On an early and crisp morning last week, I pulled the car out of the driveway, and proceeded to take my 13-year-old to school.

I hit the button to turn on the radio… a loud and obnoxious rap music busted into my ears.

Who listens to such music so early in the morning?! My thoughts were screaming inside my head.

“Ooh…this is my favorite song!” 13-year-old beamed and started to move with the music on my passenger seat.

“Talk Dirty to me!” 13-year-old singing/rapping along with the radio. The radio was playing the Talk Dirty song by Jason Derulo.

I threw her a quick and deeply concerned look, and observed that she started to wave her arms up in the air and wriggled her hips.

“Talk Dirty to me!” 13-year-old, with deliberate cheesy smiles, acted totally unfazed by my deeply concerned looks.

This 13-year-old was getting fresh with me, and I realized sadly that there was no turning back…to the good old days.

My teen doing the Hula dance at five

“Talk Dirty to me!” I rapped right back at her, showing off my own dance moves in the driver’s seat.

I got a surprised look back.

“TALK DIRTY TO ME!!!” I pointed at my 13-year-old.

“Okay….MUD! Dust, sewage, trash.” 13-year-old.

WHAT?!! Ha, ha, ha.

In the past few days, We have been going around the house, and randomly shouted, “Talk Dirty to me!”

Dirty talks would be shouted back.

Even my 10-year has learned to talk dirty.

“Talk Dirty to me!” me.

“MUD! Toilet plunger, germs, viruses.” 10-year-old.

Today, I discovered that I have new trouble at hand. Jason Derulo has a new song out, and it promises to be my children’s new favorite. The song goes something like this:

“What you gonna do with that big fat butt?
Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle Wiggle”

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My 13-year-old is now taller and bigger than me. But that does not stop me from tucking her in at night, accompanied by a fanfare of hugs and kisses. I am not so sure if this nightly ritual is still welcomed anymore. My 13-year-old often awarded this gesture of motherly love with a deliberate frown.

Even our bedtime chitchat is beginning to head downhill…

“So, what did you learn from that Confident Girls book?” 13-year-old.

“What Confident Girls book?” me.

“That book I found on the floor next to your bed.” 13-year-old.

100 Tips for Raising Confident Girls

“Yes. That one. Now, what are some of the tips you learned from it to raise me to be confident?” 13-year-old.

“Hmm….” me. The truth is that book has been sitting next to my bed collecting dust for a number of years now. My kids were toddlers the last time I touched it. But I wasn’t going to come clean to my 13-year-old that I can’t remember a thing from reading that book.

I thought really hard.

I got one!

“Well, one of the tips said that when you do something good. Instead of telling you that I am proud of you, I should hold your shoulders in my hands, look you in the eye, and say ‘Aren’t you proud of yourself?’” me grinning, rather pleased with myself.

“OH! So that’s why you never tell me that you’re proud of me.” 13-year-old.

Bloody murder.

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Every Second Counts

“Mom, could you not write me the letter?” baby, with a worrisome frown.

“Of course I have to write you the letter!” me, “It is the only homework your teacher assigned to me this whole school year. How could I not do it?!”

My 10-year-old was the Star Student of the week last week. That involved a big “All About Me” poster, and daily special classroom Star treatment. Thursdays are the parent to Star Student letters day, where we are to write something special and encouraging to our child, which will be read aloud to the entire class.

The baby has been fretting for days to my 13-year-old’s empathetic ears, but always within my earshot, that I was going to write about her chubby cheeks, about loving her to pieces, and about her being an absolutely splendid amazing kid. She predicted that my letter will be utterly embarrassing, that she will have to hide under her desk.

The baby at 9 months

Dear Tasterbach,

I know you have been dreading this letter, fearing I might say embarrassing mushy and lovey things that will send you diving under your desk.

I don’t want you to hide under your desk. There will be nothing loving in this letter. Instead, I will tell you about a few rotten things you have done to me.

Right from the beginning, you came out bigger than I would have liked. You did not arrive willingly either. You were quite unaware that you have overstayed your welcome, and I had to conspire with my doctor to evict you.

You came out furious. And staged a spectacular protest on the nurse’s weighting station. I asked the doctor if we could send you back. She told me it was too late.

When you finally learn to communicate, your favorite word was “No!” That made you an extremely uncooperative toddler. Even worse, you thought that you had exclusive rights to the word “No”, and would threw a monstrous fit when I applied the “No” against you.

You were especially rotten on an unforgettable Mother’s day.

Your Pre-Kindergarten class invited all the mothers to a Mother’s Day cupcake party. All you had to do was to follow simple instructions and do what the other nice children did, which were to introduce your mom, and show off a couple of pictures you drew for Mother’s Day.

You decided to go off script. You pointed at me, and announced to the class, “This is my mom,” and then deliberately, “She is a drinker.”

Bloody HELL…

The air was immediately sucked out of the room, the grown-ups in the classroom were shooting awkward glances at each other in every direction.

You were oblivious to the eerily silent classroom and my trauma, and had more to say, “She drinks black coffee ALL of the morning,” gave pause, then continued, “and she drinks green tea ALL of the afternoon. That’s my mom!”

Whew…The air was released back in the room, the moms and teachers exploded into laughter and everyone clapped mighty hard.

You beamed with pride with your awesome Mother’s Day speech.

Thank goodness that you are so darn cute all the time. Otherwise, I might have acted on the occasional temptations to wrap you back up, and ship you back to the hospital where you came from.

Love,

Mom.

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Give Me My “A” Back!!!

“Hey, how are you?” I greeted our favorite waitress at a local Chinese restaurant that we frequent.

“Oh, not so good. I have been worrying over my daughter these days.” she lamented.

I remembered that she has a daughter about my 13-year-old’s age.

“Why? What’s going on with her?” me, anticipating typical teenage issues.

“Her study. My daughter’s English is not so good, she has trouble with comprehension.” waitress.

“Oh. So, she is struggling with English.” me.

“No. SAT.” waitress.

“S.A.T??” me, with a blank look on my face.

“Yes, SAT. The big test for college. I bought her a big book to help her study for it.” waitress.

“Your kid is in high school already?” me.

“No, 8th grade. Same as your older one.” waitress, pointing to my 13-year-old.

“What do you make her study the SAT for?? They don’t start taking that test until their junior or senior year in high school.” me, “Of course she is not ready for the SAT. She is in middle school. SAT is like 3 years away.

“Her English is not good. I want to give her a head start…” waitress.

Before I could lecture her further on her obvious faulty mothering skills, she got called away to another table.

So, I turned my energy onto my family.

“Can you believe this? She makes her 13-year-old practice SAT 3 years too early, then she worries herself over it!” me, “and she’s putting unreasonable stress on the poor kid.”

“You kids are lucky that I don’t cause you stress like that.” me, feeling self-righteous.

My 13-year-old gave me that eye roll.

“WHAT?!” me. “I don’t give you kids stress.” I insisted on my behalf.

“Yes you do!” 13-year-old.

“Okay. But not too often.” me.

Eye roll…

“Once a week or two, maybe?” me.

Kids looked at me with their death stare.

“2 or 3 times a week?” me.

Hubby chimed in, “You don’t give them unreasonable stress, you give our kids reasonable stress.”

“Yes! Some stress is necessary in life. It is my job to teach you kids how to handle stress.” me.

Finally, I had to know, “Just how often do I cause you stress?”

“…..”silence.

“Every other day?…. every day?” me, prompting for an answer.

“Mom, there are many seconds in the day where you aren’t giving us stress.” 10-year-old piped in.

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