So my absolutely beautiful teen age daughter comes to me on a Sunday to tell me she wants to go on a hike at the crack of dawn on Monday with some of her buddies from school, two other girls and three boys. She continued to inform me that said hike will last about five hours. Okay, now the average mother with a degree in law enforcement who is married to a pediatrician of Hispanic ancestry would probably pull out her address book to find a “friend” who could run a background check on all the intended hiking companions. I controlled myself primarily because I know all of the kids. All members of the Mock Trial Team and two of them graduated this last year, going off to college in the fall. So I took a deep breath and said “Okay”. Actually I coughed a lot because I have a nasty cold, then I said “okay”.
Originally the group was going to meet at the trail head at seven in the morning (maternal groan here as the teenager doesn’t have a license so guess who has to drive her). Miraculously, however, the time was changed to eight (someone likes me). When you are sick, 8 a.m. is a much nicer and civil time than 7 a.m.
Before we head out the door to the car, my teenager is cornered by her father. Did I mention that he is a Hispanic pediatrician . . . who was probably born hiking? So the list of precautions is bestowed on the daughter. She is packed up with a first aid kit that probably could stock a trauma center and enough water to last in the Sahara desert for a month. Last instructions are to send him the make, model and license plate number of the car that is left at the trail head. Excellent advice, heavy backpack.
So off we go. On the way to the trailhead I get a phone call from hubby to . . . you guessed it . . . get the make, model and license plate number of the car left at the trail head. Hmmm, do you sense a theme here?
We arrive at the trail head, fashionably late (does the current younger generation believe in “fashionably late”?). I do my interrogation; uh I mean my questioning as to whose car was “the car”. Five quizzical set of eyes look at me. I explain the overprotective set of parents, I being one of them. I also said all I wanted was a quick picture on my cell phone camera (gotta love that invention) to comply with father’s request. One of the boys points to his car for me to take a picture. I go to the back of the car to take a quick photo and lo and behold there is a bumper sticker. Not just any bumper sticker, one that says “Save the boobies*”. Flashes of the Mexican dad seeing the bumper sticker, not being amused and questioning my sanity for sending our precious daughter on a hike with these kids came to mind. I took the picture but conveniently forgot to send it to the Mexican dad.
Alas all’s well that ends well. The beautiful daughter arrives home early (apparently some of the group thought the hike was a little too long) and not in the car with the unique bumper sticker. My reputation with dad is safe – for now.
* “Save the boobies” is a sticker for breast cancer awareness.
