鈥淒id you ever try drugs, Mommy?鈥�
I paused as my 11-year-old daughter鈥檚 eyes flashed panic.
How I got myself into the conversation was one of those meandering paths through the forest of torturous parental explanations. It all seemed so logical, so well-intentioned. 鈥� And now stupid, stupid Mommy, what had I done?
My daughter is horrified by all notions of intoxication. If I drink an occasional glass of wine at dinner she regards me askance and asks if I鈥檓 drunk. If she hears about a kid at a given high 黄色app smoking marijuana, she declares she鈥檚 never ever going to that 黄色app. If we got to a restaurant where there are adults enjoying pints of beer with their meal, she steers me to the door, 鈥淢ommy, ew! It鈥檚 a bar.鈥�
In her mind, drinking more than a small glass of wine or beer (her parents鈥� typically abstemious ration) will lead immediately to projectile vomiting 鈥� followed by alcoholism, car wrecks and jail-time in quick succession. A puff of cigarette smoke? You鈥檙e on an express train to the nearest cancer ward. Illicit drugs? She embraces the 鈥淩eefer madness鈥� world view: one encounter will make you a lifelong addict, living on the streets, and stealing from family members.
Danger, danger
Of course, she didn鈥檛 develop these notions in a vacuum. Being older parents hell bent on staying alive for our kids, my husband and I are avidly engaged (some might say preoccupied) with health. So my kids have probably heard more about the dangers of partially hydrogenated oils, artificial coloring, cigarette smoke, drug abuse, reckless driving, and playing around the open dishwasher with its exposed knives, than many of their peers.
Thus, when my daughter overheard that a friend鈥檚 Dad had done a lot of drugs, she demanded an explanation. 鈥淚s Melanie’s Dad an addict? Did he go to jail?鈥�
Melanie鈥檚 father had what might be charitably called a colorful past. Still, I didn鈥檛 want him forever branded in my daughter鈥檚 mind as a junkie, so I felt the need to give her a little more context. 鈥淎ctually honey, a lot of adults have tried drugs,鈥� I said.
鈥淟ike that guy on the street, right?鈥�
鈥淲ell, not just him. 鈥� Other adults too. A lot of them.鈥�
And suddenly there we were, with her asking me point blank about something I wasn鈥檛 sure she really wanted to know.
This was uncharted territory. My little girl suddenly peeking into the quandaries of her teen years. Me not knowing what to say 鈥� or how honest to be.
Growing up California in the 1970s, aka experiments-R-US, I鈥檇 been a goody two-shoes. Neither drink nor drugs touched my lips. I didn’t smoke pot, tobacco, or cloves from the spice cabinet. In college I broke down: I got slammed on my 21st birthday and experimented a couple of times, far less than anyone else I know.
And the truth is …
So I told her the truth. Had I had a colorful past I might have behaved differently, but I believe in holding myself to high standards of honesty, based on the idea that if you are committed to being forthright, you will do far fewer things you regret.
Even though I consider my history moderate by the standards of the time and place, this was clearly not the answer my daughter wanted. From her wildly dilated pupils I saw that I鈥檇 shattered the comfort of her black-and-white world view.
鈥淵ou didn鈥檛 get addicted, Mom? You didn鈥檛 go to jail?鈥�
鈥淣辞.鈥�
鈥淲hat about Daddy?鈥�
Realizing the can of emotional worms I鈥檇 opened in her budding garden of a mind, I punted. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l have to ask him,鈥� I said.
When my husband walked into the room a few moments later, overhearing our conversation, he sputtered: 鈥淪he asked me that already.鈥�
He sat down with her and told about his alcohol and drug use in his youth. He explained that he too had experimented in college, how stupid it was in retrospect, and how little they knew then about the brain and the effect that drugs can have on a developing mind. But the look on her face made us wonder if she now regarded her parents as dangerously depraved, even though at this point my husband and I are about as square as they come. In fact, we were pretty square when square was a word that referred to more than a geometric shape.
鈥淟et鈥檚 put it this way,鈥� my husband said. 鈥淭he last two presidents have done more drugs than your mother and me.鈥�
Another parenting dilemma
The irony struck me 鈥� we want to raise our kids with certain absolutes. When I talked to friends about it, none of them had figured out what to do when it came to sharing the details of their own pasts. One couple I know can鈥檛 agree: one wants to be quasi-honest, the other wants to fabricate a big fat white lie. Another single mom, whose ex had a serious drug problem, committed to lying a long time ago, framing her ex鈥檚 issues in terms of alcoholism instead of drug abuse.
I turned to the experts to find out what parents should tell their kids about drugs and alcohol. There鈥檚 plenty of advice out there, but when it comes to talking about one鈥檚 own history, things get complicated: each history and child is different. Suddenly, a choice between forging an honest relationship and protecting your child against the power of suggestion stand in stark opposition.
According to , research suggests that honest conversation, even about a parent’s less-than-squeaky past, has a positive effect on kids’ choices, although there are limits to how much detail you should offer. This website is great 鈥� it even gives you talking points!
When it comes to what to tell your kids about using drugs and alcohol themselves, most neurologists advocate a聽 zero-tolerance position, stressing how dangerous and debilitating drugs and alcohol are for all developing minds (up to the age of 25!). And I鈥檓 right there with them, nodding my head.
At the same time, psychologists who work with teens in the trenches contend that your child will likely do all the things you’re afraid of, and extreme prohibitions will only guarantee rebellion.聽 I think, “Not my daughters! They will use their brains and make good decisions!” No parent wants their child to do drugs or drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes 鈥� no matter their own past, sometimes precisely because of their own past.
Oops. Too much, too soon
But the realities of the adult world, even for those we uphold as worthy of our greatest admiration, are far murkier. I decided I鈥檇 made a mistake by spilling the beans on myself without thinking through the implications, and I vowed to revisit the issue soon with a stronger, clearer message.
In the middle of the night, my daughter climbed into bed with us. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 sleep,鈥� she said. She didn鈥檛 have to explain why.
I remember being her age and the dawn of new and terrible awakenings glimmering in my consciousness in the middle of the night, when the only solution was to climb into bed with my mother. I wrapped my arms around her, silently promising that whatever else happened, I would be there for her, and that I would always be willing to talk about tough things, even when I didn鈥檛 have all the answers and the experts didn鈥檛 either.
鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 sleep either, honey,鈥� I whispered. 鈥淒o you want to talk?鈥�
鈥淣aw,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 love you, Mommy.鈥� And she dropped off to sleep.
