Yesterday was the last day of school for Ally. Sophomore year is AP history and we’re gearing up for the acutely important junior year, featuring a tour of campuses throughout the stratosphere, endless SAT prep, and general pre-college mayhem, stress, and mental institution-worthy insanity. Ally chose to celebrate by going to an Avicii concert with about half of BHS. They chose USA themed apparel (because, I don’t know why), and made four plans for rides home in case any one of them failed. And in a red dress, high top cons, and a fanny pack (NEWS FLASH, THEY’RE BACK IN) she was off.
If you’re a parent of a younger kid, you are probably wondering how I can so cavalierly allow my daughter to head to TD Garden in downtown Boston, to see a band, and possibly get her hydration from something stronger than a Poland Spring. Well, here’s the thing: when you have an almost 17 year old, you have to let go a little. It’s just part of the imaginary rule book you get when you sign on to have a teenager. It grows on you, this letting go, and it doesn’t often come without concern, a panic-y feeling of understanding how crazy folk lock kids in closets, and a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach for the entire length of time your child is not in your house, but if you know your kid,(and btw, we had a comprehensive talk about safety before she left) which I feel like I do, you have to let go, and as they say in AA, let God. Which if you’re not religious, which I am not formally, really translates to, let go, and fucking hope that you’ve taught your kid enough to drink responsibly.
Now, Peter might fall asleep on the couch, but he always waits up for the kids. Miss Beauty Rest, here is out like a light around 10 ish. Maybe it’s because I know he stays up, or maybe it’s because I’m exhausted by then, or maybe it’s because I really know I can’t do anything and worry causes wrinkles, but I go to sleep. And last night, while Peter and I were catching up on Orphan Black, cursing Jake for not having installed the downstairs air conditioner (no we don’t have central air, and don’t remind me, because i want to sue the universe for this. Me and my love for old houses–pffft) and sweating like marathon runners, we both fell asleep on the couch–a hot mess. I declared my trip up the stairs to the air conditioned bedroom, and very unlike Peter, he followed and fell into a heap of sleep within seconds. All of which is to say that we both were sleeping like babies by 9 ‘O clock. I did, however, hear Ally come in, somewhere in there, her red dress swirling in the hallway, so I knew she was home.
This morning I woke up to several Facebook messages wondering if Ally was alright, telling me about the “headlines.” I ran to her room and woke her up, at 6:30, thank you, and she mumbled something about a bunch of people being dehydrated, drunk and doing drugs, but she was just fine. “That’s Avicii,” she said. When I inquired about whether it was fun, she yelled, “SO FUN,” and fell back to sleep. I ran to the computer and read the stories.
I am retroactively freaked out. All the freak I didn’t feel last night because I was sleeping, I am feeling now. But better retroactively freaked, right? Grateful Ally and her friends didn’t end up in a hospital last night. That would really look bad on a college application (although it could make a good college essay topic, hmmmmmm–crap, did I really just think of that–it’s junior year alright).