Scotchy Scotch Scotch

I’m starting a support group for parents of 13-y-o girls. I’m calling it Scotchy Scotch Scotch.

I could potentially be persuaded to include those with 13-y-o boys, but I raised one already so I know that they tend to stay in their rooms for hours. Peace and quite. Steve said not to ask why.

photo of mom drinking scotch

Anyway, here’s how a Scotchy Scotch Scotch meeting will go.

Upon arrival, each person will be scrutinized for the telltale signs of having a newly minted teenage girl. That includes:

  • utter confusion (Weren’t we just playing Littlest Pet Shop, like, yesterday?)
  • a wounded look in the eyes (She doesn’t really hate me, does she?)
  • old people clothes (‘Cause the teen swiped all your good stuff)

Those that pass inspection will be handed a tumbler of scotch and shown to a quiet corner.

That’s why there’s scrutiny. We don’t want any parents of toddlers showing up, thinking they’re having a bad day and deserve some scotch. They have no frickin idea.

While you still have the power to impose a time-out, you get no scotch.

Until you have removed a bedroom door from it’s hinges so it can’t be slammed again for 24 hours, you get no scotch.

As long as you can set online parental controls and not have them bypassed, you get no scotch.

Not too long ago my daughter was reading Junie B and singing along to High School Musical. Now…well. Let’s just say I’ve already had to explain that I will never sign a waiver for body piercings or tattoos. Several times.

Ah, scotch. You will be my faithful friend for the next five years.

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