POB recounted this vignette to me after SOS was asleep. It makes me realize that while being at home is harder work, it is also a lot more fun and challenging. (The COB can take credit for this insight.)
POB picked up SOS at the bus stop after day camp. They amiably walked the few blocks to our apartment building. When the elevator came, a skinny teenage boy with acne and long hair emerged. [I never described boys like this until I was a mother of one.]
The elevator had a smell that SOS could not identify. It was, however, immediately obvious to POB. And I am not talking body odor.
“Mommy, what is that smell?” A teachable moment arrives.
“Sweetie, that is the smell of pot.”
“Pot?” No name recognition.
POB tried again. “Dope? Weed?” [Hell, this kid is growing up in New York City.]
“Huh?” [Ok, this parenting thing is getting harder.] “It smells awful.” The elevator opened to our floor.
“Sweetie, it is the smell of drugs. That boy was smoking marijuana, a type of which is commonly known as skunk weed.” [I taught POB that.]
“Eeewwwww. I was inhaling drugs?????” he asked in horror.
“Don’t worry, Sweetie, nothing bad is going to happen on that short elevator ride.”
Worry over. Moment forgotten. Back to play and carefree late afternoons after camp.
A missed teachable moment about that urban legend, “contact high,” to keep our son even farther away from smoking dope. I hope he reads this blog entry when he is 15 years old and using cheesy aftershave and chewing gum to try to cover his tracks as he squeaks in just under curfew while I am pacing in the foyer.
[Note to SOS at 15: Just remember, dude, once you thought it was disgusting. Love, E-Mom.]
