I'm a mean mom

What timing. My friend Jane last week e-mailed me an essay on "Mean Moms." It was a piece done in the first person, explaining that yes, I'm a mean mom because I wanted to know who you were going out with, where you would be, made you clean your room, do your homework, and said ''No'' when you swore that "everybody else was allowed," etc.
I was a Mean Mom this weekend. Our recently-turned-15-year-old first asked to go to an "all ages show" at a nightclub about 40 minutes away on Friday night. He pretty much knew the answer would be no, so he didn't wail too much. He just proceeded to tell me who was allowed to go. Everyone, of course. Except the kids I know.
But he also said friends of his were going to a teen club about a half hour away on Sunday night. That, I might have given in to. I would have stopped in to make sure it was only teens, checked out the area to see how comfortable I was, then visited a friend who lives nearby for a little while. But not on Memorial Day weekend. So I was mean. Late Sunday afternoon I got - for the first time - the "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," tirade. I remember that one from my own teen years. I survived. And so did he. By 9 p.m. Sunday, it was a very mild, "I'm mad at you." By Monday, it was all forgotten. But I'm printing out and saving that "Mean Moms" essay. I'll hand it to him when he goes to college.