6th grader (noticing my neon green nail color): “That nail polish is…VERY green.”
Me (laughing): “Oh, yeah, I went to a party this weekend and it was an 80s theme, so I painted my nails the brightest neon color I could find.”
6th grader: “Because people wore bright nail polish in the 1800s?”
Me: “Wait what no, no– not the 1800s. The 80s.”
6th grader: “What’s the difference?”
There is a mom at the kiddie gym who is always at open play with us. She has a 4 year old boy and she constantly hovers over him like he will break at any moment.
Hovering Mom (glancing at Nora): “How old is your daughter?”
Me: “16 months.”
Hovering Mom: “She’s getting so big!”
Me: “I know! I feel like it happened overnight! This morning she grabbed the monitor camera off the wall in her room– I didn’t even realize she could reach it!”
Hovering Mom: “Oh, yeah, I learned that lesson with my daughter. You have to put the camera in a hidden place so they don’t even know it’s there.”
Me: “Oh, I didn’t know you had a daughter! I’ve never seen her here.”
Hovering Mom: “Right, that’s because she’s 16.”
Me: “Oh, wow! So…wait– she’s 16 and you have hidden cameras in her room?”
Hovering Mom: “Yes.”
Me: 
Hovering Mom: “You’ll understand when your kid is a teenager. It seems extreme but it’s necessary. You can’t trust anything anymore, especially with all the filth that’s on the internet.”
Me: “I guess…I just…I don’t know, I hope I don’t feel the need to put cameras in Nora’s room when she’s a teen.”
Hovering Mom: “Well it’s important to have as much control as possible over our kids, isn’t it?”
7th Grader: “We’re wearing the same jeans I think.”
Me: “Oh, look at that– we are! That’s cool!”
7th Grader: “For you.”
I’m tutoring a middle schooler for an important test she will take at the end of the year. She is super anxious about it, so I promise her I will have her fully prepared.
Kid: “Ok but what if you just, like, up and die before the test? THEN WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”
Me: “Ok, well. I certainly do not plan to die this year. But if I did– which I won’t– well, I suppose you could start by feeling sad about the sudden and tragic loss of your dear tutor and friend.”
Kid: “Oh– right, yes. OF COURSE. Sorry. Of course I’d feel sad.”
(silence)
Kid: “But like, AFTER that…?”
At an event this weekend at my parents’ country club (without Nora), speaking to an older man/acquaintance…
Older Man: “How old is your daughter?”
Me: “13 months.”
Older Man: “Ah, so 13 years. Enjoy it.”
Me: “No, no– she’s 13 months.”
Older Man: “Right. So you have 13 years until she hates you.”
Eric sits down with Nora, who is playing with her new favorite toy– a box of tampons….
Eric: “Hey! Did you find a new toy? You like tampons? You’ll use tampons one day, you know. Dad’s not gonna wanna hear about it. (picks one up, examines wrapper) Look, this one says ‘L’ on it…and this one says ‘R’. Huh, they make different tampons for righties and lefties? Who knew!”
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
Yeah not to detract from her genius, but she’s 13 and I look like this:
They say it’s important to discuss what kind of parents you want to be.
Being pregnant has given me a lot of time to reflect on all the stupid shit I did as a kid and to wonder if my daughter is going to be as poor a decision maker as I was.
For instance, one time in high school I smoked the world’s most unnecessarily large and potent amount of weed. I definitely could have stopped at one bong hit and been perfectly pleasantly stoned, but I guess I thought if one was fun, 8 would be REALLY fun, because everything fun is better when you overdo it by 7 times.
I was an honors student.
I have no explanation for this.
I was dropped off at home by a sober friend (I think/hope?) around midnight, and instead of going straight to bed, I chose to sit in the bright, incriminating lights of the kitchen and eat a tub of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream with a large wooden cooking spoon, straight from the tub. I must have been making absurdly loud slobbering noises and dropping the spoon one or 12 too many times, because at some point, my Dad wandered downstairs from his bedroom to see what was going on.
I didn’t even attempt to act like a normal human, I just proceeded to dip my big ass spoon in the tub o’ Breyers and stare at the kitchen TV, ice cream trickling down my chin, while Dad carried on what I think was supposed to be a conversation with me. To this day I have no idea what he said, but if he didn’t realize I was stoned out of my damn mind, well, that’s just sad for him.
To make matters worse, I was so high that I ended up vomiting multiple times in the middle of the night, and then oversleeping the next day, when I was supposed to be at my parents’ friends’ house babysitting their kids. I was a total no-show for the job, with essentially no excuse other than “I took 7 too many bong rips, by accident.” I lost out on a ton of money and so badly pissed off the family, who had been my steady source of income since middle school, that they never asked me to work for them again.
So all this is to say, for the love of god, I pray my kid makes better choices than I did.
I mean– Breyers vanilla?
Aim higher, baby girl. When you’re stoned as shit, you shove that oversized spoon into something worthwhile.
The world is your oyster.
I normally only tutor grades PreK-5, but I have one 7th grader who I’ve been with for years, and who is far too wise for her age.
Kid (watching me eat my standard pregnancy-nausea Saltines from a plastic baggie): “You’ve been snacking a lot during our sessions lately.”
Me: “Oh. Yes. I know. I’m sorry, I hope it’s not distracting. I just…I’m taking a vitamin and it makes me a little sick if I don’t eat.”
Kid (looking me up and down skeptically): “Mmmm hmmm.”
Me (closing my sweater self-consciously): “It’s true.”
Kid: “You look more tired, too. And last week you brought the wrong folder.”
Me: “It’s the vitamins. They make me tired. And forgetful. They have lots of side effects.”
Kid (rolling eyes): “Ok. Just remember– I’m 13. I know things. I watch a lot of TV.”
Me: “Ok, well, I’d appreciate if–”
Kid: “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Kid: “….that you’re smoking pot.”
Emily's Posts 