You do not have my permission to serve my (waaaay) under-age kid alcohol at your house. Not for a graduation party, not for a birthday party, not for an end-of-the-school-year party. Never, nada, nyet, oh-nay*. No drinkie my kid.

And certainly not because you think it it is better that they drink at your house, “under supervision,” than somewhere else. I would prefer if I made it hard on my kids to hurt themselves. Make it easy on your own kid, if you want. Leave mine to his own devices.

I will walk in your house and meet you. I will ask you if you allow drinking. Don’t save my kid from me.

I am not judging you. My parenting motto is “any port in a storm.” You choose the port that your family is comfortable with, and I will choose my family’s port. That’s my job. Did you know that my niece’s best friend’s mom let her daughter’s boyfriend sleep at their house? She thought is was sweet that the 15 and 17 year olds slept in the same room. Guess what happened? The daughter got pregnant. I am not comfortable with this port action, for example.

Maybe you’re the same parent who was amazed that I didn’t give my kids twinkies and ho-hos, and cheezie-doodles in their kindergarten lunch. I will tell you now what I told you then.

YOU ARE THE PARENT.

*that last one is pig-Latin