“Well, now we both know it,” and she giggled some more and, despite myself, I giggled, too. “Why do boys like boobies so much, Mommy?”
I opened my mouth to answer. “Honestly? I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She found that funny, too, and laughed harder...until she saw the serious look on my face.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
“Uh-oh is right, young lady.”
“You’re mad, aren’t you?”
“Says the girl who can read my mind.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you know darn well that I’m mad.”
“It was just a little wine,” she said. “And it was so good. No wonder you and Auntie love it so much!”
Uh-oh.
“Honey, wine is for adults. You know that.”
“Well, I’m thirteen. I’m a teenager. I’m in middle school. Half the kids in my school drink beer.”
“Half?”
“Well, some. And Angie Harmon’s mom lets her drink at home, on special occasions.”
I rubbed my face. I might have moaned.
“And I figured tonight was a special occasion!”
Now, I was massaging my temples.
“And it’s not like I’m out drinking with friends on some street corner.”
Now I definitely moaned.
“I drank responsibly, Mom.”
I hugged my knees and started rocking on her bed. Rocking and moaning and wishing my sweet, innocent little girl wasn’t saying words like “drinking responsibly.”
“It’s not that bad, Mom. Just a little wine. Sheesh, get over it—”
That’s when I’d had enough. I quit playing the victim and took in a lot of unnecessary air, mostly to clear my mind and to calm myself down, and said, “I will not get over it, young lady. I will get right on top of it. In fact, I will get right inside it.”
“Gross.”
“If I ever see or hear of you drinking again, you are going to be in a lot of trouble.”
“I’m a teenager—”
“You are thirteen and far too young to be drinking.”
“But Angie and almost everyone at school—”
“I don’t care about Angie and almost everyone at your school. I care about you. My daughter. Who’s far too young to handle alcohol—”