Collision

My 12 year old daughter was looking at my phone the other day. She started to giggle, or snicker, or snigger … or whatever the hell term these tween girls use now-a-days. I asked her what was so funny and she said my battery life was at 69%.

Her: Ya know. Sixty … nine …

I gave her a deer in the headlights look.

Me: Um, no. I don’t know. (as sheer panic engulfed me and I started profusely sweating like Ted Striker in Airplane!)

Her: Ya know … collision (she rolls this word off her tongue real slow, like I’m an idiot)

So, wait. I guess I have to go back and explain “collision”.

Munch starting asking questions about a year ago. You know – THOSE questions. Birds and Bees questions that, I’ll be honest, I don’t know any mother that doesn’t shudder at the thought of answering. But, in the spirit of my own mother, I wanted to be completely honest with her and put it out there as truthfully as I could – and god knows, my mother put it out there. That being said, I didn’t want to freak her out either. Which is ALSO what my mother accomplished with her one single line “and it feels really, really good”. Seriously, 38 years old and I’m still not over it. In fact, I just threw up a little in my mouth.

So I started out slow and … well … vague. But apparently I was too vague, because she really started to believe that if a man and a woman merely bumped into one another or “collided”, they would be “doing the orangoutang”. And out of that was born the term “collision”.

Let me tell ya – that’s good parenting right there.

After several other botched attempts (and by “botched” I mean her running away – and on one occasion, me – screaming “ewwwwwww”), she did get a better understanding. Questions like, “but you have to be naked, right?” garnered responses from me, though, that I’m not particularly proud of. “Um, well, not necessarily. Just your … um … well … never mind”

So anyway, back to my story …

I could find myself, strangely, on the verge of EXPLAINING 69 to her when I stared into her eyes and realized …

I DON’T WANT HER TO GROW UP! (along with, what kind of IDIOT would explain the EXACT definition of 69 to a 12 year old???)

I don’t want her to know what 69 is, or what the orangoutang is (by the way, thank god for autocorrect), or even what SPECIES the orangoutang is. And she better not DO it. Ever. Or anytime soon. Just to give me grand babies. That’s it. Actually, she can adopt.

And with her, I only get to do this once. Set her up, prepare her, give her the confidence and love that she needs to not do anything stupid. It’s a whole lot of insane pressure that wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold, cold sweat. The only thing that makes me feel better is that the Hubby is waking up in a cold sweat as well – for the exact same reasons.

So after much sputtering and muttering and fluttering, I (as any smart mother does) changed the subject.

“Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue”

TedStryker

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