I always felt like my parents were a lot stricter than my other friends’ parents. I was constantly getting grounded for what I thought were stupid things—except for two incidents that I will gladly admit were my fault. The first was when I was about eleven years old and was grounded (yet again). I was sitting in my room, just mad at the world, and I thought it would be a great idea to carve my name into my windowsill. That’s right, I tagged my own bedroom. Just before my mom set me free, she noticed my “art” and promptly gave me a longer sentence.
The second incident led to the worst grounding I have ever had. I was sixteen years old, and all my friends were just beginning to drive. I was probably one of the only people that age who had no interest in getting a license, but I was not allowed to drive with my friends, either, unless my mom had gone through her very lengthy (and embarrassing) approval process.
One night, my friend Rachel and I pulled the classic “I’m staying at her house, and she’s staying at my house” shenanigans so that we could go out cruising the city with my unapproved driving friends. Naturally, my mom called me while I was with a group of exceptionally rowdy friends, who refused to be quiet while I tried to lie my little brains out, and of course she heard them in the background and immediately called Rachel’s mom to confirm my whereabouts. My mom came to pick me up right away and notified me of my thirty-day grounding sentence, which was to start the very next day. That day also just so happened to be the very first day of summer vacation—so I spent half my sunny summer break writing “I hate you” entries in my diary.
Now I understand the reason for my mom’s overprotectiveness, and I really do appreciate her overbearing love, because it kept me safe. But at the time, it was the worst thing that could ever have happened.
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