Senior Moment
I recently celebrated a birthday that edges me closer to
50 than 40, and my kids have predictably started teasing me about having senior
moments. You know, those times you forget something you clearly should have
remembered? Like wondering where your glasses are when they're sitting on top
of your head.
As a denizen of Silicon Valley, I pride myself on having
a razor sharp wit. (Whether I'm witty or not is still up for debate.) And so I
don't exactly relish any senior moments that happen to me. I try to laugh them
off and blame my pre-dinner mai tai or too strong margarita recipe. Anything
but accepting that my brain isn't quite what it used to be. (Is there an old
home remedy for senior moment-itis? Sigh. Didn't think so...)
So I was thrilled when my teen daughter had a senior
moment of her own.
My seventeen-year-old daughter is a high school senior.
As such, she's focused on the college application process - choosing
universities she might want to attend next year, researching and visiting those
schools, talking about those schools with her friends.
She's already taken a few SAT tests (general and
subject), but she has to study for one more. Soon she'll be writing application
essays that can make or break her chance for admission at the school of her
dreams.
On top of all that, she still has high school classes. To
help her case in getting into the best college possible (it's competitive as
heck, these days), she chose an extremely tough class load at school. Multiple
AP and Honors classes, with multiple hours of homework each night.
Add in club soccer, after-school cross country, volunteer
work, refereeing to make a buck, and she doesn't even have time to set the
dinner table.
Okay, before anyone calls Child Protective Services,
please know my ex-wife and I talked to our daughter, and suggested she lighten
her load. One less AP class won't make her high school transcripts look bad.
And the time saved will be a huge benefit to her mental and physical health.
My daughter agreed, talked to her counselor, dropped a
homework-intensive history class, and was good to go.
She texted me one morning from her high school: have you
seen my history book? I need to turn it in.
I work from home, so it was simple enough to duck into
her room and look. No book on her desk, in the dresser, on the floor, on her
bed. I texted: not here.
Twenty minutes later, another text from here: I'm sure I
brought it to your house from mom's.
Okay, my daughter is Miss Super Student. More than once,
she's been the sharpest tool in the shed. So of course, I figured I was having
a senior moment and I'd overlooked the history book in her room. I searched
again. No luck. I texted her back: sorry, it's not here.
She texted me: okay, I'll check my car.
If my daughter lost her book, it wouldn't be a big deal.
She simply have to pay for a replacement. Textbooks aren't cheap, and teens
don't make much money, so it would hit her where it counts. But she'd survive.
Maybe even learn a lesson from it.
A few hours later, I received a text from her: I just
remembered - I turned the textbook back in before school this morning.
Can you say "senior moment"?
I can. And she'll never hear the end of it. I guarantee.
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