Mom Here, Mom There...

This is how last Tuesday went down: I am out here in gorgeous Jackson Hole, with two weeks alone before my husband and daughter will join me and then a week after that we pick up Jack, our youngest now 14, who attends Teton Valley Ranch Camp for a month. Older son #2 had hitched his way up from Utah to spend a couple of days with me, and in the wee hours of Tuesday's dawn, I agreed to drive him four hours to the closest major highway in Wyoming so that he could start thumbing his way back East.

Because this is what mommies do: go that extra mile (or in my case over 200 extra miles!) for their kid. Conveniently, Jack's camp was midway between where I dropped Kenny off near Casper, and Jackson Hole, so I planned on stopping by for a quick peek and a hug from Jack, and drop off a few fun items for him.

I got Kenny to his asked-for destination, snapped a picture of him with his backpack containing what he terms "his life," gave him a strong embrace and got back into the car with tears streaming down my face as I watched him in the rear-view mirror, thumb out, hopeful. And so vulnerable. Just like saying "goodbye" to his older brother, Staff Sgt. Blake Flannery (just to be official about it!), it never gets easier, as I wonder and then try to banish the fleeting thought that it might be the last time. I said a prayer and drove on, back towards Jackson.

Although it had only been 10 days since I had last been with Jack, I was still pumped to catch a few minutes with him. Minutes after arriving at the camp, I met his counselor and he led me across the green to Jack's cabin, the same one that my daughter Jess had been in during her "Wrangler" year; each summer the campers are put into adventure groups according to age and experience the prior season.

Jack's counselor, a friendly and amiable young man whose name I have somehow forgotten because I am old, haha, held open the door to the cabin. The campers were all in there, doing daily clean-up. Jack was standing there by his bunk, broom in hand, and didn't blink, didn't widen his eyes, didn't smile and generally didn't look the least surprised - not to mention pleased! - to see me pop in out of thin air. Inside I bummed out, and knew instinctively not to hug him in front of the other guys. I felt decidedly rejected. How is it that one kid was effusively thankful to have been with me for a couple of days, and the other wishing I would just disappear?

Within a minute, maybe two, we ambled back across the green to my car, chatting about his recent 4-day pack trip with the horses and the Lakers recent reclamation of the NBA title. Pushing 14-year-old boy bravado aside, I went in for a quick hug and when I pulled away he grinned the grin of the youngest child, allowing me a brief glimpse of the little boy who loves him mommy in spite of his need to break away, at least in front of his peers.

I headed back down the dusty camp road with a smile. Until I got a phone call from my husband regarding the shenanigans of our daughter, 17, and freshly freed from her junior year in high school. Turns out a small "pool party" at our house the first afternoon of her summer vacation and yielded the absence of three beers from our heretofore securely locked garage-living fridge.

"What should I do?" the other, on-site parent asked. My response was both incredulous at the inquiry and not altogether friendly and sweet.

"Are you kidding?!" was one of my responses. "Get a new lock, pronto,let her know that you have caught her and read her the riot act. Duh!"

"Maybe you should call her, too," he half-asked, half-begged though I am positive he didn't realize that was the tone he had adopted.

And so, from 2,000 miles or more away, I had to help lay down the law, in spite of the fact that in absentia, there was pretty much no way to enforce it or police it, live and in person. Still and all, the mom goes the extra mile and I gave it the old college try, insisting that daddy knows exactly how many beers are in that refrigerator and please don't put yourself, your friends and us in danger.

"Okay mommy," she suprisingly agreed. "I miss you and I love you." Awww, I can always count on my only daughter to come through with the fondness, even in the face of an mom ultimatium.

So there you have it: three of the four children settled or sent on their way or dealt with. Three kids asserting or attemting to assert their independence.

Sigh. I have said it before and I will always postulate, that raising children never gets easier. Just more, um, interesting.

High School Graduation: A Parent's Primer?

Depending upon your child's status - only child or youngest - it is here, graduation, the last high school event you will attend as a spectator. Your grad-to-be is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: excited, happy, melancholic, confident, nervous, wary, maybe even a bit incredulous that the day is finally here; you of course, are containing those same feelings.

As soon as the first five or six notes of "Pomp and Circumstance" are played, you will either be swallowing a lump as big as a baseball, or you will be full on leaking tears, perhaps a fist pressed against your mouth, or dabbing a tissue about your eyes either frantically or with discretion, as you crane your neck or strain forward seeking to spot your grad walking jauntily into the stadium or auditorium.

The name for the song (actually entitled "Pomp and Circumstance Military Marches") was taken from Act III of Shakespeare's "Othello:"

"Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th'ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner and all quality
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!"

It may not be a total stretch to think of high school, of those teenage years from 14 to 18, as a sort of war, a war of words, of will and of wisdom. And not just between parent and child, but also between student and teacher, student and student, maybe even student and themselves.

As you sit there at the ceremony, filled with pride and awe, you might also be fast-forwarding a month, six, or eight weeks ahead to when your high school grad becomes a college freshman and you will have to face the empty, half empty, maybe a quarter empty, nest. My two oldest graduated from New Canaan High in 2001 and 2003, and so I have had a my nest emptied piecemeal; my daughter will graduate next June, and my baby will christen my nest officially empty in 2014.

Some words of advice are in order. Number 1: Seek out other moms and dads who are in the same newly rocked boat, as well as those whose children - as well as themselves - have gone before you. Support is always a good thing. Number 2: Do not turn your child's bedroom into a guest room, office or home gym. Not yet. For the next two or four years, they will still be coming home for holidays and the summer and do not need to feel as if you have discarded them, not to mention all of their stuff, their memories, their childhood. And one last recommendation: If they don't declare a major right away, or if they change from one to another, do not push them, and do not panic. All children - whether they are five or 25 - need to find their own way, feel it out. They felt enough parental and societal pressure pre-graduation. Ease up and allow them to flap their wings.

A lot of seniors may have known as freshman where they wanted to attend college, and perhaps a majority saw that goal come to fruition. Conversely, there are those who will make do with a second or third choice for the time being; or maybe they will grow to love where the fates led them. A few of you will have graduates who will be taking a 'gap" year before college, and there will be those who intend to pursue something else altogether; no matter what your child chose to do, you should be as proud of the daughter who wants to work with gardens and ivy as the son who studies at an ivy covered campus.

My oldest chose not to enter college before the military. This was not a popular, nor understood by the majority, choice at all. But I felt so fortunate that I had a child who knew - and who had known - exactly what he wanted to do with his life, even, as I said, it was an unusual, hardly traditional for our area, decision. Maybe your child has selected the road less traveled, too. Be happy.

Be happy all of you, for although we may think of the words "graduation" and "commencement" and envision an end, the meaning of the word "commencement" is: "an act or instance of commencing; beginning."

May your child's beginning be a wonder.

Stalking the Jonas Brothers

Okay, I recently went way above and beyond the call of motherly duty last week. Way, way, totally astronomically above. So above that if my daughter doesn't one day realize it, then... well something unpleasant will befall her (grin).

Jess is obsessed, OBSESSED, with the Jonas Brothers. She went to meet them back in 2007 when they were playing small crowds and was hooked. I have taken her to well over a dozen of their concerts or appearances, in 2008 she camped out all night with a girlfriend in front of the studio where Regis & Kelly is taped in the hopes of scoring tickets the next morning (eventually joined at midnight with other insanely loyal fans), and it paid off with front row seats. Also in 2008 she was named the Jonas Brothers "Super Fan" by Forbes in their summer Entertainment issue. It goes on... and includes what I call - and others concur with this description - stalking.

The JoBros were to make an appearance on "Good Morning America" on May 21st, which also happened to be her 17th birthday. "I've got to go the concert! And I've got to go to their hotel the night before so I can see them!" she cried. "And then I will go line up at the entrance to Central Park at midnight."

Say what?!

"There are no guarantees that you will see them at their hotel, and, over my dead body - and maybe yours - will you be hanging out in Central Park all night! Are you crazy?" But I knew the answer. Yes, yes she is crazy, as only a teenage girl with a starstruck, large crush X3 can be.

Within moments she had convinced me to book a hotel room not far from where the Jonas Brothers usually stay (the Trump International Hotel), so that allegedly after she saw them there, she would come back to our hotel, catch some sleep for a few hours and then I would walk her over to the entrance to the Park in the wee hours, and make sure there were other insane teenage girls and their moms already camped out.

We arrived at the Trump at 4:30 in the afternoon, and clearly there were other girls just as stalkerish as she because when we arrived there were already over a dozen starry-eyed fans standing behind crowd-control type barriers on either side of the entrance to the hotel. It's like the Trump was encouraging it! I stood outside of the barrier as I knew I would need to break away from the madness from time to time, get something to eat or drink, go back to our hotel for a restroom break, etc.

For about an hour I chatted up a couple of paparazzi, the presence of whom energized the crowd into believing that the appearance of Kevin, Joe and Nick was imminent. Even I thought, "Cool. They'll be here soon and then we can leave, get room service, watch 'Grey's Anatomy..." Oh, how wrong I was. Ditto the paparazzi.

Long story short, at some point I brought Jess a sandwich and a chai tea from Starbuck's (which she didn't take more of a sip of because she didn't want to have to need to go to the bathroom and risk - gasp! - missing the brothers). I went back to the hotel about 6 p.m., returning at 7:30 because she wasn't picking up her cell phone, and I spent a good 20 minutes trying to remember exactly what she had been wearing, was her hair up or down... all the things I would need to tell the police in case she had been snatched from the stalk-the-Jonas Brothers-cage.

At 7:30 there had still been nary a sign of Kevin or Joe or Nick. Every time a black Escalade pulled up the crowd would inhale expectantly for a few seconds and then begin to squeal. Just before 8 p.m., "their" driver pulled up, but the car was empty. He hopped out and walked into the hotel which caused all manner of speculation, and primping and juggling for position behind the barriers. The front door to the hotel was held open by jazzily dressed doorman, and.... out came MRS. Jonas, their mom, no sons in tow; apparently they were still out and she was meeting them for dinner. She still rated some flashbulbs and a few cries of "Denise! Denise!" Then - poof! - she disappeared into the warm New York night.

By 10 p.m. I was growing very weary. Yet I figured I had committed X-amount of time to this already that I might as well try and stick it out for at least a half an hour more until they all came back from dinner. After only 15 minutes I told myself I would leave by 10:30, and at 10:23 the long-awaited car carrying the boys pulled up. A burly body guard jumped out first, demanding that those of us outside the barrier stand back (as if the paparazzi was going to do that!). The brothers main bodyguard Big Rob (very, very big Big Rob) opened one of the doors and stuck like glue to the middle, heartthrobby brother, Joe. And then Nick and Kevin (the oldest, newly married one) hopped from the SUV and I went momentarily deaf from the high pitched screams.

Luckily, Big Rob lead Joe right over to Jessie's barrier and since she was stuck up against it, she was able to snag a self-taken photo with the young man. And then, apropos of nothing or maybe everything, as a girl next to Jess pleaded for a photo, I stepped in front of Joe and said, "Hey, Joe. I need a picture with you. I'm her (pointing at Jess) mother." Jess poised her camera with very shaky hands and told him, "Yeah, she has gone to about 15 of your concerts, so she deserves this!" and she snapped the photo, while I stood close to the kid and grinned. Maybe it was a little creepy of me to ask for the picture, but as Jess put it, I deserved it, dammit!

Successful stalking complete, Jess and three of her new barrier friends came back to the hotel room to use the toilet and clean up a bit, before heading over to Central Park and 5th Avenue to wait through the night with about 200 other fans who came prepared with sleeping bags and even tents!

The payoff the next morning at 5:30 a.m. was a 6 rows from the stage standing position, close enough to count the beads of sweat on the Jonas Brothers and Demi Lovato.

As I waited for Jess to leave the venue, and she came happily - albeit sleepily! - walking out, she declared, "This is the best birthday ever!" And it was.

The Yin and the Yang of Prom

WESTON, CT - The year is 1974. It is a week before high school graduation and the night of the Weston High School Junior-Senior prom, held - ironically, as it will turn out for me decades later - at Waveny Mansion in New Canaan. The prom planning committee has chosen to be decidedly 1970's rebellious, declaring the attire for the event as semi-formal, thereby sparing the boys from adorning powder blue tuxedos with wildly wide lapels and shirts as frilly as a pirate's. It also means that the girls are free to wear dresses that will be decisively un-gownlike (my own frock was a full length, midriff bearing polyester number featuring garish red and blue flowers on it; my date wore a brown-and-white checked blazer, chocolate brown pants that matched a ridiculously broad chocolate brown tie topped off with a tie-clip fit for a grandpa). As it is 1974, the legal drinking age is 18. Pre-prom cocktail parties are thrown by someone's parents, and after sipping on an alcoholic beverage, the prom goers drive (!) to restaurants for dinner in neighboring towns. My group went to a popular steak house in Westport where we proceeded to order at least two pitchers of beer and one of sangria. And then drive to New Canaan, no questions asked, no adult eyebrows raised, nary a parent questioning the behavior. There was no alcohol served inside the prom venue, although booze was easily available in virtually any vehicle parked in the Waveny lot. The teachers and parents chaperoning prom occasionally troll the parking lot and around the grounds, but to the best of my recollection, no incidences are reportable or reason for punishment. Now here's how you know it was really the early, free-spirited 70's: at one point, my boyfriend and I were standing outside the mansion chatting up a favorite teacher. And the boyfriend and our teacher shared a joint; true story! But that was then, and this is now. My daughter, a junior, had her prom last month. The price of her prom dress was pretty much equal to my own high school clothes budget for the year. She had her hair professionally styled. Due to unfortunate sunburn marks from spring break, she had to have a spray tan. Thank goodness we wear the same shoe size, because this whole deal was costing unfathomable amounts of coin, therefore I insisted that she sport the same heels that I had worn to my high school reunion last October; there was some poetry to that. Nine girls got ready at our house, and then their dates and assorted parents came by for pictures and refreshments. We did not serve alcohol to the parents, and - obviously - not to the kids. But I did hear the girls chatting about a post-prom party ostensibly being hosted by one girl's parents at which alcohol was to be served to the teens in attendance. I was stunned as I heard the details. Allegedly the guests were going to be sleeping over, thereby avoiding any drunk driving exploits. That tidbit hardly made the whole thing sound like a good idea. There were several of my classmates who didn't remember, still can't fully recall, exactly what occurred at the end of our prom night, and even some moments during the dance, due to the booze consumption. Which is really too bad. The prom, especially the inaugural one, is one of those special rites of passage during high school; beforehand you envision the magical-ness of it. Even if it doesn't live up to one's rose-colored projection, it is still a fun evening. Or should be. Lacing it with drugs or alcohol can often veer the experience into unfortunate and decidedly un-fun territory. I am glad that NCHS employs a breathalyzer at the prom door. You never know when the proverbial few bad apples might ruin the night for a few good eggs. As I watched my daughter and her white-tuxedo- clad date (with tails, no less!), I was at once wistful and tearful. Happy tears laced with the expected "I-can't-believe-she's-so-grown-up" mantra. And she was going to remember her prom. My wish is that your teen stays safe on Senior Prom night. Oh - and in fashionable attire as well!

Mother of the Year: Me!

There needs to be a "Mother of the Year" award and I need to win it. Maybe "Mother of Many Years." Here's why:

Aside from the usual wiping of tears, lending a shoulder and an ear, going to every football/basketball/baseball game, lending (i.e. GIVING) money to whichever child may need or request it, etc. Since 2007, I have gone with my daughter to, at last count, 11 Jonas brothers concerts/events, not only in Connecituct and New Jersey, but also Washington D-frikkin'-C. The Hannah Montana concert, one Miley as Miley and not Hannah concert, the Jonas Brothers movie, the stupid Hannah Montana movie and the Miley "Last Song" movie. I have had to go because my daughter doesn't have her license (even though she is breathing down Birthday #17's neck).

I got out of seeing Nick Jonas solo this past December because: A) We could only secure one ticket, and, B) The concert was in NYC and she could take the train in.

This afternoon she has requested seeing the Miley movie for a second time, and because the theatre is a good 15-20 minutes plus from our home, and driving back and forth doesn't thrill me, I am having to endure the movie one more time; it's the lesser of two evils. I think...?

Maybe you think you deserve the award. Tell me why in the comments section!

Mom's Nite Out Event in Waterford!

On Thursday evening, May 6th, the Crystal Mall in Waterford, CT is hosting a FREE "Moms Nite Out" -- a celebration of motherhood for moms and moms-to-be.

From 4 to 8 p.m. moms can enjoy free pampering, giveaways, makeup consultations, mini facials and massages, menu tastings, seminars on health and beauty and much more! The first 100 guests will receive swag bags with items and offers from event participants. In addition, guests will have the chance to enter-to-win a trip to Aruba!

The Crystal Mall is located at 850 Hartford Tpke., Waterford.

COLUMN: Watching Your Child Wheel Away

Watching your child wheel away

We give our children roots and wings; often those wings come in the form of either two or four wheels of freedom.

The bicycle is our child's first taste of the thrill of the wheel. We start them on tricycles and/or "Big Wheels," sort of two-wheeled bikes-in-training. It's easy for them. Fun. They can go as fast as their chubby little legs will allow. When their legs grow a bit longer and leaner, we graduate the child to a big kid's bike with training wheels. Again, it's a relatively comfortable feat to master.

The expression, "it's as easy as riding a bike," is really kind of absurd, as any five-, six-, or seven year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels can attest. Don't you remember your own first time those handy-dandy metal security blankets came off? Do you recall your child's first attempt to go training wheel-less? Definitely not easy. Hard falls. Nasty scrapes. Head in helmet bonking down on pavement. It's probably the first time your little cherub may mutter, "This sucks!"

But once it is mastered, when that moment of realization hits you that mom or dad is so not holding onto the the back of your seat, the joyous sensation is intoxicating: You're free! Look at you go! The breeze hits your face, you balance like a pro and you don't require no stinkin' trainers or parental palm to get you going.

With a bicycle, you don't necessarily need your mom to drive you up the road to your friend's house. Maybe you live near your town's center and there is a relatively safe route to the candy store. Or, as you progress through elementary and middle school, your parents allow you to bike to the land of academia.

And eventually, you turn 16, and you succumb to the siren song of the shiny, four-wheeled mode of transportation parked in the driveway. The automobile! So much cooler and faster than your bike, not to mention it's a better way to travel when it's raining.

And you - the parent - quickly discover that helping your child learn to ride a bike is a piece of cake compared to teaching him how to drive a car.

I have maneuvered through this process twice before and am in the midst of Driving 101 with the third child. It is frightening, thrilling, other wordly and ultimately, joyful. Such a shared milestone, not unlike that first pedal without the training wheels. When you finally get them to the DMV, they pass the test, and are standing up against the blue (or is it a pinkish hue now?) backdrop for their license photo, it's a teary-eyed moment: pride, fear and unbridled love.

At 16 or 17, your kid is on the move without you, heading down the highway that will eventually lead to college or another chapter that doesn't necessarily involve them living with you full-time anymore. They will still need you, of course, but they will not need-need you. You aren't the sole wind beneath their wings, as they learn to roll with whatever comes their way in the fresh land of freedom.

"Look ma! No hands!" cries the new bike rider with astonishment and bliss.

The new driver lowers his or her car window down, waves and gives you the thumbs up sign as they make their way down the driveway, no longer required or requiring you as co-pilot.

Or so it appears. Don't be fooled or saddened for long. For those wheels which seem made to roll away actually do the reverse as well, returning to the eager palms (and arms) of their parents.