Mid-CenturyModernMoms

I'll "lame" you, young lady

The youngest daughter is going to France for three weeks in May/June. We contacted the family over there several months back, and arrangements were made. She will be attending a school directly across the street from my cousin's home, the one her three children attended. I've purchased the tickets, she has her passport, she has been diligently saving her money.

Now, I knew that her first priority for that money was a new laptop. Not exactly cogent, one might think, but she's wanted a laptop for over a year now, and I understand how setting oneself an Important Deadline can make it easier to stay motivated and self-disciplined.

This week, though, it seemed that her focus on the laptop was getting out of hand. The deadline is fast approaching. She only has one or two more paycheques before she'll be boarding that plane.

And Rebekah? She is panicking.

"I won't have enough money, mom! I could buy one, but it would be cheap and chintzy and probably break down in a year. I don't want a crap laptop!"

Fair enough. So I suggest that it doesn't matter. The money she has saved so far will be a decent amount of spending money for her trip, and she can continue to save for the laptop afterward.

"I don't care about spending money!!!" And, it is entirely clear, that is as far as this conversation is going to get. She has collapsed on her bed in a puddle of existential despair. I pat her shoulder (it is shaken off, of course, but I do it anyway) and then leave.

I don't really get it. Sure, a laptop would be nice, but spending money is nicer. What kind of a trip would you get with not a penny to spend in your pocket? Bizarre. If I had to choose between laptop and spending money, I sure know which I'd... oh. And then the penny drops in the maternal head. Belatedly, no doubt. I'm sure you've figured it out already.

The laptop represents contact with her friends. She may be going to another country (a daunting prospect), but, with laptop under her elbow, she will be able to take her friends with her. Ah. Of course.

She has no idea what awaits her. She doesn't really remember our last trip to France. She has no conception of what international travel looks like, she doesn't know how she'll be filling her days. Of course she wants the security of her friends. What she needs, obviously, is some sense of what awaits. We need to do a little research, see what the local sights and attractions are, scope out some potential day trips for her. How foolish of me not to have thought of this before.

Thirty-some years ago, I was sixteen and traveling to England to stay with an aunt and uncle for six weeks. Before I got on that plane, I knew what I'd like to see in the city in which I'd be staying, and I had day trips to London, Stratford, and even into Wales planned for myself. Contact with my friends, in the days before the Internet, would be in the form of lots and lots and lots of post cards. My mother and I had pored over travel brochures and books. It had been such fun, planning my Big Adventures!

I need to do the same with my daughter. Duh.

A day or two later, there is time and opportunity.

"Hey, sweetie. Come have a look at this." I have on my laptop screen a page of the sights and sounds of the region. "Look at what is right around the corner from where you'll be staying!"

She looks at me, a bit blankly.

"These are things you can explore while you're at Gillian's."

"You mean, I could go see them?"

"Yes!"

"By myself?"

"Yes!"

Ah, she's getting it! The romance of travel! The excitment of discovery! The empowerment of being autonomous!

"Travel by myself? That's LAME, mom!"

She bounds upstairs again, no doubt to wallow once more in existential despair. Good thing, too, because what's on the tip of my tongue,

"Lame? LAME?!?! I'll tell you what's lame! Lame is spending over a thousand dollars to go to another country so that you can sit in your bedroom and IM your friends, which you can do at home! For free! THAT'S LAME, young lady!" is not entirely constructive.

It may yet get said. But not just yet. She's feeling unnerved, a little apprehensive, intimidated. All perfectly understandable. And she's reacting to these negative feelings in entirely true-to-form adolescent ways. (None of them particularly helpful, but also understandable, even if they are REALLY, REALLY AGGRAVATING!)

It was Rebekah's wise older sister Sarah who made the more constructive suggestion: Enlist the help of Adam's wonderful (sadly, ex-) girlfriend. Erika has travelled widely. In fact, she will be in Paris when Rebekah's flight gets in, so the girls already have a day of adventure in Paris planned. complete with renting bicycles and exploring a "whole bunch of neat places Erika knows!" (Bless that girl.) Sarah is brilliant! Erika is wonderful!

I am hereby enlisting Erika as my Secret Weapon. If anyone can get Rebekah psyched up, enthused and motivated to enjoy her time in France to the very fullest, is it the effervescent, energetic, and positive Erika. We'll get my girl's attitude shifted ... whether she likes it or not!

"Lame." Good lord.

Before School: It's a Vacation

We just got back from a lovely, restful vacation.  It was only Abe and Rose and me.  The largest (adult) child took himself to a Bar Mitzvah in California and left us to go on vacation without him.  I think that we had a much better time without him than we possibly could with him along.

We had "bought" 3 nights in a condo near Loon Mountain, in Lincoln, New Hampshire at the school silent auction from Rosie's old school.  Since we don't downhill ski, we like to go up to the mountains in the summertime.  We've actually been up at that area about 4 or 5 times.

This time, we had no major plans set, although we were probably going to go to the water park.  We hiked a little (very, very, mild walks), played mini-golf twice, went to the hot tub at the condo village twice and generally relaxed and sat around.  We did a little bit of shopping - mostly shirts for Rose, but also a dress for Mom and a windbreaker for Abe (who had lost his at school!) 

We ate in (the condo), we ate out, we relaxed.  And one of the reasons that Mom could relax was that (wonders of wonders, miracles or miracles....) the kids were EXTREMELY good.  There was a little bit of squabbling and sniping, but overall, everyone (mom included) gave a bit and the vacation was very calm.  This was just what mom needed, even if the kids weren't highly entertained. Abe had to (shudder) actually perform some (very mild) exercise and Rosie had to put up with her brother.But, mostly, Abe got to read and watch TV, Rose got to shop and watch TV, Mom got to sleep late, spend some time outside, not feel guilty about not doing a bunch of chores, eat wonderful meals that she hadn't prepared and not have to yell at the kids.  Mom certainly got the best of this deal. 

But now it's back to school and work.  Abe is back at FLC where he still has another day of vacation there.  Rosie will go to orientation and then start public school in a few days and Mom gets to water the new lawn.  Vacation is always over too soon.

Back to School: Pack. Unpack. Repeat.

We have gotten this down to a science. Two women who loathe packing but refuse to let that get in our way. Jana and I have a guerilla-style of getting the job done. Pack in one day, unpack the next. It helps to not prolong the agony. In the last four months she has moved home from college, gone to Israel for 10 days, gone to camp for 7 weeks and round robin back to college.

Just a couple of casualties to date:

21 lbs of shoes (not exaggerating, this is the exact weight), 'lost' by UPS.
After being not so nice to the rep on the phone about the incorrect address they 'claimed' we wrote on the package, we find out from her friends that it was, in fact, the incorrect address (what are a few digits amongst shippers?) What is the shot I would get the SAME rep on the phone when calling back the 800#? Yeh, that was a little embarrassing. (Three days later and 5 more phone calls to UPS and I believe those many little tiny (size 6) shoes are being delivered today!)

The missing printer
University of Wisconsin has a wonderful (translation: money-sucking, opportunistic, prey upon the inadaquecy of the out-of-towners) service that packs, stores, washes, dry cleans and delivers back whatever you need. (pets and anything else with a heartbeat are probably where they draw the line). They did an almost flawless job with all their bar-coding and databasing – just need to locate one of the only items she really needs in college, the printer (not as if 21 lbs. of shoes are not important, too, of course).

Off to one more round of Target, Bed Bath and way Beyond the amount of money that should be spent on this stuff and then I am on to more relaxing endeavors...

Like getting Danny set for 11th grade – that oh so relaxing year of SATs, driver's ed and college touring.

Hmmm, I wonder if I have time for a massage before I leave...

Saying "No" to Mommy Cam

By Nina

So . . .that's Grumble (far left) having a ball in Israel with some his 650 new bff's. How do I know?  Bunk1.com.

Bunk1.com is a company that sleepaway camps use to provide more or less continuous coverage of your child's summer activities. If I choose -- and for a fee of course -- I can see photos of my darling son 24/7 at bunk1.com and bask in the warmth of his smiling goofy face, scruffy beard, curly locks and sun tanned punim (that's Yiddish for face). And sometimes I actually do.

But more often, I don't want to see his every move. My parents didn't get to see me and my teenage pals do all the hormonal things we did the summer I turned 16 in 1968...the summer of love.  And thank heavens for that!  Some things are better left to the imagination. I just don't go in for all this Mommy Cam, Nanny Cam, Doggy Cam stuff. It's such. . . narcissism. Such....helicoptering.

Grumble is traveling in Israel with the North American Federation of Temple Youth -- NFTY.  NFTY also makes it possible for kids to rent inexpensive cell phones while in Israel. Buckling under to intense teenage peer pressure, I caved in and let Grumble rent a phone. It did allow him to connect with his father who was also visiting in Israel and have a meal with him. But I have only called him twice and only reached him once.  He sounded great.  So far, I don't hear from him at all...which is wonderful. This simply underscores the fact that he's having a good time and is busy, busy, busy. Just what I want, just what he needs. These trips are quite the logistical enterprise...think troop maneuvers...and the kids sign a very strict covenant of behavior.  Drugs, smoking, drinking and canoodling get you an immediate ticket home. 

NFTY supervises 650 North American teenagers (rising 11th graders) broken down into 17 groups of twenty, each on a different bus and each with a slightly different 4-5 week itinerary.  The NFTY "command center" in Israel is in daily contact with Tzahal (Israeli army) security and itineraries are adjusted to deal with the realities of life in a war zone. Grumble was in Jerusalem the day a Palestinian rammed a bulldozer into a bus killing 6 and wounding dozens. He's been there all the while that Iran has been testing long range rockets meant for Tel Aviv.

And I really don't worry about it. But as blase as I sound, I simply can't wait to talk to him about it when he gets home.  All that theory and passion and history about Israel we've fed him for 16 years is now being digested and filtered and sorted and processed in the real Israel. I want to hear what he thinks, what he ate, what he saw, what he loved, what troubled him.  I don't need to see him boogeying. So when the parent e-newsletter (updated daily) indicated that we could watch 650 kids atop Masada grooving to the music of a Jewish rock concert in a live podcast, I laughed. It was a Thursday night and it conflicted with my HGTV's Design Star. I chose TV.

Please don't think I'm cold and heartless. I really DO like reading the itinerary and knowing where Group 15 is each day.  But I don't have to know EVERYTHING. When Grumble gets home I'll be happy to see his photos and hear his stories.  What he doesn't share, well, that's all for him.  Like my 16th summer.  Big and beautiful and hormonal and utterly unforgettable.

Have coffee, Braille directions, and exit strategy: will travel.

I've heard it said that the Secretary of War should be an autism parent. We plan for every eventuality. We not only have a plan B, but a plan C, plan D, and more. We think through possible roadblocks and speedbumps, make exhaustive lists, prepare everyone thoroughly for the road, and we always, always, have an exit strategy.
Amigo, a teen with a vision impairment and Asperger's, is actually a very good traveler. He loves road trips. In fact, we print the route plan for ourselves and in Braille for him. He is a helpful navigator, despite his lack of usable vision. When I drive, I put him in charge of the cell phone and the radio. It keeps my mind (and eyes) on the road, and lets him explore any region's local color through its radio dial.
In order to stay the course with fewer hiccups, we plan more details than most parents. The route file for our upcoming trip includes these statements and more.
"After this stop, Mom will need to sit in the front to help watch highway signs in the big city for Dad."
"This stretch will be a long haul."
"We should get gas before we get on the tollway."
"And now we stay on highway 80 until we reach Ohio. Easy, huh?"
"If we're feeling spunky when we reach Cleveland, the Indians are playing at 7:00."
"When we cross the border into Maine, ask 'Are we there yet'?"
Amigo was an active participant in planning this trip. In fact, he suggested getting up early the first day and hitting the road by 7:00 AM. Granola bars and cappuccino for breakfast anyone? I packed my favorite travel coffee mug. After all, besides an exit strategy, what's more important to a road trip than coffee?

This post is crossposted from Compost Happens. It was part of Scribbit's Write-Away contest for June. Her theme was "Going Places."

Whine List

Out of the mouth of Amigo, age 16...across eight states and two countries.

How long will it take to get there?

Can I sit in the front again?

Should I bring my cane?

I don't have a brain.

You decide. I can't.

I can't choose.

You have to do it for me.

I can't.

I don't know how.

I have rights, you know!

Should I bring my cane?

What should I order? You order for me.

Is this food safe for me?

I can't decide. I don't have a brain.

Do you know where it is?

You didn't tell me that!

You need to tell me everything!

What should we do today?

It's my life, you know!

You need to decide. It's your decision.

Do you know how to get there?

Why can't I sit in the front?

I need to get my way, sometimes, too!

Read the trucks!

Mom, you missed a truck!

No elevator? Aw, crap. I hate stairs.

I don't know. I never know.

I don't have a brain.

Mom, let Dad do it.

Dad, let Mom do it.

Should I bring my cane?

I really need to clarify that most of these statements came up on two specific days, one being the day we had a flat tire on the way to catch our ferry back to the States from Nova Scotia. It was a very stressful day for the whole family. We had a good vacation overall. But darn that teen behavior, that Asperger's behavior, and the way they overlap!!

Yes, I'm sending my son to Israel

By Nina

It never ceases to amaze me  -- the looks of horror I get when I tell people I'm sending my 16-year-old son to Israel for the summer.  Even from Jews. 

Well, I'm in the south now and down here people think nothing of asking you straight out, when they first meet you, "What church do y'all go to?"  And then when you tell them you're Jewish and you don't actually go to church, but you belong to Congregation Shearith Israel, three minutes later they say, "Now what was the name of that church you go to?"   OK, maybe it's hard to wrap your brain around the tangle of Hebrew that is Shearith (remnant) Israel (Israel).  This stuff doesn't even rattle me.  It's almost cute.

What I hate are the looks of grave concern when you say you're sending your child to Israel.  You'd think I was sending the kid to Baghdad.  In fact I'm sending him to his homeland, the most progressive, impressive and remarkable nation in modern history.  He will be touring with other teenagers from North America, under strict supervision in what is turning out to be one of the most robust summer tourism season in a few years.  Israel needs that badly. 

I don't want to preach here or get too political on you, but this I believe.  Israel is a brilliant democracy that sits in a very bad neighborhood.  It is surrounded by neighbors who would like it to disappear from the earth.  Egypt is digging tunnels to run guns and supplies to Hamas in Gaza.  Syria and Lebanon, it's puppet state,  have rockets aimed at the Golan Heights and Tel Aviv.  And let's face it, Iran's nukes, whether you believe they exist or not,  are intended for Israel. Only Jordan, ruled by a modern and educated King, understands the utility and potential of "making it work" with Israel.

My son will start his trip in Europe.  He'll tour Prague and visit Auschwitz and see the remnants (that Hebrew word Shearith again) of once thriving Jewish communities where his ancestors  lived, learned, taught, created and prospered.  Then he'll sail into Haifa Harbor, like the Ma'apilim (immigrants)  who survived the Holocaust and made new lives in the Jewish State. He'll see the good, the beautiful, the ugly.  He'll see the security wall and the checkpoints.  He'll see Jews and Arabs struggling to coexist in a complex shared destiny.  He'll hear Hebrew, a language resurrected from the pages of the bible, as a living, breathing modern tongue with its own unique street slang and poetry.  He'll see contradictions and complexities on every street corner. 

Israel isn't neat and tidy. It's loud and messy.  It is all at once western and eastern, orthodox and progressive, secular and religious.  It is our pride and our pain. These ads express our immense pride in what Israel has achieved amidst staggering challenges.

And that's the way I want it.  I cannot protect Grumble from everything.  In truth, I think life in Israel is safer than life in America. People are connected there in ways that can barely be expressed.  When you ride the bus and someone thinks your baby might be under-dressed and chilly, 5 surrogate mothers will step in and offer their sweater as an extra blanket.  Once in a restaurant where my 5 year old wailed for pizza, the proprietor sent a waiter across the street and got my kid a slice.  When Israeli soldiers were camped out in a field near Efrat during the 2nd Intifada, my friends cooked for them as if they were their own sons and daughters.  That's the kind of place I want my son to experience. 

There will be an armed guard on Grumble's bus.  He will not travel outside the so-called "Green Line" and security reports will determine when and where his group travels.  But there will also be songs and sights and stories I cannot give him in America. For 5 weeks he'll be in a danger zone.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mixed Messages

So much is going on at our house that I feel the need to unburden myself or I'm gonna 'splode from all the information overload. There's good news, there's bad news, there's insanity, and there is relative calm. Oh, and there are two nutty teenagers that live to change the equilibrium at any given moment. Because, you know, they're teens!

So what's new?

The Boy made high honor roll in school. HIGH HONOR ROLL. You have no idea of the nachas this gives me. I'm so very proud of him for finally, after 11 years in school, buckling down and deciding to maybe, perhaps, um...do his work. Because that's a good idea if you're trying to get into college, isn't it?

But is he happy? Why no, because I'm a bitch to him and I never do anything nice for him and he hates me and hopes I have a heart attack and die. He's just a bundle of joy these days. I'm so sick of being screamed at I just want to duct tape his mouth shut. I won't, but don't think I don't fantasize about it. And just what is it that he's so angry about? Oh, I had the unmitigated gall to ask him to dig up some weeds in the garden. Last week. And then again every freaking day. But he won't do it, and he says that he gets no pleasure from gardening, so why should he do it? Um, maybe because you eat the food I grow from my garden? Could that be a good reason? Evidentially not.

And then there was that party. The one my darling son held while I was out of town. The one he was told not to even THINK about. But he did it anyways, and there was alcohol and probably pot and a whole bunch of kids spread all over our front hill. How did I find out about the party? Well, first I found an empty liter bottle of gin in his closet. That was a fun discussion. And because I am the suspicious type (do you wonder why?), I checked his Facebook page. Facebook is awesome for catching kids doing bad things. They're so dumb they leave up photos of the parties. All you have to do is follow the photos. I did, and lo and behold, that was our porch with my son holding a beer can looking particularly wasted on a friends photo set. Ahem. I could probably get a job with Scotland Yard. I'm that good.

Consequently, things are up and down with him. School = good. Home = bad.

The other one? The Girl? She's gonna drive me absolutely bonkers writing a paper on a book she read for school. She hated the book. So what else is new? She hates reading of all kinds. Sort of a disappointment for a serious book lover and writer like myself, but what can I do? Her father is an engineer. Say no more.

The deal is, if she persists in whining and nagging and complaining, at some point I'll come to her rescue just to shut her up. Guilty as sin, I am. But gosh, how much whining can one person take? My tolerance is low, apparently.

Her schooling is coming along despite the fact that her tutor is dyslexic (I know!) and not overly bright. Sweet as sugar and helpful as can be, but OMG, I eventually insert myself in the tutoring sessions in English because otherwise my kid would be learning the wrong stuff. Math and science, I'm not that worried about. The kid is doing fine in school.

However, the school. Well, as nice as they are about my son, they're nasty and unpleasant and totally unhelpful to my daughter. They do not like her. They do not like green eggs and ham either. Well, the feeling is mutual. Not about the green eggs, although I doubt I'd like those either. About the school administration. They are not nice to me, to her, and they're driving me beserko.

And then there's me. I'm doing ok, hanging in there. We're going as a family to Chicago in a couple of days for an event sponsored by Ford Motor Company. You would think that traveling with teenagers would be a piece of cake compared to toddlers and infants. Well... you would probably be wrong. The preparation before the trip is exhausting. We're being feted at a fancy restaurant for a Mother's Day dinner, which meant that we had some shopping to do.

The Boy has outgrown every single piece of clothing he owns, so we had to get him pants and shirts and a pair of shorts just in case the weather ever cleared up in Chicago. Apparently the weather will never clear up in Chicago. Sigh.

The Girl only owns summer dresses that fit well. And no decent pants. More shopping. Like the Girl, my only dress that is currently in style and that fits after a major weight loss is a strapless summer frock. Off to another store to get me something springy but with sleeves and a bit of skin coverage. I hate to shop, I hate to spend money on clothes, and I hate to take my kids shopping. So this week was really swell. 

Oh, and the allergies. The allergies! We all are suffering. The sniffles, the nosebleeds, the itchy eyes, the rashes.

All in all, a jolly good time at our house! So what's going on with you?

Not Quite Malibu Barbie, but Darn Close!

written by Judy Merrill Larsen

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars.  You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements.  Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas.  Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm.  And then back home that summer.  Then, load it up for that first apartment.  Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool.  It's a car that screams MOM.  MIDDLE-AGE.  SUBURBS.

 

 

I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years.  It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet."  It's what my sons drove to learn to drive.  They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along.  It shouts "practical" and "paid for."

 

 

 

What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."

But, this does.

 

And, for the past two weeks, I've been behind the wheel of my first ever convertible.  Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!).  But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee.  It's impractical, I know.  I'm 48 for cryin' out loud.  Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having  little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis.  Nope.  I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids.  It can be, dare I say, for me.  For fun.  And when a friend mentioned a few weeks after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes.  You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October.  And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it.  There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.

Independence Day

By Nina Rubin

A story in the New York Sun entitled "Why I Let My 9 Year Old Ride the Subway Alone" quickly shot to this paper's "most emailed" list, and also prompted a story on Slate.com.  It all reminded me of Jaws first independent subway trip when he was 12 and in 7th grade. 

In a provoking (in a good way) account in the New York Sun, writer Lenore Skenazy outs herself as a mother who let her 9-year-old son ride home by himself on a New York subway and bus. Yes, he transferred. She reports that her son arrived "ecstatic with independence." And also that half the people she has told "want to turn me in for child abuse." Only half?

Skenazy understands why other parents recoiled at a decision that wasn't all that daring, rationally speaking. It's not simply that parents think of every horrendous kidnapping story and so decide not to take any chance—however tiny—that something unspeakably awful will happen to our children.

So when did the notion of parent-as-bodyguard begin to prevail, and does it connect to the endless tug of war over where and how mothers should spend their time?

Unlike the Manhattan mother of the 9 year old, Jaws' blow for independence was completely unpremeditated and a tad defiant, but luckily for all of us, it had a happy ending. Now that he's 21 and alive and well, I still love telling about it.  It was a turning point for all of us.  A true Independence Day.

It was a Saturday in early spring, and Jaws and a pack of 7th grade friends (boys and girls) had tickets to a Mets game.  Back then we lived in a suburb of Long Island on the same train line that stops at Shea Stadium where the Mets play.  Not every parent was comfortable sending kids alone on the train to Shea Stadium, but having grown up with parents who rode the subways and allowed me age-appropriate opportunities to strike out on my own, I was fine with it.  Going to the ball game with a group of friends seemed to me like the perfect way to give middle school kids some rope and and have a lot of fun.  Jaws and his friends would take the train. They'd get off at Flushing Meadow, walk across the pedestrian bridge to the stadium, watch the game, rinse and reverse.

However, it rained buckets that Saturday.  And as I dropped Jaws off at the train station, the bedraggled group was debating whether or not to bag the game and wondering if it would be "called" and rescheduled. I was certain the game would be called, but I suggested that they all go for pizza downtown and call me when they figured out Plan "B."  So imagine my surprise when Jaws called and hour and a half later and said, "Hi Mom. We're in Times Square."  That's 42nd Street and Broadway...the heart of New York City.

When I recovered from this startling news, stopped yelling that nobody had given anybody permission to embark on this kind of freelance adventure, and made him promise swear in blood to be home on the 5:44 train, I hung up and actually laughed. 

I had to give them credit.  They came up with quite a cool Plan "B."  And they had cell phones.

Despite its legacy as a den of iniquity and a gritty urban crossroads, Times Square circa 2000 was hardly a scary neighborhood anymore.  I should know.  I worked at 44th and Broadway for 7 years at the only major advertising agency west of Madison and north of 23rd street. I'd seen Times Square morph into a respectable commercial crossroads where rising rents had driven out most of the peep shows, the Tads $4.99 steakhouses the Cuban-Chinese restaurants and even Papaya King.  (Poor suburban kids, they'll never have the Papaya King experience.) Increasingly, hotels and chain stores like Disney, Nike and Urban Outfitters had moved in, turning the once tawdry landmark intersection into, well, a suburban mall without a roof. 

The kids had a swell time, stuck together in their little rat pack, and were indeed on the 5:44 which chugged into the Port Washington station at 6:50.  From that day onward, New York City was fair game.  Jaws took some more group forays into the city to see movies, go to museums, and just "hang."  By 10th grade he got active in the Reform Jewish youth movement, and luckily for me, once independent suburban chapters on Long Island and Westchester couldn't afford youth advisors anymore and the NY region merged.  Hallelujah!  Now there were meetings at the denominational HQ's in midtown Manhattan, and "cool" kids from NYC private schools and elite public schools like Stuyvesant and Hunter were on my kid's radar. Even better . . . no more 11:00 pm pick-ups in godforsaken Long Island suburbs like Massapequa and Plainview.  Eventually I didn't have to drive anybody anywhere but the Long Island RR train station.  Some parents were horrified, but not me.  By 10th grade my kid had the subways down pat and had bright, committed Jewish friends in Brooklyn, Queens and Riverdale, the fancy part of the Bronx. 

My kids was worldly.  A subway maven.  He pored over the subway maps as if they were the Dead Sea Scrolls. Once, when I was trying to figure out how to avoid Penn station and take the subway from midtown to Woodside, Queens where the Long Island Railroad kicks in, I called Jaws on my cell phone.  "Oh yeah Mom, it's easy," he said. "Take the Shuttle to Grand Central and then the #7 to Woodside." 

We never looked back, none of us, from that Independence Day. Riding public transportation and figuring it out, has made my kids stronger, more curious and far less "flappable."  If only Atlanta had more public transportation...well, we're working on it.  Meanwhile, Grumble is an airport pro...he's been flying to NY, Washington and Florida on his own for years and will be doing a rather daring little maneuver over Memorial Day weekend, going from L.I. to Manhattan and then taking the subway to Brooklyn.  Are you impressed?  I am.