Sooner or later, every parent finds him/herself manning their child’s confessional. Actually, it’s more of a moment wherein a child feels so self-assured in their pseudo-adulthood that it seems more like a boastful proclamation.
last night, my twenty-two year old son told how he and a few friends had violated the sanctity of an abandoned and (reputedly) haunted house, remotely located in a secluded spot near Byron. This, of course happened years ago when – had I known – I would have grounded him for the rest of his life.
His story included his proud report that a property watchman / caretaker had been guarding the house, and armed with a shotgun loaded with rock salt. This, he said, explained the blood his mother had washed out of his shirt, and the peppered wounds on his neck and back. Hmmm, sounds frighteningly similar to a story in my book, Boyhood Adventures. It makes me wonder what other experiences he’s had that I’m not privy to as yet.
Forgive me for saying so but being an empty-nester has its perks.