Tag Archives: teenagers

Learn From Your Mother’s Mistakes

Being pregnant has given me a lot of time to reflect on all the stupid shit I did as a kid and to wonder if my daughter is going to be as poor a decision maker as I was.

For instance, one time in high school I smoked the world’s most unnecessarily large and potent amount of weed. I definitely could have stopped at one bong hit and been perfectly pleasantly stoned, but I guess I thought if one was fun, 8 would be REALLY fun, because everything fun is better when you overdo it by 7 times.

I was an honors student.

I have no explanation for this.

I was dropped off at home by a sober friend (I think/hope?) around midnight, and instead of going straight to bed, I chose to sit in the bright, incriminating lights of the kitchen and eat a tub of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream with a large wooden cooking spoon, straight from the tub. I must have been making absurdly loud slobbering noises and dropping the spoon one or 12 too many times, because at some point, my Dad wandered downstairs from his bedroom to see what was going on.

I didn’t even attempt to act like a normal human, I just proceeded to dip my big ass spoon in the tub o’ Breyers and stare at the kitchen TV, ice cream trickling down my chin, while Dad carried on what I think was supposed to be a conversation with me. To this day I have no idea what he said, but if he didn’t realize I was stoned out of my damn mind, well, that’s just sad for him.

To make matters worse, I was so high that I ended up vomiting multiple times in the middle of the night, and then oversleeping the next day, when I was supposed to be at my parents’ friends’ house babysitting their kids. I was a total no-show for the job, with essentially no excuse other than “I took 7 too many bong rips, by accident.” I lost out on a ton of money and so badly pissed off the family, who had been my steady source of income since middle school, that they never asked me to work for them again.

So all this is to say, for the love of god, I pray my kid makes better choices than I did.

I mean– Breyers vanilla?

Aim higher, baby girl. When you’re stoned as shit, you shove that oversized spoon into something worthwhile.

The world is your oyster.

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This is Why I Teach Elementary School

I normally only tutor grades PreK-5, but I have one 7th grader who I’ve been with for years, and who is far too wise for her age.

Kid (watching me eat my standard pregnancy-nausea Saltines from a plastic baggie): “You’ve been snacking a lot during our sessions lately.”

Me: “Oh. Yes. I know. I’m sorry, I hope it’s not distracting. I just…I’m taking a vitamin and it makes me a little sick if I don’t eat.”

Kid (looking me up and down skeptically): “Mmmm hmmm.”

Me (closing my sweater self-consciously): “It’s true.”

Kid: “You look more tired, too. And last week you brought the wrong folder.”

Me: “It’s the vitamins. They make me tired. And forgetful. They have lots of side effects.”

Kid (rolling eyes): “Ok. Just remember– I’m 13. I know things. I watch a lot of TV.”

Me: “Ok, well, I’d appreciate if–”

Kid: “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Kid: “….that you’re smoking pot.”

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Completely Unfair

When I was in high school, I drove a Toyota 4-Runner. It was fucking enormous, and I was very bad at controlling it. My parents bought it for me with the mentality “Better she hit things than things hit her,” a sentiment I took far too literally and thus proceeded to hit all the things.

The parking situation at my high school was a certifiable shitshow. If you couldn’t wake up in time (so for me– every day, my whole life, always) to get one of the ten parking spots alloted to students, you had to parallel park on the street. You could only do so if you had a street permit claiming you lived in that neighborhood, which I obviously did not. Luckily, my oddly resourceful boyfriend (the kind of guy you could be like “I need a talking komodo dragon that knows karate and is wearing a tutu, stat,” and he’d be like “I know a guy”) was able to procure a fake permit for me, so I was one of the 1500 lucky students who got to illegally vie for a parallel parking spot within a .5 mile radius of the school every morning. It was a battleground.

One day after school I walked up to my car and found a note stuck to my windshield.

“Learn how to park, you fucking bitch. Your car is taking up three spots.” Then, scribbled in pencil at the bottom someone chimed in, “She has a $35,000 car and she doesn’t even think that’s expensive. She’s a spoiled cunt.”

Which is just completely unfair.

I had no idea how much that car cost.

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Sweet Dreams of Death and Despair, Baby Boy

I just got back to my parents’ house in Maryland, where I am staying the night before I fly out to Florida tomorrow. When I got here, my mom was super excited to show me the crib she got for my baby nephew. I was psyched to see it until she told me where it resides– in Zack’s bedroom.

Zack is my youngest sibling. He is 26 years old. His bedroom, however, never escaped the dark days of puberty.

I immediately panicked. A montage to explain why:

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Sweet dreams, baby boy.