Operation Buzzkill

My kids messed with the wrong mom. Further proof that their prefrontal cortices are still under construction. I applaud them, however, for testing the boundaries as normal teens do, as well as testing my bona fides as a former trained CIA operative, because now, they've given me a chance to prove my skill set. With more eyes on the prize - empty-nesting in t-minus three years - the stakes have never been higher to prove my children can, and will, achieve their goals, if it's the last thing I guide them to do. Despite my menopausal mania, tradecraft proved effective and Operation Buzzkill a success. 

"You get in less trouble if you tell the truth," has always been my mantra. 

At times when they were younger, I swore by the old lie-detector test - the one where they'd place their palms down on mine and I'd ask them questions while locking their eyes. Behavior assessment and elicitation, now less effective, probably because their pupils are frozen from too much screentime, or they learned how to beat the test on a TikTok. 

"If you lie, I'll be forced to investigate," another thing I've said for years.

That was their first mistake. The lying. The second mistake? Underestimating mom's wear and tear. I may look older and have menopausal brain fog, but I now have more undivided attention with fewer children living at home. Besides, I'm no quitter. The third strike? The cover-up. 

It all began last weekend when what was supposed to be a school dance stretched past 10 p.m. for my 15-year-old sophomore. Apparently, he forgot his mom's resume when he texted that he didn't need a pickup until around 11:30 p.m. 

This wasn't Prom. Bruh.

"Hey, mom, I'm heading to a party," would've been a much better answer, and frankly, the truth. 

Admit nothing was my modus operandi that night, when I picked him up near a park around 10:45 p.m., gathering intel for later use. He smelled like teen spirits. Though an alleged vaping puff of smoke from a less reliable source needed further corroboration.

Evasion continued into Saturday evening when the sophomore social butterfly decided to go "fishing" with friends, and his twenty-year-old brother was in the driver's seat, since we were at a fundraiser.

"Sure, your buddies can spend the night," I texted him back, knowing I'd have full eyes on any antics when the boys returned. 

Guess what? No fishing poles. The kid with the beach towel may have been the smartest of the group, bringing props to the lake. My son divulged that his red eyes were from the wind, proving sales may be his greatest gift.

Any menopausal mother knows that sleep is as elusive as the truth in situations like this. I may be the lightest sleeper on the planet, and hottest. Yep, "Your wife's hot." The heating and cooling company in town with the cheeky billboards for air conditioning nailed it. 

At approximately 2 a.m., I heard the wooden spindle bed snap downstairs. The three boys erupted, laughing like hyenas. Still wired from the moment they’d strutted in earlier, all polished manners and “Mr.” and “Mrs.,” as if we were celebrities.

The next morning, I surveyed the damage and noticed a bedroom screen missing and a hole in the wall where the hammock was supposedly fixed to a stud. 

Speaking of studs, my baby daddy was clueless. He slept through the whole damn thing, while I was wide awake listening to the McDonald’s DoorDash drop at 3 a.m. - the one they jumped out the back window to collect. He didn’t even notice that the small blue backpack left behind by a friend - that looked like a CamelBak - clinked with a can when he plopped it on the counter the next morning.

Twisted Tea.

That Twisted Tea is now locked in our beverage fridge, where everyone can see it through the glass.

"If you come clean on where you put the window screen, I won't ask any more questions," was my response the next day. Mind you, this was Sunday, and by Wednesday, I found it in our storage room, along with the bedpost that broke off, hiding under his bed.

My next find was the receipt from Safeway. A receipt tells a lot of things. Arizona Hard Juice Cocktails and Twisted Tea, sure, but the time and date stamp were also a dead giveaway. 

Today I texted my 20-year-old son to ask for the last four digits of his Discover card. Figures, they didn't match up, but resilience is my middle name. He's lucky he and his fake i.d. left for college. 

Receipts also have reference numbers and register numbers and... 

Bet you'd love to know how this story ends. Truth is, I will never divulge my sources and methods, though I was able to retrieve the details needed from a reliable source with close access. Enough details to close the case.

As parents, we need kids to push boundaries and get caught when the consequences are small. Another opportunity to remind them of the "X" plan: text an X and we'll pick you up, no questions asked. 

Having lost a cousin to drinking and driving when I was in high school, I can't imagine anything worse as a parent. His open-casket funeral is forever etched in my brain. I was no angel in high school or college, but the stakes feel higher now - stronger drinks, more potent drugs. And fentanyl kills.

"Drug test me," my teen shot back when we sat down last night to talk about long-term brain effects, legal consequences, and how getting caught could blow up college recruitment.

“Yes, we reserve the right to. And it’s a great deterrent you can use with your friends - tell them about your CIA mom,” I said, fully aware that too much time had passed for accurate results. We did agree on one thing: for now, sleepovers only at our house. Guess I’ll finally sleep in three years - when he leaves for college.

Every chance to share statistics and empathy about peer pressure is a chance to connect safety with our teens, and a reminder not to get lazy, even with teen number four.

“Mom, did you know the kids in Portland think you bugged our basement?” my son asked last night.

I just smiled, nodded, and said, “The legend lives.”

Operation Buzzkill is complete - for now. We secured valuable intel on the high school scene, and our son has requested permission to host an asset meet-up this Sunday. The complication? We are not classified as “cool parents,” providing only pizza, snacks, and soda at underage gatherings. Still, we've given him reason to "sell" his parental alibi to his friends. 

My final teen keeps me mission-ready - ears pricked, instincts sharpened, always alert to basement activity after curfew. As seasoned operatives, we know our limits. And frankly, that’s why we stopped at four.