Permitting

It was a night like any other. Ok, that's a lie.  It was a night that three of my kids were at other people's houses for sleepovers. And we were desperately trying to figure out how to ditch the last one. If only there were an overnight read-a-thon at the library. A meeting of insomniacs anonymous at the sleep clinic. An apprenticeship to learn how to make the donuts at Dunkin' Donuts. But, alas. None of these things exist except in my head. Dammit.

Change of mindset. Ok, we're home with our oldest. So, bonus. We can watch a movie that's more edgy and inappropriate with him.  Basically, one we'd actually want to see. But first, we'd be going out to dinner. Because the oldest has an adventurous mature palate we could go almost anywhere. Because we were starving, we went to one of our favorite restaurants just down the street for Mexican.

When you're having Mexican, you must gorge on obligatory chips and drippy salsa. Shoving them into your mouth, leaving an exquisite mess of crumbs and pinkish onion chunks all over both the table and your shirt. And it must be downed with a margarita. Even if you don't like margaritas. And god knows it's more economical to biggie size your margarita like a slurpee. Because essentially, that's exactly what it is. Who am I to thwart these beautiful traditions? Ninguna

Over dinner, my husband talked about how you can only invest emotionally in 150 people. How technology is the devil and I chimed in about how I'm so proud of him for excelling at people skills in a time when teenagers don't have them anymore. If they ever did. Apparently we're blowhards when we drink tequila out of fishbowls. Our most extroverted, talkative child was reduced to an "uh-huh" or an occasional "mmmm" as he devoured his burrito into his wordless mouth.

The check was paid and we headed to our car. Ok, who am I kidding? Generic minivan. When the obvious question came up. The question every 15 year old with a permit burning a hole in their wallet asks. "Can I drive?" Now, I have relegated all the teaching-of-driving to my husband. Who is far more patient than I. And a better driver. (Don't tell him I said that.) So I have never been a passenger in the car while my son is driving. Until now. And now it's night. And now I'm cowering in the back seat.

I don't remember freaking out. I thought I was calm.  But when we arrived home safely, as I really did know we would.  Sortof.  The boys…wait men….wait man and boy-man. I got it. "Emerging man" would be the most appropriate terminology here. He's well on his way. He's gonna be fine.  I just need to give up some control and allow him to be. To drive.

Which might be why we watched Along Came Polly and ate way the hell too many m&m's and just enjoyed the emerging inappropriateness of it all.