That's What I'm Here For

I would have never called my folks.

Don't get me wrong: I have great parents who did an excellent job of raising me and my siblings. But when we did things that we weren't supposed to do, they weren't always great at the lectures that they devised for such occasions.

Lectures do nothing.

Besides, I would never have lectured my kid about underage drinking. I wouldn't be one to talk. I did the same thing when I was a teen. I did it at an even earlier age.

There were times, when they were younger, when I told them that they would reach an age when they would want to try things with their friends, and that was okay, as long as they were in a safe place. I told them about how, when I was in my teens, my friends and I would find somebody who would be able to get us alcohol, and we would smuggle it into someone's basement, where we would crank tunes and get drunk.

We did it, often, at a friend's house where his parents kind of knew what we were up to, but wouldn't say anything. They would check on us, every so often, to make sure we were okay.

I wanted to be one of those kinds of parent.

I told my kids that if they wanted to experiment with alcohol, I didn't want them to do it in some hidden place. If they had wanted to drink with their friends, they could do it at our house. I wanted them to know that they always had a safe space with family.

The one thing that I instilled in them more than anything else, though, was that they were never to get into a car with anyone who had been drinking or taking drugs. They could call me, no matter the hour, no matter how far away they were. I would come, without judgement, without questions.

I had been young, once, too, I told them.

My oldest daughter isn't much of a drinker. She doesn't like beer, doesn't like red wine, isn't into hard stuff. Because she suffers from asthma, I've never had to worry that she would take up smoking or vaping.

She visited Amsterdam, last summer, had the chance to eat space muffins, and passed on the offer.

She's a great kid.

Last week, during reading week, her best friend returned home from university, and a bunch of her friends decided to get together and have a party at another friends house. One friend was old enough to buy alcohol, so they purchased some wine and cider.

Another friend, also of legal age, bought some weed.

And so the party began.

As the evening drew on, I texted my daughter to find out what time she was planning to be home. For me, it was a work night, and being a dad, I can't go to bed until I know either when my kids will be home or where they plan to stay for the night.

My daughter returned my text with a message that earned my full attention: she was drunk and wanted me to get her. She was at a friend's house that was just around the corner from us, was less than a five-minute walk.

My response was only four words: I'm on my way.

There were only five of them. They've all been friends for many years. A couple of them have known each other since elementary school. A couple of them shared a joint but because they knew of my daughter's asthma, they smoked it outside.

My daughter told me that she consumed half of a bottle of rosé wine and a pint of apple cider. She was dizzy but otherwise fine.

She's a chatty drunk, talking about the games she and her friends played, who drank or smoked what, asking me if she was going to be sick (I didn't know but suspected not), letting me know that she's never felt like this before, and wondering if she was going to be all right.

She was going to be fine.

I suggested to her that when we got home that she drink a big glass of water, and to have another one, with an Advil, before she went to bed. That she get a good night's rest.

The next day, I texted her from work, to see how she felt. She said that when she woke up, she drank another glass of water and made herself a full breakfast. She felt fine.

I said, "Good. Let this be the baseline for future parties. You know that you can drink this much and not feel sick, but you felt the buzz of the booze. Don't risk feeling bad."

That was as far as I went with the fatherly advice.

When I returned home, she met me at the door. I remembered the days gone by, when my return had her running to the door, squealing, "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!" This time, she didn't say a word: she just held out her arms for a warm hug.

I'm glad that my daughter knows that she can call me, no matter what. She knows that there will be no condemnation, no lectures. She knows that I will come for her, no matter the hour, no matter how far away.

That's what I'm here for.