“I’m a real person”–a 21st Birthday memory

I think the idea of family has taken on a new identity during the pandemic. Maybe I should clarify a bit before moving on; what I meant to say is I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time reflecting on family because we spend more time together as a result of quarantining and trying to figure what we can and can’t do. In addition, my two adult children have expressed their desire to move out of the house, but they have been hampered by low wage jobs with minimal hours, lack of affordable housing, and pandemic restrictions which has restricted their ability to spread their wings. Many of the activities my wife and I experienced in our college years and early twenties away from our parents watchful eyes has not happened with our adult children. They have had to navigate trying to experience life through the optics of their current circumstances at home. As we approached our eldest daughter’s 21st birthday, she asked to have a birthday party at our house with her friends. During the pandemic, we had allowed several such “parties” to occur and they quickly turned into living nightmares. Teenagers and young adults were unable to control themselves and within hours, the social events devolved into every parents’ nightmare. Before I had a chance to say “No”, my wife reminded me of my 21st birthday party by showing me photographs of a person resembling myself lying on the bathroom floor with shaving cream all over my face (oh how I miss those college years). To put this in context, I was a Junior in college, living on my own approximately two and half hours from my parents, and the party was at my apartment. Based on prior experiences and trying to understand the limitations my daughter was facing, we agreed she could have a small group over at 12:00AM to mark her turning twenty-one.

The night finally arrived. I was lying in bed around 11:30PM and heard the “small” group enter the house via the front door. My initial estimate was about eight people were in attendance (seven girls and my daughter’s boyfriend) which I felt was manageable if no more persons were to come. At the stroke of midnight the party started to accelerate fueled by a myriad of drinking games, and my daughter’s boyfriend brought out a four-foot Mickey Mouse piñata filled with small bottles of hard alcohol. My daughter called for me to take a shot at 12:00PM and I obliged. After the communal shot, she walked outside to the backyard and asked for the piñata to be strung up from the overhead roof beam. Initially, I was skeptical about the idea, but I let the moment evolve without exerting too much parental oversight/influence. The piñata swung in the light breeze, hovering above the ground like a puppet without a master. My daughter swung the metal bat in a blur of movement destroying the cardboard object in a matter of minutes. Laughter reverberated throughout the quiet neighborhood as the newly minted adults eagerly gathered the tiny alcohol bottles.

The commotion quickly died down now that the piñata lay in tatters. I walked back to my bedroom feeling exhausted and ready for a good night sleep. By now, my 21 year old daughter was inebriated and kept shouting, “I’m a real person”. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself and try to embrace the moment knowing full well my parents were not privy to my 21st birthday awakening. Before I knew it, I was lost in the wilderness of my dreamscape with not a care in the world.

Shortly thereafter, I was awakened abruptly by my children urging me to quickly come to the front door. I opened my sleep encrusted eyes, stumbled to the front door, and saw three police officers standing on my front door step. I immediately recognized them because they were my friends from when I had worked at the local police department. Expecting some sort of mini-reunion, I tried to engage in amicable small-talk, but they were not there for pleasantries. They told me they were in the area patrolling when they heard gunshots emanating from my house. “But I don’t own any guns” I told them. They were unconvinced. I gathered my thoughts and realized my daughter’s repeated hits on the piñata had sounded like gunfire in our quiet community. I relayed the story to my ex-coworkers at which point one of them was still skeptical. Exasperated, tired, and confused they weren’t believing me, I finally invited them inside, but they declined. After several more minutes of small talk, they finally seemed to relax and center on the idea I was telling the truth.

I walked back to my bedroom a little shaken by the events that had transpired, but thankful I had the opportunity to participate in a memorable moment with my newly minted “real person” 21 year old daughter.