Immature Parenting Isn’t about Your Age


I am confessing to being an immature parent.

I’ll clarify: my boys are 15 and 12. They aren’t tiny any more (in shoes they are both taller than I am).   I swear in front of them. (We made a poor attempt at a Swear Jar: a converted pickle jar with a slit in the lid for quarters. But we kept forgetting to put them in.)

When they were little it was my older son, at the age of three, interrupting my precious nap, a month post partum with his brother) to ask, his face RIGHT IN FRONT OF MINE:

“Mommy what does FOE FAR FA SIS MEAN?”

I was so tired, so sleepy, so spent, I couldn’t grasp what he was saying.

Me: “What?”

Him, impatient: “FOE FAR FA SIS.”

I started to giggle uncontrollably.  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He said it louder. “FOE FAR FA SIS.”

I laughed harder. “I don’t know.”

He disappeared from the bedroom. I continued to giggle on the bed.   He reappeared with a cereal box and clutching it, with some difficulty, climbed up on the bed with me.  I sat up and he pointed to a word listed in the ingredients. “FOE FAR FA SIS” he said loudly and slowly.

I looked at where his chubby finger was pointing:  Phosphorus.   “Phosphorus.”  I said to him.  He smiled at me. “Thanks.” he slid off the bed and ran the box back into the kitchen.

Eleven years later, the laughter hasn’t stopped.


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