Fool Me Once.....

You know the old adage, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” In my case it could be rewritten, “Fool me five times, because you know I am a fool.”

In my latest tale of woe, my youngest daughter was intent on celebrating her nineteenth birthday with a party at our house. Due to her summer birthday, this was the first year she would be home to celebrate. She has always felt that her big day was not properly recognized in the dog days of summer.

My husband and I are willing hosts and enjoy throwing parties. We have fun planning menus, cooking unusual dishes and inviting friends to share our home. It only seemed fair to give my daughter equal time and honor her walk into adulthood with a nice soiree for her new group of college friends and her old set from Scarsdale.

Ever wary, my husband warned me over and over that this civilized evening of food and fun could easily degenerate from festivity to debauchery. Determined to prove him wrong I tried to negotiate the guest list with my daughter and got repeated assurances from her that the roster was limited to trustworthy friends and “good kids.” We even went as far as to order a big box of party favors, hoping to keep the kids occupied and out of trouble. Since some of her college friends would be driving from the city, Long Island and New Jersey, she asked if a few could stay over and I agreed to that as well.

In the days before the party, the heat dome converged on us and the trips to the party story, Costco and the bakery were more difficult that we had imagined. Hoisting $500 of groceries and soda in and out of the car in 100 degree heat was taxing. Though we planned to party outside, the oppressive heat caused us to move it indoors.

After a full day of cooking and set-up, the big night arrived. Early guests were polite; introducing themselves, shaking hands and thanking us for the invitation. A second wave of guests arrived and the house started to hum. My husband retreated to the patio to cook over 30 pounds of steak, chicken and shrimp, running in and out of the house to cool down. While the meat cooked, he doused himself under the hose and by the time the food was done he looked like he had run a marathon.

Despite the effort, we were happy to see 50 kids line up and load their plates. There seemed to be ample room to sit for dinner and as everyone ate I thought for once I had proved my husband wrong. This party was going well. We moved outside to sing happy birthday, light up sparklers and revel. The evening appeared to be a success.

However, little did we know, that while we were cleaning up in the kitchen, a big crowd of local friends had arrived through the basement door. We were so busy clearing tables, tossing cups and loading the dishwasher, that we didn’t hear the roar from downstairs until it was too late.

A rowdy group of teens was downstairs honoring a longtime tradition and playing a game I can’t mention on the site on our ping-pong table. There were sounds of screaming and sloshing…. sounds we recognized from the days our older son pulled the same stunt. By the time we asked my daughter to clear the basement it was trashed. My heart sunk when I saw the puddles, a trampled, filthy, wet rug, a sticky floor, and garbage everywhere.

In that one glance my happiness evaporated. A joyful night had turned into another disappointing display of bad manners. I was surprised all over again by the guests disregard for our home, and ultimately for us. Though I can’t be sure, it appeared that the culprits were the kids from Scarsdale, not the visitors who had travelled far to get here. I don’t know what other Scarsdale parents tolerate in their own basements, but I sure hope my daughter doesn’t act the way her guests did when she is invited to their houses.

It seems to me that parents in Scarsdale are pre-occupied with underage drinking… but shouldn’t they really be worried about behavior? What has become of manners? Isn’t it time we demanded some civility from our kids?

The author wishes to remain anonymous to protect her daughter's identity.