Adventures In Motherhood

Author’s Note: Some details have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the mother's creative craft. It had been eerily quiet for a solid two weeks. After six months of teen antics that had me hopping like a Secret Service agent, the sudden calm made me uneasy. With my teen’s busy schedule of skirting rules, asserting control, and riding hormone fluctuations that rivaled my own pre-HRT era, I knew better than to relax. In fact, it was so quiet it was literally sus. My spy antennae went on full alert, and I caught my teen yet again. The red flags were everywhere, and my husband was none the wiser, so I moved the beer key cache yet again, because motherhood calls for protective measures every time. It started on a Tuesday afternoon, when my teen asked me to transfer $20 from their checking account to their savings account, because, as a minor, they don’t have online access to their savings. Twenty dollars on a Tuesday was clue number one. Clue number two? They claimed ...

“What’s up with the Easter Bunny this year?” my 15-year-old asked, fishing a latex condom from his Easter basket. Its black wrapper read Lifestyles, vanilla , and sat between the Sour Patch Bunnies and Reese's Pieces, nestled inconspicuously in the Scooby Doo basket. Then he pulled out two more: strawberry and fantasy. Feigning surprise and a hint of embarrassment, I couldn’t help but add, “Who knew the Easter Bunny practiced safe sex? Have you seen all those rabbits hopping around?”  I took a quick sip of coffee to conceal my smirk. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counteraccusations has always been my tradecraft, former CIA operative or not.  “Where’s the Magnums?” my son asked, as he fished for more loot at the bottom of the basket.  Shock at the size of his vocabulary, not the girth of his imagination, made me up the ante.  “Guess the Easter Bunny doesn’t want you screwing like rabbits!” I said deadpan, which was more G-rated than the profanity-laced rema...

As we begin our +24 hour ‘round the clock travel back in time, and back home to Colorado - leaving our daughter in Thailand and two sons in Seoul, Korea on another flight bound for the west coast - I can’t help but reflect on our extraordinary vacation and the top things I learned not to do in Thailand, in no particular order: 😎 1) Send our 18-year-old Thai-legal drinking-age son to the pool bar for a bucket of three beers in Phuket.   What were we thinking? He came back about twenty minutes later with two beers (one for himself and one for his 20-year-old brother), both of which they were already sipping.  “Where’s the beer dad and mom planned to share?” I asked, laughing.  “I already drank it at the bar,” he replied, “while baby boy here was having his mango smoothie.” He said, pointing at his 15-year-old younger brother. Bruh. We didn’t think he needed specific instructions to bring a beer back to his parents, who paid. I knew something didn’t add up wh...

Tuangtip, a petite woman in her late 50s/early 60s, was our gracious local guide for the longboat and tuk tuk tour of Bangkok.  “No, you may not call her twin tits,” I told my youngest, acting in his typical obnoxious form with his audience of two college age brothers back in tow. “Behave or I’ll make you drink the brown water from the Chao Phraya River,” I smiled. “And dad and I would like each of you to think of a question to ask her.”  “Are we gonna meet any femme boys?” My 20-year-old asked, eyeing his brothers. “It’s lady boys,” I interrupted, “and no, you cannot call her twin tits if you ask five questions.” My youngest was relentlessly trying to bait me.  Tuangtip managed to teach us about Buddha’s unique to the day of the week you were born, Buddha blessings and Thai street food in an afternoon. After two hours on the river, we docked and hopped into a tuk tuk.  “Does anyone know why they are called tuk tuks?” Tuangtip asked.  “Because of the sound they ...