Mom’s cover blown staking out party Are We There Yet? Lori Clinch It was not long ago that our teenage son expressed a desire to host a gathering in our back garage for a group of his peers. While I felt the color drain from my cheeks, my husband smiled, nodded and simply said, “Sounds fun.” I’m sure he was thinking of children playing a rousing game of Monopoly and with an ice-cold glass of Coca-Cola. While I, on the other hand, had visions of “Animal House” running through my head. A teenage party not only takes guts for parents to host, it takes forethought, concise planning and enough common sense to know better. I consulted our Handbook for Concise Parenting. Then I called my parents, friends and 1-800-dial-a-prayer. I sat our son down and outlined my expectations with great detail. “There’ll be no signs of affection,” I said firmly. “No one gets to go knocking on the neighbor’s doors, there’ll be no explosives of any kind, and under no circumstances is anyone allowed to play hide-and-go-seek.” “What’s wrong with kids playing hide-and-go-seek?” “I’m not sure,” I replied after a moment’s reflection, “but Mary Mimford says it’s a bad idea.” “Mary Mimford hasn’t had a good time in all of her 48 years. She kills fun wherever she goes. Word on the street is that they once banned her from Disney Land for bumming out Mickey. The woman is like the Gestapo.” I took Mary’s advice and placed a plethora of educational magazines about. I rented videos from the Discovery Channel and dispersed enough religious décor to keep the little devils on the right track. Then, with all of the ignorance and optimism that a parent such as myself could muster, I held my head up, gave myself a proverbial high five, and went straight to the kitchen for a stiff cup of coffee. I let 15 minutes pass before I decided it was time to check the party. “You’re not going to embarrass him, are you?” My husband asked as I pulled on fatigues and a ski mask. “He’ll never know I’m there.” “But you look as if you’re preparing to run through the thickets.” “Care to join me?” “No, thanks,” he replied. “A new episode of Engineering Marvels is coming on and I don’t want to miss it.” I gave him a brief lecture titled “He’s Your Son, Too”; then I slipped out the back door as quiet as possible. I crept across the yard slowly and took extra caution to peek around each tree before I tiptoed to the next. I crawled through the grass, slithered along the walk and shimmied up to the window. I was just about to look inside when the back screen door shut with a bang. Bright lights went on all over the yard “What the heck are you doing?” I whispered loudly as I spotted my husband on the patio. “Well,” he shouted as if he were hoping his voice would reach me across the Great Divide. “I thought we were going out to check on the kids.” “Why, in the name of all that is intelligent, would you turn on the big lights?” “Well, I can’t just go prancing about in the dark! You don’t want me to break my neck, do you?” “You can’t just turn on the flood lights and sound the sirens,” I said with despair. “They’ll know we’re coming.” DUH! As far as I was concerned, he might as well have hired a marching band. Phoned in the Coast Guard and obtained a blow horn to loudly announce, “MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE! A PARENT IS APPROACHING THE PREMISES. STASH ALL ILLEGAL ITEMS, CEASE ALL IMMORAL ACTIVITIES and GOVERN YOURSELVES ACCORDINGLY. REPEAT A PARENT IS APPROACHING THE PREMISES.” “If you announce you’re coming, all you’re going to catch them doing is holding hands as they pray the rosary.” The next time we host a teenage assemblage, I’m going to be better prepared. Not only will I don my fatigues and consult my handbooks, but I’m going to reject my husband’s assistance and call in Mary Mimford. And there’s not a jury in the world that would convict me. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.