Celebrating the drudgery – and enchantment – of summer jobs

A summertime tradition that had been slipping away appears to be making a comeback: More teenagers are getting summer jobs. Including my own teenager.

My 15-year-old daughter landed her first job this summer as a dishwasher at the local wood-fire pizza place making $16 an hour. And I was bursting with pride and unsought advice.

For a teenager, having a summer job is a beautiful growing experience and rite of passage – even if one realizes this only in hindsight. And for a parent, watching your child endure this rite of passage is an exercise in learning to let go.

We parents have a habit of romanticizing our own childhood experiences as both harder and better. We believe the struggles we went through – those long walks to school barefoot in a snowdrift, uphill both ways – built resilience and self-sufficiency. 

Well, I’m here to tell you that first summer jobs are still as hard and boring – and wonderfully character-building – as they were when we were kids. 

After her first shift, my daughter issued a litany of grievances. She’s on her feet for hours on end! The water is scalding hot! She’s too busy to eat dinner! And every time she turns around, the sink is piled high with greasy pots and pans covered in baked-on cheese and sauce! 

I panicked. “Is she gonna make it through the summer?” I whispered to my husband later that evening. 

He assured me she’d be fine.

Over the next few days, I tried talking to my daughter about what she could do differently. I coached her on how to ask her manager for a 15-minute snack break. And I offered her a pair of rubber gloves. My daughter would have none of it. 

As the weeks wore on, she got the hang of things. Oh, she still complains. But she told me that she’s gamifying the most efficient system for washing silverware, that the line cooks have an amusing middle school sense of humor, and that the head chef is developing a fried jalapeño appetizer that she gets to taste-test before it hits the menu. Plus, there’s the money.

When I was 15 in the early ’90s, I worked my first summer job at Ed’s Deli, a ramshackle cafe steps from the L.L. Bean flagship store in Freeport, Maine. My boss was a stout, no-nonsense woman named Wanda, and my duties were the very definition of scutwork. I stocked the beverage refrigerators, took out trash, scrubbed formica tables, refilled ketchup and mustard bottles, and hoovered floors. 

Those were long, hard, dull days. But they were magical, too. I remember the salty camaraderie of the kitchen staff, the communal daze that befell us after the lunchtime rush, the icy relief of the cooler on a steamy summer day, and, in retrospect, what the job taught me. 

At Ed’s, I learned what it means to work: to be a competent, contributing member of a team. I learned the importance of showing up on time, pitching in on busy days, and being pleasant and cheerful to customers even when they were anything but.

Most importantly, I learned how to interact with, and take direction from, adults who weren’t my parents, my teachers, or my coach. Teenagers are notoriously oblivious to practicalities, and I was no different. But I saw how co-workers and managers anticipated problems and took initiative. Soon enough, I was doing the same. When a customer spilled iced tea, I grabbed a mop. When we ran out of milk, I volunteered to run to the store. 

The other day as my daughter was unloading our dishwasher at home, she confided that during her first week at work, she didn’t understand how to punch in and out on the time clock. “So, I told my boss the clock wasn’t working for me and I texted him my hours,” she said. “But later on, I watched a few other people clock in and figured it out.”

“You know, sometimes it’s OK to ask for help,” I said. 

As soon as I saw her wounded look, I regretted my words. Why was I correcting her when she’d eventually found the solution on her own?

Both my daughters are growing up in an era in which parents do a lot for their kids. We chauffeur them to and fro, seek out enriching activities and extracurriculars, and keep assiduous tabs on their schoolwork. 

As a Gen Xer raised by boomers who were more hands off in their parenting style, I bristle at this state of affairs. I sometimes find myself tempted to emulate my parents’ benign-neglect approach, but I also want to ensure my children have every advantage. I’m not necessarily proud of my inner tiger mom.

Some days, it’s hard to see my daughter frustrated or unsure of herself, but I can’t “tiger mom” her through her first summer job. That would defeat the purpose. This is her chance to grow, learn, and gain independence and responsibility. 

My husband reported that when he picked her up from her shift last night, she got in the car breathless. “My boss asked me if I wanted to do some salad prep,” she said excitedly. 

When I heard the news, I beamed. A promotion already!