Not only was I fetched promptly at the airport, but was greeted with big, genuine hug and grin from tall one who knew to get out and take care of my luggage and was quite proud to show me my shiny clean car, both inside and out. He didn’t stop talking the whole way home, told me all about his week and eased with skillful precision into the details of the party he threw at our house while I was gone.
I was impressed. Every teenager should throw a party while their parent is out of town, what I’ve never heard of before is the exacting, thorough precautions he took so that nothing would go wrong. He admitted to pretty much being a nervous wreck the whole time, but that it was worth it. I think it was worth it too, I like seeing him do a little planning and preparation. He and his close friends packed up what they considered breakable items and stowed them in the basement. They cleared both attic rooms, packing things in boxes and putting them in closets. I needed to organize and purge up there anyway, so this is only a small inconvenience. They went outside to check noise levels, they parked around the block to avert the neighbors suspicion, although the closed blinds and curtains might have been a giveaway they didn’t conider. My room, my desk area, and his brother’s room were off limits, there was no evidence left from the girl that puked, praise the gods of hardwood flooring. Yes there was drinking, but there were designated drivers, a concept that seems firmly ingrained in the culture of his generation, there is always a DD. There were also a bunch that slept over. When I was growing up, there was no such thing. The house was as clean as I left it and the only evidence was the refrigerator full of soda and red bull. I’ve never had a red bull, I think I’ll try a sip later, just to know what it tastes like, and well, I am a bit fatigued. What I lack in memory, and mathmatics ability, I have in olifactory senses. One step into the attic rooms and I said “ah, your guests were enjoying a taste of the ganja.” He didn’t even attempt to cover, for which I am ever so grateful because implausable denial has been his modus operandi and it pushes my buttons. I have experienced dishonesty enough to last me a lifetime, I dislike it above all else. He smiled and said “yep.” And while I am aware that he drank with the senior counselors at camp last year and occasionally drinks at parties, with a tase for Jack Daniels over beer, blech, he’d denied ever trying the cannibis, so I appreciated his honesty. He said he’s smoked it a few times and enjoys it and as long as he’s not driving, that’s fine by me. He seems acutely aware of partying responsibly, I doubt he even inhales, and knowing him as I do, knowing his boundary-oriented nature, I am confident in his judgement in this regard.
My party throwing boy was quite impressed with himself and counterintuitively, I am too. We went for dinner and chatted up a storm, he wanted to hear all about my trip and unlike the last time, even wanted to see the pictures. I had one last margarita at dinner and from here on in, I’m back on the green wagon. I hope he is impressed with his bad ass, cave diving mama.
I wonder if I’ll hear from any parents, letting me know my son had a party while I was gone. The parent code is a tricky thing.
Today, I will attempt to decompress my spine from it's time in dreadful airline seats, start my laundry marathon, grocery shop, first and foremost for catfood before they attack me. They were well fed when I was gone, down to the very last morsel in the bag, so they’ve been stalking me since my return, looking for food.
Little boy will stay at his father’s tonight and I’ll see him after school tomorrow, although we have exchanged emoticons. I’m trying not to be overwhelmed by all the things I have to do this week. I could use another week sans kids to catch up, but maybe I just have to accept there’s really no such thing as being caught up because life is a rolling loop, there is no done, until we’re done, and that’s what we’re all trying to avoid. Roll with it, just got to learn to roll with it. Maybe it’s not the minutia and the clutter that’s my problem, but my panic over them. Roll with it, yep, got to roll with it. It is what it is, what it is, what it is.