March 30, 2006
The trials of teenage angst
Over wine, the past mischievous deeds spill out readily for Dad.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

From what I understand about parenthood, you spend all your time and money nurturing and disciplining rugrats who will, by Law of Probability, at the start of their teen years, lie, cheat and sneak behind your back.

My father is raising his second round of teenagers, as is my stepmom, who's stuck by his side since I was in high school.

One of my teen siblings recently "pulled a fast one" by lying to the parental units.

Big no-no.

It was a pretty clever lie, but that's beside the point.

My dad's reaction wasn't one of astonishment -- he's been through this before -- but should any one man suffer through a second generation of lying offspring?

There are absolutely no secrets in my family; if you mess up, your actions are free-game for immediate and extended family conversations, and maybe even the lady at the grocery checkout.

When typewriters roamed the earth I once typed a "B" over the obvious "D" I'd earned then erased in Botany (to this day I can't keep a plant alive), fulfilling my destiny in arts, not sciences.
In my grounding sentence I was allowed to go to the mailbox . . . and no further.

On a recent visit to our father's house my brother and I heard the story about our young sibling's current home-detention.

Dad has softened a little in his advancing years of parenting, as the current sibling delinquent will be going to Florida for spring break.

Oh, cruel world.

A few bottles of wine over dinner prompted my brother's and my sympathy for teenage angst and much hated math and science classes.

We then relayed many stories about which our dad had never heard.

It's an exhilarating and liberating moment admitting, as an adult (and as for my brother, an adult with wife and children), your checkered past.

My brother began: "Dad, did I ever mention the time in high school when I outran the police?"
Dads love hearing these things.

We both had plenty of stories to share; thank my dad's lucky stars our older sister, who was a pretty awful teenager, wasn't around.

My dad listened intently, a sardonic glimmer in his eye, and I kept his glass full of vino.

I shared things about myself that he didn't know, as if I were telling him a funny story I'd read in the newspaper.

"So the campus police made us get out of the pool at 3 in the morning . . .." I rattled on, precipitating a toast to parental patience and understanding.