I’ll be one of the first to mention that yes, I’m a cool mom.
Yeah, I yell, but that’s totally overruled by my labret.
Uhuh, I make her go to bed so that I can eat the good snacks while watching movies where Ryan Reynolds may appear shirtless (while I’m probably pantsless), but I bake cookies with her like, weekly. Healthyish ones that I let her eat for breakfast.
I make her sit properly and not kick or screech or shout in the grocery store, but I’ve taught her that we must look at each label for dairy or wheat and if the item is tainted ‘Mama, I’m ezzz oh aile’. Yes, I taught her S.O.L. That’s fucking awesome.
I call her dood, and a punk, and babe and love, and DOOOOOOOOOD. She’s allowed to call me those back, too, but she tends to stick to mama, mameeee, mawm and hosebeast. In fact, she’s allowed to say most of anything, as long as she understands what she’s saying and I get to react to it, if it’s not nice. (ps. I don’t use the word bad. Cuz I’m that nouveau. I say not good or not nice)
Also, I have gothy hair, tattoos and I smoke. Obviously, those are extra coolness points.
So, imagine how cool I was to be pushing her down the street (in the stroller! She went in the stroller! That’s like a 75% shorter trip!), her with gluten free cereal bar and bananas in hands (she double fists. heh. Just like Mommy and Daddy used to </tears of pride>), me with smoke and a major jonse for a soy vanilla rooibos tea latte.
Did I mention that she had a toy on the snack tray ahead of her? I give you exhibit A:
In case you need to put your bifocals on, that is one horse, male, anatomically correct, and apparently not ready to mount anything excepting a toddler’s stroller snack tray.
“Mama, ma horsey is a big gi-url.”
(she’s entered the point-out-the-gender phase of two years old, wherein everything is a girl, until it’s explained that no, it’s a boy. Everyone’s a she, until identified as a boy, etc.)
Distractions of Starbucks love makes me gloss out a, “why do you think your horse is a girl, love?”
“She gots a big ‘agina.”
Hold up. Now we’re at the corner, waiting to cross. There is: an obviously gay male duo to the right, a grandmother-type figure to the left, and some student-aged people of miscellaneous genders behind us.
I look down and I see schlong. Al rescate, Cool Mom. To the rescue!
“No, baby. That’s a penis.” I guess it’s been a while since she’s seen her dad pee.
{Smirk, from the right. Pursed lips from the left. I don’t notice what the people behind us at doing, but I’m sure it involves some form of face-making, though it’s probably unrelated – people in Vancouver make a lot of faces, eh?}
“Otay. She’s a boy horsey. She don’t have a big ‘agina.”
Drag from the smoke, ponder my response.
“No, babe. He doesn’t have a big vagina. He’s got a small penis.”
This could be the end of it. Maybe something shiny will go past us. Maybe it will start raining chocolate! Maybe the light will change and she’ll go back to eating her snacks.
Fucking murphy.
“Mama. Ma horsey hasa liddow penith like daddy.”
Fuck no. I will not. I can’t address this. This is so wrong. This is not cool.
“No, love. Daddy doesn’t have a little penis, at all.”
Sigh. I’m no longer the cool mom. Apparently, I’m now the cool ex-girlfriend.
