Last night, I stupidly agreed to my 16, almost 17 – as I’m constantly reminded, as if that mattered – year old daughter to having “a few” friends over. Being liberal and modern, I thought it might help her. I was half wrong.
The night seemed to be going ok. They kept to the boundaries I set: downstairs or outside, no alcohol and over at 11. Then boundaries were challenged. The party moved to the kitchen and soon food was disappearing.
I reminded my daughter that the party was over at 11. To this she replied:
“Well, my friend’s mother can’t pick him up till 11:30…”
To that I said: “no.”
I tolerated it until my son came in to say that my daughter, his sister, was puking. Great. I glanced a beer can out the window and saw red.
I loudly and firmly told my daughter that the party was over and everyone had to leave. She gave me some lip so, I shouted everybody out.
I was pretty impressed how fast they lit out. My daughter, of course, followed me around while I cleaned, spouting such venom. That was delightful.
The one constant was my daughter’s friend. She stuck by her even though most would bail. It was oddly comforting to know someone else cared for my daughter that they would even endure a full meltdown like what just happened.
My daughter finally calmed down and her friend went home.
I don’t know how many teen years I can stand. I guess it will have to be all of them.