Friends, can we talk about booze? It’s been on my mind lately, and not merely because the first few weeks back to school were a rude return to early mornings and high heels (yes, my usual fit includes at least 2 to 3 inches of man-made height, both to stave off plantar fasciitis and to boost my presence among towering teenagers. Don’t judge me!). Mainly, it’s my adult children who’ve had me pondering the hooch.
Three of the four can legally drink, and if you happen to be in Europe or on a plane to Europe, after having to very nearly scrap said trip to Europe because a certain someone accidentally but decidedly lost her passport, the 18-year-old can also partake. It’s a weird realization when you see your babies sipping non-Holy Communion wine or doing a shot of some god-awful liqueur. On the one hand, you are faced head-on with the fact that they are no longer children; they can decide for themselves if, when and how much sauce they will consume. But on the other, you still see them as dumb kids who are making a horrible mistake by ordering mango margaritas after an afternoon of “Sink the Bismarck.”
Parenting simply never ends, especially in a bar. And if you’re anything like me, you can quickly go from “sharing a beer with my son is wonderful” to “Oh, my god, is he an alcoholic?” Luckily, I’ve learned to condense my worries into a single phrase that lets me mother from afar: “Make good choices, my darlings!”
So, yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about booze lately. Time for a drink!
Peace out.
