You’re Only As Cool As Your Thirteen Year Old Thinks You Are

Gurrl, look at you with your on fleek lob, pale pink Tieks peeking out of the hem of your size 5 Diesel super skinny jeans. Sitting at your work station crossing your trim legs, glancing at the swirly infinity tattoo on your slim wrist that bares your child’s name – You are so on point!  The butt is firm in those clingy Lululemon yoga pants because you actually downward dog three times a week. You know how navigate Instagram, enabling Canva to access your stylish photos so you can post cute captions on those flawless pics, #momlife #nofilter #christpleaseshutup.

You are 40, but thanks to Benefit, Nars, and eight bottles of Deer Park you don’t look a day over 32. Even Jeff, that cute guy from HR says you remind him of Salma Hayek. Hell Ya! Driving home from the office you blast Stevie Nicks’ Edge of Seventeen on the car radio and gleefully think to yourself, “I am a cool mom.”

That is until you saunter through the front door and are greeted by your 13 year old child. Suddenly there is a taller person with your face, minus the eleven between his brows, demanding you watch his freshly uploaded YouTube channel, and like his new video.

“I want to be the next Jack Septiceye,” he says.

Who?

“or Markiplier.”

What? Who the fuck are these people? What’s a septic eye?  Oh shit. Guess who’s not so cool anymore?

But you listen to Panic at the Disco, know all the words to Twenty One Pilots’ Heathen, and do not own one pair of even remotely styled Mom Jeans. There’s nary a wrinkle on your face,  (except for those really faint ones between your brows) that should count for something, right?

Face it Mama, cool passed you by back in 2003 when you waddled home from the birthing center wearing stretchy underwear and a breast milk stained Pink raglan. And guess what?

It’s totally okay.

So your kid thinks you’re as old as Jesus, and laughs when you have to ask for help editing  your IMovies. Stop trying to cling to the cool mom fantasy, and learn how to embrace the inner dork that is dying to bust out. Admit it, you want to. It can be a barrel of fun.

I recall the moment of truth; the defining time I knew cool had left the building and wasn’t coming back. My son had spent the last half hour, electronic device in paw, eyes grazed down, laughing hysterically. Intrigued, and always up for a good chuckle, I asked what was he watching that was so damn funny.

Now I consider myself open minded on the subject of humor. I adore British comedies, grew up with The Kids in The Hall, and even caught a few episodes of Beavis and Butthead when I was in High School. But nothing  prepared me for this crap.

On my son’s screen was a young man of about 25 loading up a blender with various food items such as cake, sprinkles, icing, ice cream…you get the idea. Once blended he took a swig and started moaning in a most sexual way, commenting on the deliciousness that he just created while using several F-bombs. I didn’t get it. The humor was completely lost on me, and I was unnerved over the sexual tone of the clip, and overuse of a word that when executed properly, can enhance any dialogue, but failed miserably in this video. My son eloquently informed me it was because I was too old, and didn’t get kid humor.

Too old? No, seriously, sipping slop out of a blender and practically orgasming over it is not clever or creative. I mean I do that whenever I eat cheesecake. And Nutella. Oreos too.

Another time I got the hint I was no longer sick (that means you’re totally awesome by the way) was on a hectic Saturday my sons and their friends were piled in my filthy mini van on our way to see a movie. A popular song that I actually knew the words to came on the radio. I began to hum, not sing people, just hum. I know better not to sing in front of a gaggle of tweens. Suddenly the group had gone from rambunctiously loud to dead silent. All eyes, prepubescent, and perplexed were on me.

“You know that song Ms. C?” questioned one little angel so innocently, breaking a long silence.

Um, well, actually I do.

The young lad was visibly shocked. I was momentarily sad.

There’s that brief, delicious period in your life, when you are literally a god like creature to your offspring. When even Captain America and Iron Man can’t compete with the way your child feels about you. They throw their sweet, slender arms around your neck, slobber warm kisses on your ready cheek, not caring who’s around to witness any display of affection. My son once had to be pried off of me by a teacher on the first day of school, now he quickly scoots out of the car and barely glances back at me during drop off.

I had an emergency C-section for him, you’d think he could at least manage a low profile peace sign.

Now I blast DMX at drop off just to annoy him.

Since I’ve officially ventured into the so not cool mom in my kid’s eyes, I’ve moved past the mourning stage, and learned to embrace my new role as “the embarrassing mom,” and have a great deal of amusement with this new gig.  For example, this past Halloween my little heathens were misbehaving. Threats of missing Trick or Treating fell on deaf ears, so  I threatened to dress up as Harley Quinn. Shut that shit down right away. For the whole month of October, any time my boys began yelling, arguing, kicking, punching, or whining, I would quietly and methodically draw a black heart on my face, grin widely, and wait.

Within five minutes they were quiet, hugging each other, and offering to do the dishes.

Sometimes if Frick and Frack start their crap in Shop-Rite, I’ll forgo threatening not to buy the Cosmic brownies, and just break into a loud rendition of Thank You for Being a Friend. Or start twerking, which ever stops them from punching the crap out of each other quicker.

Not too long ago, I completed the impossible task of making a dinner that pleased everyone. Feeling pretty pleased with myself I raised both hands diagonally to my head in effort to do The Dab. And yes I am very familiar with The Dab, thank you very much.

Apparently I failed so miserably my children asked me to never do it again, claiming it was cringe- worthy. They use that word often around me. Cringe-worthy.

Of course now I do it all the time.

In public.

And when my children’s friends are around.

Because, if you haven’t heard, embarrassing your children is the cool thing to do.

About the author: Claudia Caramiello is the ultimate slacker mom living the dolce life by writing, daydreaming and raising her two loud, yet adorable sons. She survives single motherhood on caffeine, humor, and good pasta. She has been featured on Sammiches & Psych Meds, Her View From Home, and Elephant Journal. Find Claudia on Facebook and on her blog www.wordblush.com