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Smoking once, smoking twice . . .

 

My son Peter is smoking, again. I can smell it on his clothes and in my car.

It began a year ago, after he'd heard John and me blast tobacco makers and marketers for most of his seventeen years. He still lit up.

We ranted about how cigarettes kill people. Raged about tobacco companies paying millions for teen idols to smoke in movies like The Titanic and Good Will Hunting. We slammed ads that make non-smoking adults look like dorks, and teens wielding cigarettes, oh, so cool. "You're being fooled by the pushers," we told him. But he still lit up.

So we hit him with the price of cigarettes and the simple fact that Peter can't afford it. We argued that every adult smoker we know wishes he or she had never started. We threatened smoking would cripple his athletic aspirations. And finally, we threw in his face the issue of smoker's breath. "Nobody wants to kiss a dragon mouth," we warned. But he still lit up.

His sister Katy, who drove with him to school every day, was most keenly aware of Peter's smoky habit. Once, Katy accused him of addiction, and bet ten dollars he couldn't abstain for a week. Peter went seven days without a single cigarette, took the money, and lit up.

In desperation, I called his basketball coach for advice and help in pushing Peter to stop. The coach promised to apply pressure. I figured his in-your-face style would deliver impact and intimacy, so that Peter might succumb. And indeed, he did quit, again.

Longer than seven days. For about a month.

Finally, wallowing in failure, I asked Peter, "Why do you smoke?"

He answered right away, "It relaxes me."

"Don't you care about all the bad things it does?" I retorted.

He shrugged his shoulders.

So I started again with the arguments, until Peter threw up his hands. "STOP!"

"You don't want me to drink, right?"

I nodded.

"Well, I have to do something!" He paced the floor. "I'm a stressful kinda guy. I need to do something with my hands. So I smoke, while other kids drink beer."

I stared at my son. "You mean smoking is a substitute for drinking?"

"Well, sometimes," he said. "But even when I do drink, I smoke too."

I began walking the floor behind him. "Can't you have a good time without either? Psyche yourself up, drink espresso, or something?"

"Caffeine's a drug too, Mom. And addictive." He turned and grinned at me, so sly.

Then he said, "It's like whenever I go outside, everybody's smoking. It's a social thing. And at night, when I'm driving home, it brings me down slowly, so I'm not so hyper."

I stopped walking in circles and sat down to think. Finally, I asked, "Do you want to be a smoker, Peter? Is that what you really want for yourself?"

He looked at me, at his hands, the ceiling, the floor, and into the future. "No," he said. "Not always."

I breathed again, through smoke-free lungs. But, too soon. Peter went on, "I would quit now if I could. But I can't, not when everyone else is doing it too."

So Peter lit up, again. Not in front of me. Not in our house. But in the car, and with his peers, surrounded by audio and video messages that broadcast it's cool to smoke, drink, do drugs, have sex.

Weeks passed. My son bounced around like his senior classmates. Wild and free. He was accepted at college. They sent a letter asking Peter about himself, so they could match him with the right roommate. One of the questions was: Do you smoke?

Peter took two days to complete the form. Then he handed it to me and asked if I would mail it. Just before sealing the envelope, I hesitated, slowly unfolded the paper, and peeked at his answer. "No," it said.

"Yes!" I cried, and wondered when he quit. And if he would stay off this time. I was about to ask, and then stopped. Peter makes his own decisions now. Different from mine. Time to let go of that old image of who I think Peter should be. Time to stop battering his choices, and start watching what he does with them.

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