Family

My Message to the Kids

I’m house sitting for a week as my parents ride a Harley half way across the country to attend the Sturgis motorcycle gathering, like some freak show rebels. I’m house sitting because I have three, 17-year old siblings (triplets no less); they’re wonderful, funny and cunning teenagers who would absolutely love to throw a party every single night for the next two weeks. Also, I was paid in wine, this room is way nicer than my entire house, and I have my own private bathroom that is as far as possible from the tub and toilet I share with my two dudemates.

I’m simply here to make sure 200 underage kids don’t puke in the daisies, and that someone can pick up whoever the first to get arrested is.

I know I’m kind of ready to be a parent, because though I only live 10 minutes away and would love to sleep in my own bed, the idea of anything happening rips my conscience apart and forces me to sleep at this house each night until Friday, when my relief comes.

I know I’m not ready to be a parent because, as I walked into “my” room with an entire bottle of wine and a plate of assorted cheeses and crackers, I realized I was setting a terrible example to the babies. My wit kicked in, I turned to the crowd of 15 young men playing poker and said, “First of all, don’t judge me. Second of all, know I’m getting paid to write right now, and write I will do for the next several hours. Go to college, and you can do this too.”

My Message:

Hello teenagers! College=paid to drink.

Actuality:

Hello teenagers! College=pay to drink.

Regardless of my accidental lie, they all opened their wide, innocent eyes and, with the faint sound of naive optimism whispered, “You make money in bed?”

I hate teenagers.

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