Son of a Nutcracker

Ladies' night out proved rejuvenating last week. It was long overdue, and a chance to recharge before tackling a week of solo parenting with my "united front" man out of town. The Cadillac margarita on the rocks was just what the doctor ordered after a 95-degree day, and for a while I imagined we were in Tuscany, perched on an elevated terrace overlooking a tiled courtyard. Better yet, there wasn't a child in sight.

"Son of a nutcracker!"

Jessica's outburst jolted me to 1935. It reminded me of my late father-in-law, who favored expressions like "Jiminy Christmas." I can't remember what prompted her to blurt out such an old-fashioned phrase. I only know that, in the days that followed, it made complete sense.

I'll admit I was a little spoiled last week. The following night, my husband and I headed to the new Ford Amphitheater for an O.A.R. and Gavin DeGraw concert before he caught an early-morning flight overseas for work. I wasn't the least bit worried our teenagers would throw a party or raid the beer fridge. It was safely locked, and this time I was certain the key's cache was top-secret. Besides, we were only thirty minutes away on the north side of town, and wouldn't be home late.

It wasn't until the next morning, after the airport drop, when I was pouring my second cup of coffee, that I noticed something was off. The cabinet above the refrigerator—the one where we'd moved the liquor and secured it with a zip tie—looked different.

The zip tie was gone. 

I grabbed my phone.

"Did you happen to have a margarita around eleven last night?" I asked as my husband prepared to board his connecting flight in Denver.

It seemed unlikely, but I needed confirmation. Trust, but verify. The old CIA mantra is permanently wired into my brain. Verify first. Launch operational countermeasures second.

As a seasoned parent, it wasn't my first dumpster dive. I emerged victorious—slightly perfumed with last night's BLT bacon grease—but clutching the broken zip tie like a detective holding the murder weapon.

The zip tie was never meant to be Fort Knox. It was more of a psychological symbol than an actual security system. Still, it had served its purpose. Someone had crossed the line.

The top-shelf tequila wasn't cheap, and my underage freeloaders somehow made more money in tips than I did at their age. It was time to up the ante and quietly settle the score.

"Son of a Nutcracker..."

Jessica's words echoed in my head as I slipped into character. My intuition knew exactly which son was about to get cracked, but I had to launch counterintelligence measures first. Intuition isn't evidence. 

A quick trip to Ace Hardware produced exactly what I needed: seven inches of black chain, just long enough to wrap around the cabinet handles, and a small brass padlock with a key. A combination lock never stood a chance. Teenagers have Google.

I hid the key in another top-secret location and crossed my fingers that my husband wouldn't lose it.

The classy brass padlock dangling from seven inches of black chain subtly screamed middle finger.

Or, like a mother's love in the form of a chain-link heart necklace.

I still needed to confirm the evidence and corner his older brother before the boys compared notes.

"Can you come see me for a minute?" He had just gotten home from work, covered head to toe in dirt from manual labor. One look at his exhausted face told me the conversation wouldn't last long.

I only needed to see the whites of his eyes. My internal polygraph cleared him before he answered the first question.

What kid doesn't try to break into their parents' liquor cabinet? Better to test boundaries now, while the stakes are low, I reminded myself.

After excusing the one with the alibi, I called my other son into the living room. 

"This is not a wishbone." 

The broken zip tie sat beside me. 

He'd already Snapchatted photos of the new locked-down liquor cabinet to his siblings and friends. Suddenly, my joke wasn't nearly as funny.

His face gave him away before he said a word.

I can't pretend he wasn't my prime suspect. His track record had already delayed his driver's license, though he'd been working hard to earn it back. I wanted this time to be different.

Unfortunately, the evidence—and the confession—agreed.

Case closed.

No one was more disappointed than his mother. I'd been sleeping easier for the past month, convinced that between his good behavior and my newly dialed-in HRT, we'd turned a corner. Retirement from active parenting duty suddenly seemed premature.

There hadn't been a raging house party after all. Just one teenager, a plastic cup, a few tequila shots, and lemon-juice chasers. Apparently, someone thought he was already rushing a fraternity.

He reminded me that adolescence isn't a straight line. And to think I was looking for a greater purpose outside the home. One that paid better than writing or being a stay-at-home mom, as my carpool duties finally appeared to be winding down.

Turns out that "Son of a Nutcracker" has me employed 24/7.