parents’ business.”  But I went along with it, and I’m such a goody-goody that I brought back a legitimate note.  I could have gone outside and written my own.  I’m slow.  Everyone went to The Junk Store for the must-have ski sweater and the patchwork quilts.

Now that school is back in full swing (our second week), the dreaded morning scuffle has also returned.

I was hoping a more streamlined ritual would fall into place, but alas it's business as usual.

You see, I have one child who does everything he's supposed to, when he's supposed to do it. I have another child who couldn't be bothered with the type of work and effort it takes to get to school on time.

It's time to get up....."I can't".......It's time for breakfast....."I'm busy"....Are you dressed...teeth brushed...hair combed....shoes on....."no".

Ugh.

It makes me crazy.  I feel like I've tried everything to help facilitate the morning madness but nothing seems to light a fire under his behind.