Itchy Trigger Finger

This weekend, after watching a some lame arse television program (note to self: destroy all televisions within our home) my son asked me what the “little blue pill” was for.

After staring at him with my mouth gaping wide open (a look that gets his father all hot and bothered) I tried telling him it was just a Flinstones vitamin. Apparently I’m either not as good at parental misdirection as I once was or my children are growing smarter than I am since he just looked at me ...

, blinked and reminded me that children’s vitamins don’t come in blue, they come in PURPLE.

He should know since he once polished off an entire bottle in a week thinking they were candies. I’ve since bought a locking medicine cabinet to keep my little druggies safe from over dosing.

Since my little pill pusher called me on my bluff, I had to make an emergency parental decision. I could do what his father would want me to do (look him in the eye and ask if his bedroom was clean and thereby avoid the discussion entirely) or I could treat my boy like the adult he so desired.

Guess which road I chose?

“Well Frac, there is a myriad of prescription medicine that comes in blue form-”

“I know that Mom, I mean VIAGRA. Those little blue pills. What’s Viagra for?” my sweet boy interrupted me to cut to the chase.

“Oh. THOSE little blue pills. Well, um,” (I find it helpful to pause and stammer a lot when put on the spot while explaining uncomfortable subject matter), “you see, some men have to take Viagra when, ah, um. You know how when a man and a woman, um… Let’s just say Viagra increases blood flow to help a man reach um, gratification.”

How’s that for clarity?

I looked at Frac and Frac looked at me. I had the “Please go ask your Father look” pasted on my face and he had the “I can’t decide if you are full of shit or not” look pasted on his.

Then a tiny little lightbulb went off above my son’s head and the entire room was illuminated by a dazzling display of comprehension.

“OH! You mean it’s medication so a man’s penis can get hard and stand erect,” he proudly stated in a moment of elucidation.

(Who says public schools don’t teach kids anything?)

For a moment I was torn between relief for not having to refine my pathetic definition any more graphically and annoyed at having my twelve year old baby son understand that some males little soldiers didn’t like to stand at attention in a moment of sexual combat.

The moment quickly passed and I chose to go with relief, hoping the subject matter was now closed since my son had his answer. Frac, however, had other ideas.

“I know all about erections, Mom,” he waggled his little eyebrows at me.

It was right then I chose to jump off the couch and run screaming into the forest of trees behind my house to live with the wildlife who couldn’t speak about such private sexual matters with me.

Or at least, that’s what I did in my head. The reality was I sat there shell shocked with my mouth hanging wide open. (His father really missed several moments of opportunity this weekend.)

“Uh huh,” I mumbled, reaching for my water while wishing I was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Anything to numb the horror my life had swiftly become.

Note to husband: You can come home ANYTIME now dude.

“Just what do you know about erections kiddo?” I challenged him, hoping to embarrass him into silence.

“Do I really have to explain this to you Mom?” he challenged right back.

There it was. I slapped him in the face with the white glove and he picked the weapon for the duel. It was high noon on Main Street and we stood at opposite ends of a dusty road with our hands on our hip, waiting to see who could out draw the other. He had youth and speed on his side; I was the grisled veteran with more notches on my holster than a man could count.

The stakes were high and tension ran through the crowd. (The crowd being my dogs who snored softly on my lap. Oh hush. This is my story, let me tell it how I want.)

It was a staring match to see who would be the first to blink.

I blinked.

“Nope. Nu-uh. You win. I don’t want to know. Never mind. I can’t hear you. Lalalala. Is your room clean? I really think you need to go clean your room kiddo,” I begged him. The thought of learning anything about my young son I couldn’t unlearn was too much and I balked. Clucked like a yellow bellied chicken I did.

Frac snickered and muttered something about me being a big delusional mommy and then toddled off towards his room.

Just when I thought I was safe from this discussion, he turned around and asked, “Hey Mom, do we have any ink in the printer?”

“Um, I think so, why?” I stupidly asked.

“I was thinking of printing off some pictures of pretty girls to hang on my bedroom walls.”

“That’s it Frac! I’m taking the door off your bedroom! No privacy! No pretty girls! No viagra!!”

Frac laughed all the way to his bedroom while I rocked back and forth on the couch and sucked my thumb.

I used to think parenting was hard. Like an uneducated rube, I never understood the definition of hard. (Ack! Sexual pun not intended.) How I’d trade parenting teens wrapped in a layer of hormone laced puberty and curiosity for the simple challenge of trying to get a toddler to pee in the potty.

As my son thought of new and creative ways to destroy my sanity slowly and painfully in his bedroom, I sat on my couch and mentally reminisced about the good old days of parenting, when my children couldn’t talk.

Just as my blood pressure was starting to return to normal and my brain was hard at work mentally suppressing the evening’s disturbing turn of events, my daughter, Fric, emerged from her bedroom and wandered into the living room.

“Hey Mom, at what age did you start growing pubic hair?”

She never got her answer. It’s hard to talk when I one is reduced to a blubbering incoherent mess who locked myself herself in my her bathroom and pretended I she was invisible.

I don’t know what I did to piss off the Universe, but I’d like to take this moment to sincerely apologize.

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