Ungrounded

I finally ungrounded wonder boy tonight. Technically, he's not off the hook until after his last final tomorrow. In reality, I'm not sure being grounded means anything to him. I know it doesn't mean to him what it meant for me.

Oh, sure, the no allowance part will leave you sweating when the Girl Scout cookies arrive. But when you're going on 15, banished to your room is hardly punishment at all.

That's not how I remember it, though I was also never grounded because of grades. Instead, it was always because I'd done something stupid.

I wasn't one to hang out at the house much, or my room for that matter. I owned a car -- granted, a Pinto -- before I could drive. At this age, a moped was the preferred mode of transportation, and I didn't even own a helmet. Come to think of it, that was often the source of the grounding incidents.

My first question, in response to my dad's edict, was always, "For how long?" At least I said something!

The response was always a dagger. "Until I say you're not."

Ouch!

This was followed by one to two weeks, depending on the infraction, of indentured servitude before I would finally muster up the nerve to ask to be ungrounded. It seems the answer was almost always yes, but that I never asked without having earned my release.

Alas, too often I just wound up doing something stupid again the next day or two. Being grounded won't mean much to wonder boy until he appreciates the joy of being ungrounded.