If my son Zimmerman ever reads my blog, he'll never again listen to me when I tell him to "say no to drugs" or "do the right thing" because the truth of the matter is that I admire his rebellious streak, something I never had, which still haunts me 40 odd years after high school ended (the operative term being "odd"). He recently wanted to get a tattoo - and although I personally could never bring myself to do it - because my mother thought they were "unladylike" - I often regret the fact that I never rebelled against anything. What was so great about the straight and narrow anyway? My life was certainly neither in present times. If I had been wilder then - would I perhaps be more "settled" now? Am I still waiting to do something so wild that I can't talk about it for another 40 years? I'd like to think so, but part of me wonders if that ship has sailed - or sunk - or if there are waters still to be navigated.
Recently, Zim and his friends were picked up for "loitering" behind a convenience store. Beer was present - a 12 pack among 15 of them. Truth be told - when the incident was reported - my first thought was "15 kids...a 12-pack of beer...you're kidding, right?" But we live in a small town, so it was a big deal for a few minutes. Thankfully, they didn't get in any real trouble - just had to endure a slap on the wrist and a lecture from the police. Of course, I was beside myself and had no idea what to say to him or how long he should be grounded or what might happen. He got a lecture from his father about "doing the right thing" - but truth be told - at his age, his father was having secret parties in the house with his siblings. "We used to find wine corks everywhere," I remember his parents saying as they reflected on raising 5 kids.
But it was different with Zim - he was living with a single working mother - so his friends knew the house was going to be empty most afternoons. Were they shooting up in my living room? Was there drug trafficking? Was he going to grow up to be a hardened criminal? Was he going to end up in a 12-step program? Worse of all - was I failing him as a mother because I wasn't home to properly supervise him? Was he going to start (gasp!) smoking pot - and then selling the silverware to make money to support his habit? Or did I just watch Reefer Madness too many times?
Patrick, a father of 3, is often my sounding board for these types of questions. Although he's the consummate family man, a Republican and possibly a member of the CIA, other than having a harem of nubile high school beauties surrounding him at all times, he looked far too angelic in high school to have ever gotten into any real scrapes. However, according to him, he and his friends had some wild times.
So, in a panic, I told him what happened with Zim and asked what I should do. He told me that I was overreacting - and shared stories of the times that he and his group found creative ways to dodge police (who were unable to outrun them). This is far too extensive for me to recount; watch for his blog regarding same (names changed to protect the guilty).
Then he said "What he's doing is perfectly normal for a kid his age...but hide the silverware just to be sure."
He wasn't of any help to me, because I couldn't tell if he was joking, but Zim was off the hook to some degree.
"OK, " I said, "I talked to a friend of mine from high school about what happened...he said he and his friends did that when they were your age...and he never served time on Rikers ....so I guess I shouldn't make a big deal out of it - but don't ever do it again."
I was so calm that I think he thought I had dipped into a secret stash of something - but if there was one - I didn't know about it (nor did I want to).
Last week, at a high school mini-reunion, Janine regaled us with stories about wild times she had "back in the day" - like the time she and her friend brought hash brownies to a classmate in the hospital. Others brought up incidents about throwing empty beer cans at cops whom they dodged at athletic fields and about getting school custodians to buy booze for them by offering to share it with him.
I was so wishing I could remember something scandalous to share with them. But there was nothing. I was squeaky clean back then. What was I thinking? Why didn't I experiment? What was wrong with me? I let my youth pass me by...I could have been Natalie Wood in Rebel with a Cause but I was Snow White sans the dwarfs...
"Damn," I said, "maybe I should do it all now...it's never too late!" I rifled through my cabinets and found a box of Funfetti cake mix. "Now all I need to do is contact Chef Janice for an Alice B. Toklas recipe," I thought, "she has more than 40,000 recipes - she must have one I can use..."
Then - Zimmerman texted me.
"I'm on my way home from dad's," he wrote.
Of course, I knew immediately that it was a sign from the universe telling me "NO! Don't do it!"
"Well," I thought, "At least I drink martinis." And have at least two a week...preferably Grey Goose (with a twist) or dirty (with 3 olives).
However, the last time I had one - I dropped the glass after three sips and it shattered into a million pieces. That technically could have been another sign...but one that I'm currently choosing to ignore. (Horray for vodka).