My ten year old was begging me to take him swimming. I put him off. Made excuses. Hoped he’d forget about it.
He forgets to hang up his clothes. He forgets to make his bed in the morning. He forgets to take off his underpants when he wears a swimsuit. But he couldn't seem to forget the Olympics-worthy belly flop he’d been perfecting.
After hearing me make another excuse about why we weren’t going swimming, he said, “Mom, why can’t we go to the pool today?”
I wanted to put it delicately. I'd told him about That Time Of The Month a year or so before, but I still didn't want to scar him for life with Too Much Mom Info—he’ll have plenty of time to be traumatized by it later when he’s married. When his wife cries for no apparent reason. Or feels fat in everything. Or gets pimples even though she’s long past puberty.
Finally I said, “We can’t go swimming because my Aunt Flow is in town, with her long red hair.”
clear. He had to understand what that analogy meant. I waited to see his
reaction to the unfortunate news.
“Really?” He frowned.
“Yeah,” I said, glad he understood. “And we’re going to be surfing the crimson tide for a few days, so I’m just not up to going swimming right now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How long is she going to be in town?”
He wrinkled his nose. I’d traumatized him. Too Much Mom Info.
Then he sighed. “Is she going to stay with us, or is she going to get a hotel.”
Maybe my crystal clear analogy wasn't so crystal clear after all.
After traumatizing my son with the truth about Aunt Flow -- how she wasn't very nice, and she made me crabby and crampy and bloated, and that the crimson tide was far, far away from the
University of Alabama -- I decided to put my foot down. To lay down the law. I'm done with Aunt Flow.
Next time she comes to town, she's going to have to get a hotel room. She's not welcome here anymore. I won’t even offer to pay for it. And she can surf the crimson tide by herself. Maybe she’ll drown and I won’t have to worry about her anymore.
One can always hope…