Until The Cows Come Home

It seemed that my seventeen year old son was constantly testing my unconditional love for him. Whether it be a call to the principal’s office (the principal was my boss, mind you), or something he clearly did without thinking first, what sticks in my mind is the fact that he literally begged me to allow him to stay out later than his set curfew of midnight. It seemed that most kids in his class had no curfew at all. Unbelievable. Too bad. I told him time and time again – there is nothing someone your age can do between midnight and 2:00 a.m. but get into trouble. He still complained, and tried in every way to twist my arm. As a compromise, and after calling several of his friend’s parents to survey them, I did extend his curfew by an hour. This brought him home while I was usually up anyway with his baby sister at her 1:00 a.m. feeding, which in the long run, worked out well to my advantage.

Our middle child, age 15 at the time, soon found himself in the possession of his learner’s permit. In a short while I would have two teenage boys on the road. Eewww. This time around, I lectured about the dangers of being called to the principal’s office. I forewarned him of his mother’s wrath him by telling him that he had better never behave in a way that would warrant my having to type a letter to myself from the principal. This seemed to work. In fact, I eventually ended up telling him, “it’s Friday night, please go out with your friends.”

A year later, out of the blue, my husband bought a herd of dairy cows. Not for the love of dairy cows, mind you - but I think it was to give our boys a reason to go to bed early at night – and not stay out until the cows come home.