MEGAN NICOL REED
On teenage drinking
Over hills, along country roads. Round and round we wound. Snaking up. Zigzagging down. Spearmint thickshakes sloshing in our bellies. The smallest passenger groaned. She held her sides and her gills were green and her chorus was pitiful: I feel sick, when will we get there, feel sick, get there ... The two teenagers in the back ignored her. After ignoring me all week they had suddenly decided I might be vaguely interesting. What’s the most embarrassing thing you ever did? Did you used to sneak out? How old were you the first time you got drunk? I negotiated blind corners and answered their probing as honestly, as rivetingly, as possible. They sighed. It sounds so cool, they said, in the old days. It’s so boring now. You were so lucky. We have so many rules.
Do they, I wondered? Possibly. My son will be 15 this year. At 15 I was nightclubbing. Hiding out in toilet cubicles when the police turned up. He won’t be. He’d never get past the bouncers. And even if he could there’s no way I’d let him. Or would I? Even though I feel sure it was only last week I was pureeing kumara to feed him with a teeny tiny spoon, only yesterday we were both weeping fat tears over his lost blankie, next year my baby boy will be officially allowed to drive, have sex, get married, leave home. As a parent it is important to have standards, intentions, but it is just as crucial to be prepared to constantly revisit them in order to keep up with, and sometimes even preempt, your child’s next stage. Boundaries are crucial, however be too rigid, too rule-fixated and you’re on a hiding to nothing.
Alcohol has landed on our front step this summer, lurking like a stray cat you don’t want to encourage too much, lest it gets the wrong idea and decides to hang about. I did not have any hard and fast position on how I would parent when it came to drinking other than I hoped to stave it off as long as possible. These holidays I have watched as my son has enjoyed the odd zero per cent beer and I have squirmed, wondering if it is tantamount to a gateway drug. My husband, who was a very early starter on all things wild, merely marvels at how innocent our son and his friends are in comparison; that the fact they don’t really appear to be up to anything much yet suggests some kind of achievement on our part, that from here on in we should just be grateful we’ve got this far, relatively unscathed. But I’m not convinced, especially when the bar
These holidays I have watched as my son has enjoyed the odd zero per cent beer and I have squirmed, wondering if it is tantamount to a gateway drug.
by which he is measuring is set so low, that this is a particularly useful stance. I know what the studies show about the developing adolescent brain, about the damage wrought on the frontal lobe by booze. And I have friends who have staunch plans for total prohibition when it comes to their kids and drinking. What, though, if you have a child who is genuinely curious, who is by their very nature a party animal? Without wishing to be an enabler, I have always thought if we were honest about both the dangers and the pleasures of alcohol, if we were strict and yet relaxed enough that at times of celebration we have brought out a bottle of sparkling grape juice alongside the real stuff and our children have joked about the “kids’ champagne”, that this would provide a strong base, be a robust starting point. I guess only time will tell.
FOLLOWING ON
Feeling responsible for the behaviour of loved ones, I wrote, somewhat marred my summer holiday. One reader related: “I walked in the sun this morning with my sister, who I love dearly. In the end a nagging anxiety ruined the experience as she shared familiar stories of dating debacles and men who are constantly not living up to her unreasonable and impossible expectations. The fact she hasn’t listened to my 20 years of advice, the fact she is not as kind as me, the fact she is such a harsh critic of men and people in general, the fact she is alone is still my problem to solve ... Her burden I end up making my own and the walk becomes unpleasant, meanwhile post-walk she skips off happily to an appointment and I spend the next two hours trying to unravel emotions and return to some sort of settled ‘normal’.”