And most of all, I hope you’ve learned that if your son or daughter ever comes home past curfew and reeking of vodka, that you put their ass straight on a treadmill and crank it to intermediate and you make them run until they throw-up every last drop of every last Screwdriver. But you know this now. You’re ready. Just as you’re ready when your seven year old throws a tantrum in Wal-Mart and you know to leave him there for an hour by himself, helplessly wandering the aisles, screaming your name until at last you appear and say, “When you throw a tantrum, it makes me want to leave you.”
