After That He's Going to Chuck E. Cheese
Andrew turns 21 on Tuesday. I called him a couple of days ago to see if he wanted to go out for dinner to commemorate his birthday. During the course of the conversation I asked him if he and his friends were doing anything to celebrate. Not a fraction of a second elapsed - not one - before he answered:
"We're going to the bars."
*blink*
"I'm sorry. Did you say you're going to the bars?"
"Yeah."
"Bars? You're going to the bars? Barzz-ZZZ!?! Plural?!?"
You know that weird, kind of wobbling sound you hear when Daffy Duck shakes his head to clear out the stars and cobwebs right after he got conked with an anvil? My head literally made that noise as I shook it.
I suppose I knew this day was coming. When my child, my first born, the fruit of my loins, the thing that would puke down my back whenever I picked him up, told me he was going out drinking. But I guess I was expecting some sort of embarrassed pause, a sheepish grin, some muted mumbling, when I received word. Not this high-toned, almost in-your-face pronouncement. I wanted to ask him the obvious question: "Well, how do you know you even like alcohol?"
At least he didn't ask me to pick up the tab.
K-
Oh dear. But, good. He was obviously raised right.
I think about all the hair-raising stunts my brothers, friends, and I pulled when we were that age--"going out to the bars" would have been one of the milder evenings--and the way it was never acknowledged between us and our parents, and I think it's great that he came right out with that. Not that you have the power to veto or dissuade, but he clearly trusts that he can tell you what he's doing without dressing it up too much.