Tag Archives: family

College Tours, or better make it a double

rotundaThis week we took the Dude on his first college tours. He’s been on college campuses before, during summer camps or school competitions, but never with the context of I might be spending four years here.  We only visited two public universities, both on the small side of large. We didn’t want to totally overwhelm him. We started slow, only attending  admissions overview sessions and the student led tours. With the number of students attending these sessions, no one we met is likely to remember the Dude, which is just as well, since he’s unlikely to remember any of them either, except for one of our tour guides. She was exceptionally attractive.

We learned a lot about academic programs, the admissions process, and all that jazz, but I learned a few other things too. Let me share them with you.

1) I am no longer in my 20′s. I have always viewed my age as somewhat amorphous. My definition of “old” changes every year. Despite acting rather grown up at a young age, I have never really felt like a grown up. Not until now. These kids are young. Really young. I am not. The comparison is quite striking.

2) Their classes are designed with them in mind, not the faculty’s interests. They don’t sit in classrooms and study post-modern poetry or Medieval art. They have seminars on Latin-based Harry Potter spells. Apparently “Expecto Patronum” means “Summon my lawyer.” Ironic, isn’t it? A soul sucking demon scared off by a lawyer?

Personally, I would kick butt in a Harry Potter seminar, and I’m old enough to buy my own Firewhiskey. I would also love to sit in a classroom and discuss why Dickens is still relevant today. It would be even better if I could do it over a bottle or two of wine. It think this is a viable business idea. My college for parents who still think they are 20 would rock.

3) They are really into Harry Potter. The student tour guides gush that their student lounges look just like Hogwarts. The administrators gush that their student lounges look just like Hogwarts. They have Quiddich teams. I wanted to see a match, however, they weren’t playing while we were there. They run around on brooms. Do you think this means they actually know how to use them? Me neither.

4) They eat a whole lot better than I did in college. Their cafeterias aren’t really cafeterias. They are like restaurant food courts. I didn’t see any Hot Chili Fritos, or ice-cream scoop-shaped mashed potatoes. They have food trucks and latte bars, and Chick Fil A. Has the freshman 15 become the freshman 30? Doesn’t look like it. They are all very fit. Must be all that Quiddich.

5) Dorm rooms are still overheated. Every window was open and had two fans; one bringing air in, one pushing air out. It was about 40 degrees outside.

6) College admissions personnel have seen it all, and we parents are all completely transparent. UVA knows our favorite word isn’t “rotunda” and UNC knows that wearing Carolina blue nail polish isn’t “on accident.” It also makes one look a little cyanotic. I don’t recommend it.

7) I love the whole “secret society” thing. I’m starting one of my own. I can’t tell you much about it, however, because it’s a secret.

8) On the whole, college students look happy, engaged, and seem pretty passionate about what they are doing. I have hope for the species. They don’t resemble the hordes of disaffected high school students that frequent the local Starbucks. Even the Dude told me yesterday that he was tired of his friend saying that everything sucked all of the time, because in actuality, it really doesn’t. I also have hope for my son.

Most of all, it reminds me that my time with the Dude is not infinite. He didn’t lock himself in a closet, swearing to never leave home, nor did he express that he couldn’t wait to leave. I suppose it’s a baby step for all of us, and this is only the beginning. We’re making a list. Only 20 universities to go. I could use some more Firewhiskey.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph “Rotunda” by Tim Jarret © 2004 Creative Commons

You Can’t Stop the Hunt

easterMy son celebrated his first Easter at his Great Aunt Timmy’s house. He was just under two at the time, just barely walking. Given his age, we hadn’t really done anything to mark the day. We hadn’t even talked to him about Easter. We had just moved to California, and were still settling in. We hadn’t even unpacked all of our boxes, let alone found a church.

Timmy, however, was two steps ahead of us.  When we got to her house, she had an Easter egg hunt already set up. She’d filled plastic eggs with candies and goldfish, along with matchbox trucks (the Dude’s favorite thing on the planet). At first, the Dude was confused about what he was supposed to do. When she lead him to the first egg, he tried to put it in his mouth, as children will do. When she opened it for him and he saw that there were M&M’s inside, that was all the explanation he required. He was on an Easter egg search and destroy mission.

The next year, when Easter rolled around again, we knew that we couldn’t slack off this time. The Dude’s expectations were already set. Once he went to bed, my husband and I hid the eggs, along with a big basket with some candy and gifts from my mother, who also knows how to do up Easter. We had the camera ready, and were looking forward to taking him downstairs and watching him tear around the house looking for hidden goodies.

Usually, the Dude would wake us up by running into our room and jumping into bed with us. Easter morning, however, we woke up to a rustling sound outside of our bedroom doorway. I called out to the Dude, who then toddled in, face completely covered with chocolate, toting a half-unwrapped Easter book from the basket my mother had put together.

“Look Momma!”

He’d found every single egg, plus the basket, and hauled the whole shebang upstairs. At that point, I knew we’d crossed some sort of Rubicon. He wasn’t going to wait for us. Not anymore. If he knew there was something out there that he wanted and could get his hands on it, he would.

There was a moment of letdown. A knee-jerk reaction to say “Dude, you shouldn’t have done that.” Luckily, both my husband and I held back. Did we really want to tell him not to explore the world? We never told him not to find the eggs. We didn’t tell him to wait for us. He hadn’t disobeyed, or broken any rules. He’d been self sufficient.  So we did the only thing we could.

“Come show us.”

I knew by his sugary yellow lips that the Peeps were toast.  He held a toy cement mixer in his hand. “Simimi!” I loved his word for it, so I didn’t correct him. He’d learn the word soon enough. Simimi would be a short-lived joy. Another thing he’d grow out of that I’d be left to remember fondly.

We stopped doing an Easter Egg hunt a long time ago. My mom still sends a basket, which the Dude loves, and one of my sisters sends a goodie box, which he also loves. I buy Peeps and Cadbury Eggs to celebrate Lent. I like doing things backwards. I’ll do my atonement after Easter, when the candy is gone. I still have the cement mixer though. When I hold it in my hand, I can almost feel the weight of my son in my arms. It’s a reminder, that no matter how old he gets, no matter how far off he goes to find what he’s looking for, he’ll want to show me the Simimi if I ask him to. I can’t keep him from the journey, all I can ask is that he share the details. Except for the dating stuff. That, he can keep to himself.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph by Jeff Petersen © 2008 Creative Commons

That’s why they call it creative writing

willwritefor foodMy almost-sixteen-year-old son wants to get a job as a sports camp counselor this summer. It’s a good fit for him. He’s honest, hardworking and dependable. He loves sports and has far more patience for snotty children than I do.  He worked as a volunteer for this particular camp a couple of summers ago. Of course, I’d hire him if I weren’t his mother. Since I am his mother, he avoids doing anything I ask him to until it is no longer relevant or I do it myself.

He has to fill out an application for the job. It has one open-ended question–a more politely worded version of “why on earth should I put up with you for a summer, let alone pay you?”  There is nothing more crippling for a teenage boy than being asked to speak more than three words of his own choosing. It’s not even an essay. It’s an idiot check.

He has been avoiding this application for weeks. He’s been working under the impression that the gods would smile upon him and the answer would suddenly take shape in his brain as he played Call of Duty. It didn’t. No surprise. So I sat him down and told him to write something. Anything. He wrote a first draft which was something like, “I helped kids learn to play baseball, but basically did a bunch of crap jobs like emptying garbage cans and vacuuming the parent’s waiting area. This statement, of course, is perfectly true, but it won’t get him the job.

My husband and I worked to lead him towards something a little more persuasive.  I am dumbfounded by how much of his counseling experience I can remember and how much he has forgotten. It makes no sense to me–that summer is a far greater percentage of his lifetime than mine. Perhaps it was because I had to drive him home from camp each day and listen to him complain about how children don’t follow directions.

He was stymied. “I have nothing to say!” he asserted. To which I said, “Then you’ll have to get creative.”

When I asked him why he wanted the job, he said he wanted to make money. I told him that although that, like his description of his job experience, is also true, it won’t get him the job either. I told him he could make money mowing lawns too, and he said, “Yeah, but coaching sports camp is fun. I’d be doing something I like, and the kids are generally pretty entertaining. When they learn something new, it’s cool.”

And there, young man, you have your answer.

I do understand where he’s coming from. When I get to that point in the query letter where I’m supposed to list my writing credentials, it feels pretty thin. At this point in my life, walking away from everything that validates my competence is like losing a beloved blanket. When I felt beaten down, I could hold it close and find reassurance. It was proof that I knew what I was doing.

In many ways, life would be so much easier had I kept things as they were and held onto that blanket for dear life. But I’m doing what I love, and that is my answer.  If I could only get an agent to say that was enough. Until then, I’ll have to be creative.

Words by J. B. Everett

Photograph Newseum Refrigerator Magnet