Dear Friend Who Just Had Her First Baby:

Welcome to parenthood! It’s a bitch, but I already warned you about that one, didn’t I?

Oh, that’s right…you didn’t listen.

You refused to believe my prognostications about stocking up on coffee, wine and Valium to get through the first six weeks.

You were convinced you’d be a “natural” mom and your child would be an “angel baby.” Well, after our conversation last night discussing why your baby wouldn’t stop “fucking crying” (your words), let me be the first to say, “TOLD. YOU. SO.”

Seven weeks ago, you brushed off any suggestions or tips I so eagerly offered. You waved your hand when I shared my coping mechanisms for quieting a child with colic. I believe your eyes may have even rolled your eyes when I told you about the wonders of a swaddle blanket, white noise machine and swing.

I offered you a canteen of water before you even set foot in the desert, which you refused. Now, gasping for breath and dying of thirst, you beg me for a drop to drink.

I wasn’t sure if it would come to this. Especially when your child was two days old and you said, “He just loves to sleep! He only woke up once to eat last night!”

I began to secretly question my experience as a mother: “Did I just end up with a really crabby kid? Why isn’t her child screaming his head off like mine did for eight weeks straight?”

Then, last night. Your phone call.

Your baby finally woke out of his “newborn daze” and announced his presence to the world with two solid hours of crying.

Welcome to hell. Look around, get used to the surroundings. You’re going to be here for awhile. It’s OK though, you’ll have lots of company. It’s like a sorority. A sorority of pain.

Just because I’m nice, I’ll give you one last tip: Hit up the local liquor store and join their wine club. We earned so many points during our son’s first few months, we’re now platinum members and receive a gift certificate every month. (Which really, really helps once you move into Teething Hell.)

Sincerely,

Your Friend Who Actually Knows A Few Things

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I have a son who will be 18 on his next birthday. Aside from the cake and inevitable gifts there will be other “special benefits” bestowed upon him by the country in which we live. Some are wonderful and a few…not so much.

In the eyes of the law he will be an adult. He can vote, obtain medical care, or marry without our permission. He can buy cigarettes and, with the blessings of our Big Tobacco-dependent economy, become completely addicted, although I’m not overly worried about the smoking since all of our sons are anti-smoking zealots for the time being.

Upon entering college, his grades will belong to him. We can ask to see them and I’m pretty sure he won’t take issue with it, but our paying for college will not give us the right to see his grades first or even at all. (For the record, I wasn’t smart enough to figure that out when I was in college) He can also, unfortunately, be spirited away against his will by the government to participate and possibly die in a war he does not support. He cannot, however, buy a beer until he is 21. The hypocrisy, it’s killing me.

When I was a teenager, 18 was the legal drinking age. The family birthday gathering in recognition of my new status was eaten sans alcohol, unlike the “welcome to adulthood” celebration rites my friends experienced on their birthdays This was mainly because my parents cared very little about whether America thought I was a Big Girl or not. So it was not respect for their house rules that kept me from drinking at the time, but fear of the draconian consequences that were sure to follow that persuaded me not to flaunt my newly-minted adulthood rights and order from the bar. I waited until I left for college–29 years ago last month–before I had my first beer: a cold can of Coors wrapped in a gym sock (one step away from a bottle in a paper sack) and classily consumed in the hallway of my dorm with half a dozen other friends. Yes, I started drinking at 18 and I didn’t become an alcoholic or die or kill anyone else as a result and I give myself points for all three.

That said, I’m all for the prevention of teenage deaths–or any deaths for that matter– due to drunk driving, or bad driving in general. While we’re at it, why don’t we start cracking down on the senior citizens who think a valid driver’s license, a set of keys and a pulse give them the right to drive on the wrong side of the road and mow down innocent pedestrians? You know why? Because driving in this country is seen as a right and not a privilege. *cough* Sorry…back to my point.

I’m also a believer in upholding the law. But if we claim that the “21 or over” rules are put into place to protect the health of the country’s youngest adults, why in hell are we still selling them cigarettes? Where’s the logic in that? Does it sound to you as though we don’t discourage teen death in general but only certain kinds of death? Doesn’t this render the concept of “legal adult” a rather arbitrary one? Please tell me if I’m in error here.

If my kid is deemed mature enough to enter into legal matrimony, resourceful enough to be a hired assassin for the military or expendable enough to risk death while carrying out the whims of the reigning political party spreading democracy, and he’s considered wise enough to take a gamble with the old cancer sticks, then he ought to be able to buy a beer. That’s all I’m saying.

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