I wasn’t a good teenager. Then again, what teenager is perfect? They all
come with their own master mind and illusions. For part of my teenage years, we
lived above a delicatessen on 5th Avenue and 83rd Street in Brooklyn, NY. I
thought I was grown enough and therefore exempt from curfews. My mother
disagreed.
Of course she did.
I stayed out past curfew constantly, got grounded every time, and yet, still
held onto the fantasy that one day my mother would throw her hands up and say,
“just do what you want - because you’re going to anyway!”
She did not.
On Fridays and Saturdays, my curfew was 11 p.m. Weeknights were even
earlier. And on one particular night? I came home at 2 a.m.
I figured I could sneak in undetected like a Ninja. I crept up the hallway
stairs of our building like a burglar who had studied the architectural
blueprints – double stepping and skipping those few, loud creaky steps, sometimes
holding my breath like that would somehow help.
At the apartment door, I slid the key in at the speed of a garden snail.
Turned it even slower and opened the door to step inside. The apartment was
dark. I closed the door silently, locked it, and turned right toward the dining
room. (Immediate right was the dining room doorway, and another immediate right
led to the three bedrooms), my brother’s, my mother & stepfathers, and mine
was the last one.
As I was saying… I went to turn into the dining room… and apparently my
mother had taken our coffee table and barricaded the doorway of the dining room
with it!
Believe me when I tell you: I flipped over that coffee table like I was
Jackie Chan in a scene from Police Story! I did a full tumble and roll, then
crash‑landed into the dining room chairs. They banged together loudly, like an
uneven washing machine cycle.
I’m lying on the floor, trying to figure out what dimension I’ve fallen
into, when the dining room light snaps on and my mother yells:
“Ah‑HA! I KNEW you wouldn’t make curfew!”
Naturally, I got grounded… Again.
But wait – There’s more! My faithful readers know there’s always more...
Our apartment had two doors leading to our building hallway. Guess
where the second one was?
My room!
Time to develop a new plan!
I decided I’d outsmart my mother. Before going out on weekends, I’d
quietly remove the chain from my bedroom door, then unlock it, close my bedroom
door and leave through the main apartment door like I was a normal teenager heading out to be with friends. Mom
would give her usual warning:
“Be home by 11. If you blow curfew, you’re grounded for two weeks instead
of one this time!”
I’d roll my eyes and say, “Ugh, whatever. I can’t wait until I’m 18.”
Knowing full well, I apparently had a fool-proof plan that was sure to
work.
It did not.
There I was, on a Saturday night, blowing curfew like always. Once again I was stomping on my
mother’s last nerve, like I was putting out a fire. I snuck up the stairs,
skipped the noisy steps like a delinquent acrobat, I slipped into my bedroom,
closed the door silently, turned around…
And my mother was sitting on my bed.
Of course she was!
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice the chain off that door? Did you think
you could fool ME?”
Two weeks later, I was released from house arrest by my mother, the
warden. With only a couple months until my 18th birthday, I decided it was in
my best interest to follow her curfew law and become an abiding teenage
citizen. For the next 8 weeks I treated my release as though I was on probation
and managed to ride it out.
When I turned 18, I proudly announced, “I know you’ll be disappointed,
but now that I’m legally an adult, you can’t tell me when I have to be home
anymore.”
She stared directly into my soul as if she was burning a hole through it with heat vision, like superman. Then she smiled. It wasn’t her usual ‘I’m happy for you" kind of smile. It was confusing and scary.
Then she said something I never thought I'd hear... she said: “You’re right.”
I inquisitively asked, “I am??”
“I mean - YES, I AM!” I declared, boldly.
She continued, “You ARE an adult now. You can do what you want, as long
as it’s legal. And legally? You just became my tenant, unless you want to move
out. Adults work and pay rent. Rent will be $100 a month for room and board. You might want to hit the
pavement tomorrow and get a job fast, because the first of the month is just two
weeks away!”
I remember thinking, That’s cold, Ma. Happy Birthday to me, huh?
Obviously, she was moving into a different phase of motherhood- the one
where parents begin to teach adulting lessons instead of kid lessons and as adults we have to do adult things and if we don’t, we pay the for it with repercussions far worse than being grounded.
She did give me a nice birthday present that day though- a real one! A Walkman (if you are old enough,
you will remember those) and if you are too young- go ask an adult what that
is! Mom also baked me a birthday cake, and the family sang to me, like always.
Mom was Sturn when she had to be to shape us into responsible grownups, standing on our own feet, but she was also very loving and caring.
Looking back, she taught me a lot of life lessons. And with age and those
lessons came wisdom… which gave me a one‑up on my own kids when I was raising
them. Whenever I caught them doing something they shouldn’t, I’d say, “There isn’t much you can pull over
on me; I pretty much did it all.”
Apparently, I didn’t “Do it all”
My kids tested the waters and made their mistakes, just as I did, growing up. Obviously,
any product of “ME,” had to turn out
somewhat like me, right?
And honestly? I can only respect that.
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