Last night I delivered my seventeen-year-old son and six of his mates to the beach for a party. Armed with tents, sleeping bags and enough beer to drown a small army, off they trekked belting out songs from Reel Big Fish.
I sat in the car park and murmured, "Dear God, I don't ask for much; I live in a tiny house full of crappy furniture, hungry teenagers and a dog with ADHD. I have no ambitions, no talents and no sex life. I'm old and wrinkled, but I get by on a good sense of humour. Please, please, please don't let anyone drown, fall in the fire or vomit in my tent. Thank you, love Sar XX"
Of course my stomach was in knots all evening. By midnight I was in bed, my clothes laid out ready to leap into like a fireman who's on call. I couldn't sleep. Just kept drifting. Every hour I'd sit up, heart beating like a bass drum. Was that my phone? Did I just hear a siren?
By six am, I figured they must be asleep and trouble had been averted.
I just picked them up, wet, cold, hungover, but ALIVE! I'm so relieved, I'm cooking them all a fried breakfast.
Thank you, God.
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2 comments:
Ah, teenagers and beach parties. Can't say I ever caused my parents that much worry though.
Hey! Nice to meet you!
i think my 'worry' gene is hyperactive - my son has his first driving lesson tomorrow - I'll probably be crapping bricks all through, too!
I wouldn't mind, but he's sensible, and even lugged all the empty cans home for recycling :-D
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