Sitting out on the back porch, my two young kids snug in their beds, I am midway through my weekly long-distance phone date with one of my dearest friends, Carole. We met before children, in that ten-or-so-year window between adolescence and responsible adulthood. We like to have a drink and a cigarette on our respective sides of the line. It makes us feel naughty and adds to the thrill of catching up. “No, you’re right: she’s horrible. You have nothing to feel guilty about. We’ve all been through a bad ‘reply-all’ situation.”
All of a sudden, with a crack, the back door sails open, and a slight four-foot figure stands in silhouette in the doorframe, hands on hips. “What are you doing out here,” my six-year-old son demands, wide-eyed. He achieves a tone of panicked disgust, the effect of which I know my parents were shooting for when I was in trouble as a kid but never quite managed. Oh, God. I am SO busted. Carole’s in my ear, confirming this. “You are so busted! Shit! Shit! Is he standing right there? Did he see you do it?”
She has known him all his life, and has often remarked on his fine mind and the fact that you can’t get anything past the guy. He is one of those kids who remembers what he had for lunch on a specific day when he was two. He is more insightful than his parents combined. She therefore appreciates how screwed I am.
“Huh?” I ask him.
“Why is there smoke out here,” he hisses.
What do I say? What can I say?
“Carole, I…”
“Oh, I know, you have to go…eeek! Good luck!”
I hang up and turn to him.
“Mom.” He is waiting for an answer.
Though I only smoke occasionally now and think of it as an indulgence, I have great shame about it with anyone who doesn’t smoke. And I’d be more than mortified if my kids, who think smoking is bad, bad, bad, ever knew about my flirtation with it.
