At 27, my daughter earns more than I did at 57. But she can't properly clean a coffee machine — or get a sticky spill off her own countertop.
It's one of my few regrets as a parent: I never encouraged her to work a minimum-wage job. While other kids scooped ice cream and scrubbed toilets, she spent her teen summers at sleepaway camp. In high school and college, she interned at BlackRock and Dow Jones.
Those internships worked. She graduated with an impressive résumé and a full-time consulting job in Manhattan already secured. I'm genuinely proud. But I can't shake the feeling I missed something by never getting dirt under her fingernails.
Making the Most of the Hand I Was Served
My teenage work experience couldn't have been more different. My father was a wholesale shoe salesman who sometimes spent more on the road than he brought home. My mother's part-time proofreading barely covered raising three kids in suburban Boston.
I got my first job at 15, and worked nights and summers as a food server at the local Pewter Pot Muffin House — a colonial-themed, slightly upscale Dunkin' Donuts alternative. Nearly every dollar went toward college living expenses. (I was lucky: a scholarship covered tuition.)
The uniform was a floral dress with puffy sleeves and an itchy lace collar. My hair went under a sheer white r cap, earning me the nickname "The Muffin Wench." By shift's end, the polyester reeked of fryolator grease and microwaved prime rib — our most expensive menu item.
Large families with screaming kids would order bottomless coffee and a shared muffin, camp out for hours, and leave behind loose change and a crumb-covered carpet. I'd crouch to vacuum the corners, my back aching.
But the job gave me perspective. I knew I had to work my tail off in college, because a liberal arts degree was my one ticket out of my family's financial struggles.
The Most Valuable Lessons I Learned on the Job
The job taught me teamwork, covering tables for slammed coworkers, helping with sidework like cleaning the coffee maker or "marrying" half-empty ketchup bottles. Given my poor hand-eye coordination, it was the closest I ever came to playing a team sport.
And having people bark orders at me while I wiped up their pancake syrup made one thing crystal clear: I never wanted to go back. So I hustled to make publishing happen — no magazine connections, no trust fund, no subsidizing my New York rent.
Working for tips taught me resourcefulness, humility, and an appreciation for every dollar I still feel today. It gave me grit.
My daughter can afford a cleaning service, and she chooses to spend her money on designer bags, travel, and nice restaurants instead. I can't fault her. But I know that on the rare occasion she vacuums, she'll miss the corners — where most of the dust hides.