the rapidly approaching hormone storm
This summer, my daughter started wearing women's sized shoes. When my son stands in front of me, I can rest my head on his comfortably.
And they both like Hannah Montana, which, thankfully, is mommy-approved whereas many things they could like are not.
A plastic statue of Mrs. Salt and Mr. Pepper sits on the windowsill of my kitchen window like a memorial, and when you push their cartoon smiles, they sing about Healthy Snacks, but nobody watches Blues Clues or Dora anymore and my daughter has started to sing a song that goes "Joy to the World, Barney's dead/ We bar-be-qued his head/What happened to his body?/We flushed him down the potty/And round and round he goes, and round and round he goes, and round, and round, and round he goes". This, from the child whose first beloved stuffed toy was a Barney that sang when she hugged him.
Last night we had the "why it's not okay to look at magazines with naked women" talk with my son as a pre-emptive strike for what will undoubtably happen in middle school. I teach ninth grade, and honestly, to think that my son will be going from here to there in three short years is mind-boggling.
Today, I read that they are remaking Footloose starring Zac Efron. This will probably mean nothing to many of you, but for anyone out there on the downhill slope towards forty, and with a daughter who will likely need her first bra by the time the movie gets released, this news is pretty terrifying.
