Monday, November 12, 2012

I am a mom.Therefore, I know NOTHING.

I have two teenage children. They are both walking stereotypes. My son is the handsome football/basketball player and my daughter is the super girly, hyperactive, boy-crazy cheerleader.
In short, these things equate to me, a 37 year old mother who was once a teenager so many moons ago, to knowing NOTHING in my children’s opinions.

I struggle daily with allowing my children enough room to learn to make their own decisions (good and bad) and having to step in to put them back in check and remind them that I am the adult in this house, and therefore I get the last word.

For instance, my daughter has…shall we say, blossomed…over the past year. Which means I am constantly scanning her Facebook page to make sure that her goodies are properly contained within the confines of her Aeropostale t-shirt. So, you can imagine my horror when we started looking for a semi-formal dress for her school dance and she kept pointing out strapless, teeny tiny gowns. After politely telling her a multitude of times that a strapless dress just isn’t appropriate for a 14 year old girl, I finally had to go into bitchy mom mode and break it down.

Until you are old enough to pay for anything that might come out of your vagina, I own it. The whole shootin’ barrel. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out, no one sees it, touches it or ponders invading it. Which means no dresses that run the potential for you a) bending over and risking your tiny little ass or your tiny little boobs falling out or b) running the risk of your vagina coming out ala Britney Spears style. I promise that if you decide to go all Teen Mom up in this bitch, I will retaliate by going all Mommy Dearest on your ass.

I don’t want my teenage daughter being gawked at by some pimple faced boy with a perpetual boner, just hoping she will bend over so  he can oogle at her teenage boobies as they come out of her strapless dress.

Nuh huh, ain’t gonna happen.

And as exhausting as this argument has been, I am keenly aware of the fact that this is the smallest of all the battles that are yet to come. And that exhausts me even further.

I don’t even want to think about the stains on my son’s sheets, or the two LONG showers he takes every day. I cringe every time we are watching The Voice and he repeatedly feels the need to tell me that Christina Aguilera is “hot”. Cue vomiting noises.

This chapter was definitely not in “What To Expect When You Are Expecting” and I want a fucking refund.

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