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Friday, June 11, 2010

I'd Be Much More Popular If I Could Stop Talking

We want to be COOL PARENTS. Not here-is-my-favorite-bong cool -- more like hipsters. Parents who dance, see the best movies, and dress in that trendy, age-appropriate spot between teenagers and people who are trapped in the nineties. (I wanted to say eighties, but those people are currently HIP. I can't WAIT to get back to giggling at their pinned jeans and big sweaters.)
This clearly will not happen through music. The best I can hope with my kids’ ipods is saying: Your favorite band is RAD. (But not actually using that word.)
So I’ve always thought that my cool would be through conversation. Knowing cool things to talk about. Like feminism. And the MAN. Throw in my naturally slang phrases like “You’re all up in my business!” and "It's all good.”
Except my oldest won’t actually let me talk.
My son has an imaginary friend. Except she’s not imaginary. She’s his best friend at preschool. I’ll call her Z.
Their greeting are full of HIGH FIVES and GET AWAY MAMAS! Their departures are Romeo and Juliet painful.
And SHE COMES OVER EVERYDAY. Except she doesn’t. She goes home after preschool and naps. E just pretends. FOR HOURS. So she's an imaginary unimaginary friend. Or an unimaginary imaginary friend.
Me: Whacha doing E?
E: MAMA! Stop talking. I’m talking to Z! {turns to empty space next to him and laughs with Z. AT ME.}
The following day, Z FINALLY goes home. It's my chance to bond with my son. Establish some COOL CRED.
Me: Do you want to play E?
E: No, I want to swing.
Me: Do you want me to push you?
E: No.
Me: Do you want to talk?
E: NO! I’M ALREADY TALKING MAMA. {turns to the large tree on his right and has long conversation involving swinging, laughter and a little rapping of Parents Just Don’t Understand}
Later that day, I am finally allowed on the swing. I don't even try to talk to him.
E: Don’t say that Mama. Stop saying SWING.
Me: You don’t like when I talk, do you?
E: No. {pause} I like when I TALK!
I’m already losing to an imaginary friend and a tree. By the time he’s a teenager, I’ll be full-on stuck in the 2000s blasting Lady Gaga in my minivan while getting passed by hover crafts.

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E on his hover craft
I am so screwed.

This post is written by Alex Iwashyna, a happily married mom of two children with a BA in Political Philosophy and a Medical Degree.  She currently spends her days as a stay-at-home mom who writing poetry and blogs.  A much better plan than hers!  She blogs at Late Enough, hangs out on Facebook and tweets @L8enough but be prepared for baby poop and liberal bias

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