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An Absolutely Untrue Tale of Raising a Teenager

Sometimes, I like to pause from daintily dusting knick knacks or stirring cookie dough and imagine what life would be like if my family weren’t entirely perfect.

I mean, I’ve read stories written by women whose teenagers make mistakes and husbands are inattentive and toddlers throw fits, but I know nothing personally about what that must be like. My husband and I are consistently in agreement on everything. Our children always behave themselves. ALWAYS.

I realize, though, that having a perfect family doesn’t make for very interesting blog reading, so in effort to provide you with a little light entertainment, I present this completely fictionalized account of my Thanksgiving morning...

It all began somewhere around 3:30am, when my husband awoke and realized that our eldest, whose curfew that night had come and gone hours earlier, was nowhere to be found. Calls to her cell phone went unanswered. Frantic, he called the TV station and asked the overnight producer if she’d heard about any accidents on the scanner. At that point, our eldest stumbled into the room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Where have you been?!” Hubs demanded.

“I’ve been here,” she replied. “I was asleep!”

“Why is your car not in the driveway?!”

“I parked on the street!” she retorted.

Hubs went outside and looked at our street. Her car wasn’t there. He asked her again where it was, she insisted it was on the street, and after a minute or two of repartee reminiscent of, “Who’s on first?” she revealed that the car was, in fact, parked on another street in our neighborhood. OF COURSE. That is SO LOGICAL, right? Further questioning revealed that a guy friend of hers from college was passed out in the backseat (Fortunately, she herself had not been drinking).

We didn’t know how she had planned to keep this information from us, nor how she’d planned to get him home when he woke up on Thanksgiving morning. What we did know was that it was now 4am, my husband had to get up for work in 3 hours and I had company coming, as well as a day of cooking and cleaning ahead of me in preparation for that night’s Thanksgiving dinner. We decided that the passed out dude could figure out how to get himself home when he woke up, and we all went to sleep.

A few hours later, we were awakened not by the first rays of sunlight, but by cops outside our door. Oh, fun.

As it turned out, passed-out dude had woken up and decided he was going to come inside our house to warm his feet. He got out of the car, went to the front door, and began trying to get in.

Only it wasn’t our house. And the people inside surprisingly weren’t very receptive to a strange young man with bedhead trying all their doorknobs. They called the police.

The police picked him up, looked up our car’s information on their computer, and came to our house to find out if he’d stolen it. We explained what had happened and they left. Then we all stood around and stared at passed-out dude for a few minutes while he cringed and apologized and apologized and cringed. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone look that uncomfortable in my life.

We asked him to call his parents to come pick him up, but he had lost his phone the night before, which had their number in it. And of course, he had never bothered to actually memorize the number. Because that would be like, sooo 1993, right?

And so, it being Thanksgiving and my parents and grandmother due to arrive soon, we reluctantly decided to let our eldest take him home.

That afternoon, passed out dude’s phone was found in my stepdaughter’s car. She told Hubs she was going to drive back to his house to give it to him.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Hubs replied. “You’re not taking the car anywhere. You can return that guy’s phone to him when I drive you back to school on Sunday.”

“That guy,” my eldest sniffed. “is MY NEW BOYFRIEND!”

And then we all cheered and toasted and asked if they’d set a wedding date.

THE END OF A TOTALLY MADE-UP STORY

P.S. Thank God my children are perfect.

 

Originally published on Suburban Turmoil

 


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