FRESHMAN FIFTEEN

The title of this piece does not refer to the purported weight gain by some freshman during their freshman year, it is the total amount of hours I spent with my freshman when I went up to Boston last Sunday.

If you could see me now, I am patting myself on the back. PAT PAT PAT.

Really, I cannot believe myself; I cannot believe I have been able to let her go and live her life and that in the five months since I left her off this is the first time I have gone up to see her with the exception of Parent’s Visiting Weekend.

When I started this blog I had images of monthly or even perhaps every three-week visits. Me dragging up on the Acela, some goodies in hand, weekends of fun to be shared, or if not weekends, then maybe a Wednesday night dinner. I actually never planned on raining on the parade of a college kid’s weekend.

But I have stayed here on the home turf, she has come down I will say that, but the Taj expected to see much more of me than they have.

And truth be told, the only reason I went up last weekend was I was headed to Providence for three days to do the final edit on LUCKY DUCKS.
Boston being a half hour train ride from Providence I decided to stop for the night.

Plus she had been really sick all week and I wanted to see that she was OK.

But, and get this, I didn’t even spend all of Sunday there.  I left here at two o’clock and got in at five-thirty.

I went right to the hotel and ran her a tub. The one thing she really misses is tubs. She takes four a day when healthy, when sick where most people take to their beds, Taylor takes to her tub. So I knew the fact she had been really suffering from a terrible virus all week, Boston is freeeeeezing, she wanted and needed that tub.

She arrived about five minutes after I did; the tub wasn’t even full yet.
She got her bath, she looked OK, not sick, I was concerned even though the amazing Barbara Landreth did get her the right meds, it was her first time being really sick away from home. I also did not go running up there when she got sick. I let Barbara handle it from here. And Jo-Z was on the phone talking her through CVS, telling her what to pick up. I’m letting her learn without me.
Having not gone to college myself there are all sorts of rituals I am learning too.

For instance,  the first thing parents do when they go up to see their kids is take them and a few of their friends for a really good meal.

Glenn has been up once or twice on business and taken her and some of her friends to dinner.

I told her to book wherever she wanted and bring whomever she wanted.  It was easy to get reservations, as it was Super Bowl Sunday.

We ended up at the new Jean Georges restaurant in the new W Hotel. That’s my Tay; but you know they can’t afford those places on their own for the most part, so it’s good to feed them well when you are around.

Since many were watching the game the group was small.  She brought Blake, her Blake, I’m able to type it with ease now, time does heal, it does not erase, but it heals, and her roommate Christina – both great kids.

We all ate and laughed and eaves dropped on many conversations.

But there was a paper to be written, it was cold – I think already said that so we ate and left.
By then I had been in Boston a total of three hours.

We went back to the room and Tay had to write a paper on Indian poverty.

Now unlike long, short or any size fractions, Indian poverty is a subject I do know quite a lot about.

Despite my rule on not helping with homework, this was something I could offer up a few hints and well, selfishly I had an early morning train to catch, she had several more baths to take so I helped me, by helping her.

I DID NOT WRITE IT.

I would toss out facts while reading Peg Streep’s amazing book “MEAN MOTHERS – Overcoming the Legacy of Hurt.”

Anyone with mother problems should read this book.

So, I was reading about how I’m not alone in my feelings of abandonment and hurt in regards to my own mother and Tay was typing away and every few minutes she would ask me a question.

“How many people in the middle class in India?”

“Three hundred and fifty million” – I responded without missing a sentence of my own reading.

How do you know?

“I just know. “
Kids do this amazing thing, they ask you a question,  my assumption is hoping for the right answer and also they know you know.

But then the act totally dumfounded that you do know.

That moment when they discover we are not as stupid s they think we are.

“I need a real source.” She said.

Go to Wikipedia.

“It’s not considered a source.”

I get that since Lucy wrote mine.

“I use it.”

“You’re not in college.”

“I still use it.”

It was getting late,  she went to Wikipedia, they confirmed my number.

“I still can’t use them as a source.” she said running to fill her tub again.

“That’s the number.”

“ That’s great, but you’re not a footnote” She said, heading for the tub, laptop in hand.

Normally not being a footnote is considered a compliment.

“So why did you ask me?”

“I knew you would know, but you’re still not a footnote.”

“Not much I can do about that at this stage.” I said. “Go online to the Indian census page.”

This was my kind of homework.

She was thrilled.

“It isn’t working.”
“Big surprise neither does the Indian census bureau most of the time, as they have no way of really counting the population.”

“You’re not helping; you’re not a footnote.”

“Well, then leave me alone and let me read about how other daughters are emotionally tormented by their mothers the way I am.”  I said.

“What about the Indian middle class?”  She yelled from the bathroom.

“I told you three hundred and fifty million, but it isn’t the middle class you have to worry about it’s the fact that the economy while growing until recently up to ten percent a year, which is huge, cannot ever keep pace with birthrate and over population.”

I may not be a footnote, but I was starting to sound like one.

She then emerged from the tub and we talked about India and our experiences in the slums and the population and the GNP and the Call Centers we had spent the night in when I as researching a film four years ago.

We talked about all sorts of things she knows about from her times spent in both the cities and the slums.  Her thoughts were taking on their own form.

I was getting tired, she was still not feeling well, the paper was due in the morning, I knew I faced three days of fifteen hour editing sessions.

The later it got the closer I got to becoming a footnote.

I DID NOT WRITE THE PAPER.

I could have, it would not have taken long, but I don’t do that and my kids know it. This was in fact more homework than I had done in thirty-five years.

Taylor wrote, I talked, and finally she remembered something.

“You’re a published writer right?”

“Yes”

“You’ve made a documentary about the slums of India.”

“Yes. Soon to be released on DVD!!!!”

“YOU’RE A FOOTNOTE!”

“Does that mean we can go to sleep?”

Her computer and light were out before I had finished the sentence.

At that point I had been in Boston for five hours.

We slept until seven the next morning.

We got up and had breakfast.

I had my cab drop her at her dorm and I headed for South Station to catch my train.

Fourteen and a half  hours from the time I had arrived.

I can leave her off now without crying.

She had a big day ahead, as did I and I knew she was coming up to  Providence in twenty-four hours to tape her interview for the bonus selections section of the film.

Nine-fifteen my Acela pulled out of the station.

Fifteen hours exactly, eight spent sleeping, two spent eating, and the others spent as a footnote.

It was fun.

I would say I should do it more often, but I don’t think I should.

In fact we figured out that she comes home for Spring Break in three weeks, and seven weeks after that the year is up.

That fifteen hours may be the only time I will have spent up there her entire freshman year!

Sometimes I amaze myself.

And the best thing is, because of it she and I are closer than ever.

And despite the fact I didn’t go to college, I’m an official footnote.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY EVERYONE

Freshman Mom