Why Moms Should Never Freak Out On Their Sons OR Feeling Irie

The last time I did a genuine double take it was early in the evening as I walked into my bathroom to pee. Just to pee mind you, my world was just fine sans drama. So, there I am in all my happiness when all of a sudden I gasp. Oi! I fumble with the most basic of post-peeing procedures and think "What the heee......!"

Flashback: there was a silver thing sitting on the bathroom counter.
Yes, a silver thing. I now remember glancing at it in passing and thinking
"Oh, what a nice bong."
BONG?!!!

Wait! It can't be a (now I can't even say it). I want to rush back to the counter but my feet are somehow stuck to the tiles with some panic cement that comes from deep inside the womb that carried my child for nine months. That's right boy, I think. Nine months and you dare to bring a bong into my house? Okay, I try to remain calm and walk wobbly knee'd over to the sink.
There it is. Spout. Elongated tube. Do you see it? OMG, OMG, OMG. That's really all that's going through my mind at this point. That, and what did I do to get cast in this really bad After School Special? I close my eyes, then open them. It's still there. I move it with my one index finger, afraid I'll get residue on me and then I start picturing Homeland Security wiping my hand down with that Noxema pad they use on luggages. "Oh, Ms. Reyes, we're going to have to ask you to step aside. A female agent will pat you down. Don't worry, it's only precautionary."

I push it a little harder. It's solid, pretty heavy, and it looks like it's almost made of silver or platinum. Where did he get such an expensive bong? I need to decrease his allowance. I knew he wasn't eating that cafeteria lunch. It's all my fault, I've financed my own son's addiction!

I hold it in my hand and contemplate our futures. If I go to jail, I'll deserve it for not seeing the signs earlier. I knew that skater dude haircut I let him get was trouble, why didn't I do something sooner? I pick it up and sniff it. I look through the spout. No ashes, no leaves. No little roach stuck inside the neck. It doesn't even smell like weed. "Kid's pretty savvy", I think to myself, "and, what a clean boy too!" His bong is spotless. When they haul me off to the Guma Hustisa and arrest me for parental neglect at least I'll know I've taught my son proper hygiene and care. I will go with a full heart, wearing that orange jumpsuit and look into that KMCV camera dead on and with my head held high. I will wear my brown peep-toe pumps. Brown goes nice with orange.

After absorbing it all I turn it over and read the engraving. 11CB. Made in Checkoslovakia. They make bongs in Checkoslovakia? WAIT! Didn't Tony Jr. say something he owned was from Checkoslovakia? I dash to his room with alleged bong in hand and lo and behold! Alleged bong fits perfectly, beautifully and oh so innocently into his trombone! I blow into the mouthpiece and revel in the sounds of relief. Just so you all know, my son had a good laugh on me too!!