a conversation I would have maybe rather not had
Did I mention that Nora turned 11? Of course not, I haven’t written here in ages because I was suffering from JUST DON’T FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT. Not quite writer’s block, not quite ennui, definitely not any sort of performance anxiety.* Just that for weeks, every time I thought, “Hey, should I write some shit down?” the answer was a resounding “nah.”
*Can personal expression be public and yet not performative? Debatable. If yes, then I submit this dumb little blog as an example, since to be a true performance you probably have to care about making a good experience for people. And a blog that made a good experience for you probably wouldn’t have a huge time lag between entries, multiple faux-footnote digressions, and a general lack of concern for reader-friendly wordcraft. I’M SORRY.
Anyway, Nora is now 11 years old. I got a jolt at work when I was reading some pediatrics article with a table of the study subjects’ age groups, and 6-10 is “school age” and 11-14 was “early adolescence.” MY BABY! AN EARLY ADOLESCENT! I keep sniffing her and she does not smell yet, so maybe she’s not 100% “adolescent” yet (I feel like stink will be an early clue), except of course after hockey. She is very proud of her hockey stench. “Wow, smell my shin guard! It smells horrible!” Gosh, no thanks.
Hockey: She is about to start playing on a real team. There will be games, both home and away. Right now there is much watching of the women’s Olympic team, and much excitement to learn that one of its forwards is only 5’2” and 125 pounds. You’re almost halfway there with the poundage, girl! Keep eating!
Being 11 in General: All things bodily-function related are still quite hilarious, to my irritation. Recently this happened:
Nora: I have to tell you something SO FUNNY I learned at school. It’s about the toilet though. You’re not going to like it.
Me: Maybe skip it, then.
Nora: No, it’s SO FUNNY. I have to tell you.
Me: Fine.
Nora: It’s a poem. Ready? It goes: “Here I sit, broken-hearted/tried to poop but only farted.”
Me: Yup. Heard that before. Thanks.
But then! A fierce internal debate began to rage! For Nora was clearly telling me a PG-rated version of this verse. If you don’t say “tried to SHIT but only farted” you lose all the internal rhyme, which is much of the “beauty” of the thing. Such as it is.
What to do? Shall we give the upper hand to literature, reveal the unexpurgated version to her, and explain why it is superior? Should we instead appeal to decorum, and avoid exposing children to unnecessary swear words? (She knows the word “shit,” of course, but does she really need to know a catchy, “hilarious” rhyme involving the word?)
Literature won. Several hours later I ended up reintroducing the (stupid) topic, and explaining why, if you MUST repeat that bathroom lyric, “shit” is the right word at the right time.
—mimi smartypants: she, too, dislikes it.