Consequences

Teenaged son is miffed. To put it mildly.

Teenaged son does not  understand why, if the school has already inflicted a punishment (a draconian punishment, he would say, if he knew the word "draconian," that is, which I doubt as it does not surface very often on reality tv--ok, yes, I'm miffed too, to put it mildly, and as a result inclined to be incredibly bitchy and judgmental and downright snarky) for his transgression, we should then feel it necessary to reinforce the punishment at home.

"What's the point," he says. "You're not teaching me anything."

"Consequences, Hugh," I say. "You do stuff. You set things in motion. There are consequences."

"That's stupid," he says. "I've already learned what I need to know. There's no point."

Ah, darlin'. If only it were that simple: You fuck up; you learn; you move on; no consequences.

Sadly, it doesn't work that way. Just ask Shakespeare. Or the captain of the Exxon Valdez. Or the drunk drivers who wake up on Sunday morning to discover corpses in their rearview mirror. Or all those boys, all those girls, who suddenly find themselves facing parenthood. Things happen, my love. Things that last. Things that change everything.Things that matter.