When it comes to my children there’s a time and place for everything, including the truth. You know that stage where the lies aren’t working quite as well as they used to? And their baby fat is melting away before your eyes, displaying this maturity that makes them almost unrecognizable?
And yet you’re still seeing cringe worthy behavior from them (and you) carried over into a time where if you don’t inform them (and yourself) to “knock that shit off,” they’ll never forgive you.
Well, I’m there and it’s time to break the news and confess the truth.
1. Just because I’m a mom doesn’t mean I’m old. I’m NOT old. I’m in my early thirties, which means I’m like a freshman in high school in the adult society. So please, stop telling everyone, including me that I’m old all the time, because it’s making me feel really old.
2. In this society, well most societies you’re not allowed to smack someone’s butt just because they have one. Smacking your mother’s butt is frowned upon. I know I usually start laughing after I frown, but I always intend to keep frowning. My point is you cannot smack your grandmother’s, your aunt’s, or your cousin’s butt. No more. It’s socially not acceptable or allowed. NO more!
3. My breasts, or “boobies” as you like to call them, have many other functions other than for you to stare at them. And no, I will not tell you what those other functions are. You can no longer sneak into my bathroom while I shower and be a creepy, peeping Tom. I will now be locking the door. I’m sorry if this means I don’t hear yours, or your brother’s blood curdling scream if something bad happens, but it’s just gotten that serious.
4. I endure your farts and your habit to do it anywhere and everywhere your heart desires, because I’m your mom. Well, mostly because I don’t know about it until I get a whiff, but also because I’m you’re mom and I’m programmed to love you anyway. But this is another socially unacceptable action that must change. You’ll never get a girlfriend this way, so I’ll probably kick myself for this once you bring your first one home. But you’ll have to start holding it when in confined, public places like the rest of us and only let it go once you’re outside, or in the car with your father.
5. Here’s a word of advice. When you tell me I’m beautiful, I believe you. So don’t mess that up. Always tell the special women in your life that they’re beautiful. See, your dad tells me I’m beautiful, but 99% of the time I’m pretty sure he’s saying it for his own selfish reasons. But when you say it, I believe you. Then I end up wanting to make another one of you, which ends up benefiting your father in the end anyway. That manipulative little f*cker. Damn he’s good. Did he put you up to this?
6. I don’t love you or your brother more than the other. I love you both equally, but I do love some of your individual qualities more than the other’s. And no that doesn’t mean that I love you more because you share many, and I mean MANY of my qualities. So please, stop telling everyone that you are my favorite. Parents don’t have favorites. They should definitely not have favorites. That’s wrong. Really, really wrong.
7. I hope you don’t have any memory of the times I’ve had tantrums worse than yours. You know, the ones where I’m screaming and crying, because the curtains I ordered were 2 inches too short, or the time your dad wanted to go bowling for a friend’s birthday instead of lay in bed and watch Sex and the City with me. I was probably pregnant or something. No, I was definitely pregnant. But I’m afraid you’ll use those memories against me in your future therapy sessions, or to your friend’s mothers when you’re upset that I won’t let you go to a party. Just know whom you’re dealing with, okay? I’ve got ammunition; it’s called a baby book. And I’m not afraid to use it.
8. When you put on my high heels and try to walk around in them, I yell at you to get out of them, because I’m afraid you’ll break them. But I’m also hoping you stay in them a few minutes longer so I can take a few photos of you to show your future girlfriends, and embarrass the hell out of you if you tell the stories about my tantrums.
9. On the occasional nights you crawl into my bed, I get no sleep. Not because you’re snoring or doing karate chops in your action packed dreams. But because I lie there, clutching you tight while smelling your hair and breathing in the scent of your skin. I secretly love those nights; yet I know they are becoming fewer and fewer, and it kills me inside. I can’t help but think of all the things I’ll lose as you continue to mature, and the ways I’ll struggle to let you go. How will I let you go? I miss you already.
But for now, I need you to stop farting in my face and smacking butts. Let’s get those things under control and then I’ll focus on mourning your inevitable avoidance of my sloppy kisses and tight hugs.
Appetite for Honesty 