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Eighteen years = an adult?

 

It came in a plain white envelope. My son brought it home in his backpack. Left it by my purse, so I'd notice, and read it. Peter's way of telling me, without telling.

An invitation. To a birthday party, for a girl turning eighteen. "A Pimps and Sluts party," it says. "No entry without Pimp/Slut attire. BYOB. No dildos please. Free oral sex video." The words are framed with pictures of a Monet nude lady, large red lips, and transparent underwear.

As the mother of an invitee, my first reaction is: Shock. No way will my son go. Second reaction: Shock. How can a young woman of the '90s portray our gender as flagrant sex objects? Haven't we at least overcome that self-image?

Over the next few days, I tune into my teenagers' conversations ... Turns out the party girl's parents are renting two hotel rooms for the event. Scheduled for Friday night, after a major exam. No adults present. Almost every senior in the school plans to attend, my son included.

So, Katy, my 16-year-old demands, "You're not going to let him go. Are you?"

"I don't know yet," I answer. Peter stands at the threshold. "Need to talk with him about it."

Peter edges over, hesitant, but resolved. We establish the facts. No, there will be no sex. Yes, there will be alcohol. Yes, drinkers will camp out there, not drive. Peter may, or may not stay overnight.

I am not happy with alcohol, and without adults.

But, before reacting with the parental No, I think first, this time. My son is eighteen. The very age my own friends were shipped off to kill or die in Vietnam. Old enough to vote. Old enough to be prosecuted and jailed as an adult. Surely old enough to take responsibility for his own actions. And if he chooses to drink, he won't endanger himself or anyone else by driving.

Less than a year ago, I would not have considered permitting Peter to attend a party with alcohol. I assumed he'd be right in there drinking with the rest. But I was wrong. Peter seems to have identified himself primarily as a non-drinker, occasionally a modest one. He's taken on the role of care-taker for his drinking friends, and he drives them all home. I'll gladly pay extra gas money to support that role.

In just a few months, Peter will be at college and free to join parties such as this any night of the week. Maybe it makes sense to let him practice now. With a safety net of parents only a phone call away.

I decide to let him go. Still, the words stick in my throat, emerging as a garbled, "Oh ... kay."

Then, of course, Katy wants to go too. I'm surprised to learn some of her friends have their parents' permission.

"No," is the simple answer for the younger teen in this family. "When you're a senior. If you continue to grow wiser."

After the exam on Friday, Peter shops at Value Village for a ten-dollar pimp's wardrobe. Blue polka-dot shirt, checkered pants, pointed boots. A mockery of pimphood, and that's fine with me. Then he slips off to the party in another joke, our rumpled red Toyota.

At 1:00 a.m. Peter calls to say the kids are acting sane and having a good time. A couple hours later, he arrives home. Safe and sober. It's a good dry run. Next year, there'll be no safety net.

 

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