The kids were finally asleep, the house was quiet and Tucker was tuckered out on the sofa, furry belly in air.
“Isn’t this nice?” said my husband, Jason, putting one hand on my knee, the other reaching for the remote.
Neflix, a big buttery bowl of popcorn and chilled Chardonnay were on the agenda, but plans were about to change — fast.
“Whoooo!” screeched a voice from outside our living room window. Followed shortly by a “Oh no, he’s going to....”
Then came the sickening sound of a body hitting the pavement.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the exasperated hubs, who pressed pause on our short-lived plans to escape the responsibilities of parenthood.
“This can’t be happening. Again.”
Turns out our youthful neighbours decided to throw another big bash while mom was out of town. And this one oozed out onto the street, threatening to wake up our bambinas, taunting daddy bear to come out of his cave and growl.
He was met with a flurry of crop tops, skateboards and red solo cups — not a single “adult” in sight.
While I’m sure a handful of the party-goers were of legal age, some didn’t look a day over 15, including the intoxicated boy on a scooter.
The mom in me immediately noticed he wasn’t sporting a helmet.
Some might argue that a teenage house party is a rite of passage — one that many would turn a blind eye to. Why not just shut the window and close the blinds? After all, it wasn’t all that long ago that Jason and I were both teenagers.
But once you pop out a couple kids, it’s not as easy to drown out the fact, even with Chardonnay, that these kids were putting themselves in danger.
It’s even harder to ignore the thought that these youngsters could be our own darling daughters in the very near future. God help us.
We decided to go the “cool” route first and unleash papa bear.
“Hey guys, we just got our kids to sleep. Do you think you could all go inside and turn down the noise?” asked Jason.
His pleasantries worked for around five minutes and then the chaos resumed in full force.
The second house call was a little more curt.
“If you don’t keep it down we WILL call the police,” growled Jason.
“What did that F&! #$% say to me?” roared a tough guy from the balcony, being physically held back by friends.
The third call wasn’t to the party — it was to the cops.
Luckily for the teens, they decided to shut down the soiree soon after.
We watched as some rolled off into the blackness of night on scooters and skateboards — sans helmets. Others climbed into what I’m guessing were their parents’ mini-vans.
Once again, all was quiet, except for the nagging worries that played like a movie reel in my head starring our kids, a future Molly and Zoe.
One day, not too far down the road, I’m sure our two darling daughters will attend a house party. I can only hope that there is an “uncool” nosy neighbour or two supervising from afar. And if said person wants to call the cops, please be my guest.
One night in the drunk tank sure beats a serious injury. Or worse.
Kristyl Clark is a work-at-home-mom and founder of the family blogazine, ValleyMom.ca. She writes monthly for The Times. Follow her on Twitter @shesavalleymom.