Our sixteen-year-old, whose birthday we celebrated in New York City last month, also hosted a birthday party for his friends. A dozen teens gathered at our house after school one Friday. What would they want to do? I imagined them wishing to huddle in our kids' eyrie, the 'games room' on the top floor, far from adult eyes and younger siblings' interference. Maybe they would play loud music and dance.
Not these teens. They gathered in our living room to laugh, sing along to a guitar, and play games. After a while they departed for nearby Kensington Market, where the birthday boy had planned a scavenger hunt, with prizes for 'weirdest item you can buy for five dollars' and for 'spotting Rob Ford's face'. They regrouped at our house for the prize-giving, followed by dinner of home-made shepherd's pie. They played first charades and then sardines, a reverse form of hide-and-seek in which 'it' hides and the rest seek.
Husband and I sat, bemused, pleased, sipping tea in the kitchen, enjoying their joy and marvelling over the similarities between sixteen and six. We gathered them up for cake with candles and ice cream.
The next week, son headed to Service Ontario and obtained his driving permit. The test was easy, he reports. He has already taken me for a spin around the block.
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