My Not-So-Perfect Crime
My mom has always been the embodiment of a loving mother. She ensures I’m taken care of, cooks my favorite meals, and gives the kind of warm hugs that make everything feel okay. But what I truly appreciate is how she shares stories about her life before motherhood. These tales remind me that she’s not just my mom—she’s also a woman with a history full of trouble making, laughter, and experiences. One story, in particular, stands out. As a teenager, her older brother contributed part of his paycheck to help with household expenses. However, he often skimmed some money off the top and hid it for himself. My mom, ever the clever and mischievous sibling, would find his hiding spot and steal from his stash. Ingenious, right? What could he do—tell their mom he’d been shortchanging her? It’s these stories that make me laugh and see her in a different light.
Similarly, I’ve shared a story from my youth with my kids. It’s not the kind of tale that teaches a moral or delivers a life lesson, but it’s one that showcases the imperfect, youthful side of me.
I was about 18 or 19 years old, and my parents had gone away for the weekend. At the time, I considered myself a responsible teenager—despite what this story might suggest. Our house was the go-to hangout spot for my friends, and my mom liked it that way because she could keep an eye on who I spent my time with. That Friday night, my friends came over as usual, and we decided to do a bit of drinking. My dad had a well-stocked bar in the basement, with shelves lined with various bottles of alcohol. I figured no one would notice if we took just one bottle of rum. My plan was simple: we’d replace it the next day before my parents returned. What could go wrong?
Well, Friday night turned into an unforgettable adventure. We started drinking in the basement, then somehow ended up meeting some girls and heading downtown for a night of fun, chaos, and questionable decisions. Someone threw up, someone passed out, and someone else lost their wallet. Me? I had a great time, though I had no idea how I managed to get back home. I woke up late Saturday morning, cozy in my bed, and called my friends to plan the day: grab some food, replace the rum, and prepare for Saturday night’s mischief.
After eating, we headed to the liquor store with the empty bottle in hand, confident this would be a quick fix. But when we couldn’t find the same brand or size, I asked a store clerk for help. That’s when I hit a snag: the clerk informed me that this particular brand was only sold in the United States. I grew up in Toronto, Canada, so this revelation threw a wrench into my plan. Panic started to set in. My parents were due back the next morning, and I had no idea how to replace the bottle.
Then one of my friends, armed with the logic only he could muster, suggested, “No problem. We’ll just go to Buffalo.”
To our teenage minds, this was a flawless plan. We grabbed our passports and embarked on a three-hour road trip to the U.S. While there, we decided to make the most of it. We shopped for clothes, bought music tapes (Google that, younger readers), and picked up other random items. Eventually, we remembered our main mission: replacing the rum. I am too young to purchase Alcohol in the USA, but the driver for this adventure of is age. So I’m at the store with the empty bottle, I showed the empty bottle to the clerk. He handed me the same brand, but it had a different label and size. When I asked if he had the exact match, he said, “Sorry, kid. This is the best I can do.”
Disheartened, I muttered, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” My friend chimed in with more “teen logic”: “Your dad might not even notice. Just get it.”
Now came the challenge of crossing the border back into Canada. We’d been out of the country for less than 48 hours, so everything we bought was subject to duty taxes. To avoid extra costs, we employed classic teenage tactics: removing tags from new clothes and wearing them over our existing outfits, unwrapping tapes to mix them with our old ones, and hiding the rum bottle in the spare tire compartment.
Most of our plan worked. We got away with the clothes and music, but the border agents found the rum, so I had to pay the extra tax. Still, the bottle was replaced, and my parents never found out about the weekend’s antics. My reputation as a “good son” remained intact, and I even came out of it with some new clothes and music.
Years later, when I was a young adult, I decided to share this story with my parents. By then, I figured the statute of limitations on teenage shenanigans had passed—what could they do, ground me? As I recounted the events, I watched their expressions shift from amusement to disbelief to mild exasperation. My dad, ever practical, asked, “Was it worth it? One bottle for all that aggravation?”
I replied honestly: “Would I change the past? No. Would I do it again? Hell no.”
He then took me to the basement and pointed out the bar. “Most of these bottles,” he said, “have been opened and refilled with tea for display. You’re lucky you grabbed one of the few unopened bottles.”
And just like that, a simple act of teenage rebellion became a lesson in luck, ingenuity, and the enduring wisdom of parents.
