Note to Daughter: Don’t Put Mom in the Slammer Over Whoopie Pies

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Writer Susan Dromey Heeter.


Today I muse joyfully that my 16-year-old daughter is not an attorney with the ability to toss me into the slammer, jail, prison. She does not have the degree, the juris doctorate to accomplish this task.

  When I read the line in Saturday’s Boston Globe about U.S. Attorney Eric Rosen admonishing college admissions celebrity-scandalled Felicity Huffman, I cringed.  He remarked, “What parenthood does not do, it does not make you a felon; it does not make you cheat.” 

I thought, well, my daughter might disagree, I’m sure she’d delight in finding ways to put me behind bars – if only for a couple of weeks.

She’s appalled that I now wear Vionics, shoes that offer great support, but in her mind are for the “elderly.” Sentence: three days for not being a “cool mom” wearing stilettos.  Am I cheating by wanting my feet to be comfortable? Apparently, I am. 

It’s a felony in our house to have the volume up too loud.  “It’s so loud in here!” 

Sentence:  two weeks.  “PLEASE,” she pleads, “get those headsets that allow you to listen to the TV without me hearing it all the way upstairs. Please.”

On occasion, I like to sing. Out loud. I like my voice; it’s loud, it’s clear. I feign that I am on American Idol when I sing in church.  Alas, this is horrifying and, yes, a felony in my cherub’s eyes.  Sentence: three days.

Years ago, I ate my daughter’s Pumpkin Whoopie Pie.  When I brought this up to her recently, she winced, saying, “I can’t even talk about that.”  Full disclosure, I knew exactly what I was doing when I delighted in its cream, it’s fabulousness.  I am guilty as charged. Sentence: two years maximum security. Solitary confinement. 

Finally, when I asked my daughter what else might prompt her to put me behind bars, she remarked, “Talking to me.” 

And we laughed. And then, with that twinkle in her eye, she smiled and said, “You’re weird.”

Guilty as charged. Sentence: A dozen fresh pumpkin whoopie pies delivered to her while wearing Vionics, singing too loud, the TV on full blast. 

Even felons can make amends.

Susan Dromey Heeter is a writer from Dover who recently let her hair go au natural white. Writing has been her passion since her English majoring days at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst.  Dromey Heeter has lived in The Netherlands, Alaska and currently basks in all things New England, including the frigid winters. An avid swimmer, Dromey Heeter’s great passion is to bring back body surfing as most children have no idea how to ride waves without ridiculous boogie boards.

The opinions expressed are those of the writer. takes no position on politics, but welcomes diverse opinions. email

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