What a winky.

Last week I was an outlier in a conversation about kids and what they were like when they were younger, versus the monsters they are as teens. It was agreed that they were not indeed monsters, but the knowing parental wink that closed the topic was proof enough that we all know the truth.

One of the parents told a story and used the word “bathing suit area” to talk about body changes in her kids. Kids, meaning her teen children. What?

I am known for many things. My love of birds, my deep distrust of clowns, and my collection of clown figurines, because if you can trap their souls in a doll they can never hurt you. I am also pretty sure I am known for my candor. I love a good honest moment between people. I believe that the bathing suit area parent had just not chosen a good plan for child-rearing, thus her odd direction in wording.

When I was young and knee-deep in children, I had to start making a game plan for what my style of parenting was going to look like. Choosing this is a little like choosing a decorating theme for your house that is supposed to last forever. Once you have chosen a theme, unlike that avocado green fridge or oak cabinets, you cannot just leave it curbside and get a new one.  Once you are a sweet earth mother who uses her inside voice all the time, it is difficult to change into a shouty ogre.  Unless of course you have been pushed into temporary ogreism by deciding that today is the day you let your toddler dress on their own when you have to leave the house in 15 minutes.  That’s all on you then.

The inability to change parenting themes midstream is also based in the idea that children need to listen to and respect you.  If your agenda is all over the map, they will never know which version they are supposed to listen to.  Are my shoes OK on the couch but not on the dining room table? I can eat in the car, but cannot open the bag of crickets for my iguana in your bedroom?  They will see you for the hot mess you are and act accordingly if you don’t have a theme and a solid plan.  

The right parenting theme is the only time other than children’s birthday parties and your second wedding when the right theme will be so vital.  Interestingly, wasp nest piñata is apparently the wrong theme for both of those occasions, only because I didn’t explain it properly and had not taken the time to print up appropriate waivers.

My choice of theme was open and honest.  There is an assumption that all parents will be honest, but when faced with questions about various magical pick up and delivery beings coming in and out of your house to collect teeth or leave chocolate, most parents cannot claim full transperancy.  I however have never lied to my children about those things.  As long as they didn’t ask, I played along.  When they questioned the legitimacy of any of it I was more than happy to come clean, quite frankly relieved to not have to carry on the pretense for another day. A fat man in a suit breaking into your home.  Come on. That could only sound plausible if you assume the man in question worked for the bank or had a camera crew from a home makeover show with him.  The tooth fairy reveal mostly just cleared up a lot of guilt on my part for having to go through their piggy banks for money because I couldn’t break a twenty.

My honesty is also more of a nod to a lifelong curiosity I have for everything.  I will lose hours to thinking about why a group of crows is referred to as a murder, while a group of lions is a pride.  I’m not an expert on this subject, but the chances of you being murdered by lions has got to be at least 75% higher than being murdered by crows. Don’t get me wrong, crows are total sociopaths who will swoop down and steal food from a baby, but a lion will eat the baby and look for a sibbling.


My parents nurtured this curiosity when I was young by giving me encyclopedic, fact filled books and inscribe them with uplifting, beautiful sentiments like “for our daughter who just needs to know!”  Those sentiments could have been replaced in my later teen years with “For the un-cool girl who stays home and reads” or “For our young lady we can only assume will be single for some time”.  Those dedications would have been accurate as well.  

So this pairing of curiosity and parenting resulted in my being open and truthful about most everything, but you know there will be exceptions.  What I ate for lunch while they were at school and if I have candy stashed in the house.  I will not be honest about that for reasons of national security.  If we told every child about every food stash and solo ice cream experience we had, there would be anarchy in the streets.  Children would riot, families would crumble, and the fabric of society would be torn into wet-nap sized shreds.  I lie because I’m patriotic and love my country.  

Even with this flag-waiving act of snack hoarding, there are also a few things I absolutely refuse to lie about.  I will be honest to an oftentimes-uncomfortable extent regarding my current mood, if I’m hungry, and human anatomy.  Never one to smile and say I love talking with my husband’s ex-wife or pass on a tray of appetizers, I have also never been one to use the cute made up names parents think they are using to protect their kids from their own bodies.   I have never had body conversations about winkies, pee-pees, wee-wees, noodles, tooshies, hoo-hoos, or beans and weens. I simultaneously love the power words give you and reject the power we give words.  We were a house of full on Grey’s anatomy actual words for body parts. Why not?  I’ve never gone to a mechanic because my vroom vroom didn’t work. 

A proud example of this happened when my boys were 4 and 2. We were driving to their daycare in the morning and I was asking what they were excited about for the day.  My 4 year old told me he was excited about cupcakes (that’s my boy…) because they were having a goodbye party for Julie because the baby was coming out of her tummy soon.  I wrinkled my nose and looked at my son in the rearview mirror. 

“Actually, babies come out of your womb which is also called a uterus”

I then continued with 

“For a baby to get into your tummy, Julie would have had to have eaten the baby.  I don’t think Julie ate a baby…”

He laughed at the idea of that and agreed.  Julie was likely not a baby eater, and if she was she was the nicest baby eater we had ever met.

I asked both of them to lift up their shirts and show me their belly buttons.  In the name of good science I added,

“You have a belly button because that was where the cord attached you to me in my womb.  I fed you through that!”

A round of questions followed about if he could talk to me through it and what his favorite food was when he was in my womb. It was chocolate milk.  Litres and litres of chocolate milk.

When I picked the boys up after work that day I was met by one of the daycare staff who wanted to tell me about the boy’s day.  I guess the farewell party had started and the staff asked in their best game show voice if they knew what they were celebrating today. A clump of Kindergarten wisdom filled the room with random shout outs like Buzz Lightyear! Tuesday! I have to pee! Cupcakes! The childcare worker quieted the contestants and said,

“Today we are wishing Julie good luck when the baby comes out of her tummy!”

The kid who had to pee looked disappointed, but would be OK because the cupcake boy beside him was distracting him with full froth mode at the anticipation of icing.

My son, God love him, rose from his cross-legged row of vibrating youngsters, raised his finger as if to command the room’s attention and said in what I imagined to be a somewhat admonishing voice,

“Actually, the baby is in her uterus, not her tummy. She didn’t eat the baby, so it wouldn’t be in her tummy”

Knowing my son, the tone he used strongly implied the word ‘idiots’ at the end, but he was still too kind at 4.  That level of smug assholery would not be fully upon us until he turned 14.

For what I can only assume was purely for dramatic effect, he lifted up his shirt, showed the room Exhibit A, his belly button, then sat down like a pompous defense lawyer after a slam-dunk closing argument.  I rest my case, Idiots.

I am told the room was quiet for a moment while children and adults together processed this new information and re-evaluated their need to urinate.  The game show barker clapped and in her everybody-gets-a-carOprah voice announced,

“Yes!  Now who wants a cupcake?”  

And with that, the great uterus exposé dissolved into a sea of icing glazed fingers and crumpled cupcake liners.

She laughed while she told me the story and I was proud of my son for his quick, educated response to misinformation.  The educator was temporarily concerned that other children would take this non-consent form-based information home and ask questions. It might make for uncomfortable conversations. Good for them, I thought. I suppose I’m sorry that my kid was a bit of a winky in getting that started for you, but mostly I’m not.

Lol brb jk

Even though we say we don’t, we all seek at least a little bit of approval from our kids.  We want to be the cool parent (impossible) or the trendy parent (not in THAT shirt you aren’t) or the wise, approachable parent (very limited results).   With my own teens, I seem to mostly fall into the applause abyss when it comes to keeping on top of technology.  I’m not cool, far from trendy, and only wise in the ways of consistently choosing the slowest line at the store and never properly dressing for the weather.  Technology is my only hope to remain relevant in my children’s eyes.  My frail, aging self esteem insists on it.

My tech gap is around language.  I’m a fan of words. REAL words.  Not the ones that keep sneaking into Webster’s Word of The Year like canarding* or labradorescent* which are however both spectacular words that I would encourage you to use in day to day conversation. The language I am falling short on is abbreviations used in text.

I laughed in condescension at my older brother a while ago when he was struggling with lol.  He had no idea what it meant, so I judged him, laughed at his ignorance, and explained it to him like he was 5.  He’s my older brother…he was an ass to me on many occasions when we were young, so I feel no shame in my treatment of him.  It seems however that karma had other plans for me.  Half of the texts I get from my boys are staccato bursts of letters and emojis, telling me what time they’ll be home or how their science test went.

brb ?h8r??lol jk?

Can’t talk now, but I didn’t do well on my science test because the teacher sucks, just kidding I did great.

Or maybe he’s on a bus that can’t go less than 100 or it explodes.  Or he’s finally figured out how to make a bong out of an apple.  It could be anything really.

The part that is the most difficult to manage is that their speech is affected by this now too.  They speak in memes, which for those of you over 30 means they speak in catch phrases, jingles and bad motivational posters.  When we were young, a meme was a quickly drawn picture of a dick in a bathroom stall or Alfred E Newman from Mad Magazine with ‘Me, worry?’.  Now, when I bake a batch of cookies I am thanked by him yelling Damn Daniel.  If my coffee cup gets knocked off the counter and I would be RIP RIP Harambe consoled by my teen.

**This just in…I am being told that the memes mentioned above are dead memes and I am an embarrassment to the internet by quoting them and I should just go back to Facebook, because Facebook is for old people.

He’s right.  I am too old for this shit.

I am however NOT too old to recognize all the words to Don’t Stop Believin’ when I see them…

Trying to keep up with this is impossible.  I’m constantly irrelevant and subject to persistent eye rolls from my boys.  I have managed to turn it around to my advantage though.  For every meme he uses to speak to me, I counter back with an interesting, yet irrelevant snippet of actual knowledge.

A text conversation with boy when I tell him he has to mow the lawn tonight:

“Oof. G2G bro. Understandable”

To which I reply:

“A hen will lay roughly 600 eggs in their lifetime”

Our banter goes back and forth with:

“Are you drunk?”

“No.  Just using the internet to increase my knowledge base”

“Good job mom. Nailed it”

“Mow the lawn.  It increases microbial activity in the soil which makes earthworms happy and helpful”

“Mom. Stop.”

I left it at that with him, but I did tell all my friends on Facebook about it.

When I don’t hug you, it’s because you’re kind of gross.

There are four teens in this house. They all live here. They attend four different high schools.

Savour that for just a moment.

On an average day, the combined number of humans they are exposed to in school ALONE is just under 4000.  And unlike the time I made up that number regarding how many treats I took from the free candy dish at my optometrists office (My number: 2, Real number: 5) I am not making that number up.  Approximately 4000 kids A DAY have access to my kids hands and delicate mucus membranes.  Add to that, the fact that these are all gangly teens with emerging personal hygiene skills and a spongey pre-frontal cortex that tells them it’s totally cool to share a Coke with 5 of your grossest friends.

Screw you, pathogen filled Grade 7 field trip…

The number of viruses, pathogens, and plagues I am in turn being exposed to every day is at most, pandemic,  or at it’s lowest, an informative pamphlet from your doctor’s office.  Illness and the various stages of illness are on a convenient rotating cycle at all times in this house.  You are always heading-into or rolling-out of something germy, so you never really know what you have or who Patient X is in the house. In the last week alone I have experienced the following symptoms which may or may not ever turn into anything:

-Can’t stand the smell of ketchup.
-Fever with follow-up chills.
-Unable to locate keys to Gym locker.
-Inability to see reasonable points in husbands arguement regarding my skim milk purchase.
-Runny nose
-Scratchy throat
-Pants from 2 years ago no longer fit.
-Uninspired Instagram posts.

According to WebMd, I either have a parasite, tuberculosis, or am lactose intolerant.
Hey, what ever happened to lactose intolerance? I feel like it kind of got swept to the side when the peanut thing happened and never really got the exposure it so badly wanted.  Gassy kids need validation too!

What WebMd does not tell me however is that kids are all walking petrie dishes on loan from a virology lab, guarded by Paul Blart, Mall Cop.  They parade around the house unaware of the pestilence they carry in their lunch kits, disguised as fruit roll-up wrappers and yesterdays peach pit.  If I seem cold and uncaring with my kids during the school year, it’s because I literally have no idea what I am being exposed to through a hug.  My next best idea (in a sea of really good ideas) is to tend to them like radioactive isotopes and handle them through the loving touch of lead lined gloves and a 3″ thick glass barrier, or just head straight to the Silkwood showers.  It’s still a mother’s love…just in an antiseptic form.