Solo Mother

Please don’t send Child Protection Services to my door.

by christina on November 13th, 2006

“COCK.TAIL.”

 ”COCKTAIL. COCK… tail,” my child crows upon opening his eyes this morning. He waits for me to get the joke, a smile just hovering on the edge of spilling all over his face. I don’t know whether all parents care so much about what Other People Think, but as a single mother, as a soon to be divorced woman, I sometimes feel as though I’m being judged by harsher standards than my married compatriots. So my kid starts spouting something like this and immediately, my brain is whirling around in mayday mode. What on earth must his teachers think of me?? “I said, ‘COCKtail’, mama!” and waits again for me to laugh.

Some vague, dark angst from my tortured, squished-fish-in-a-dish (an unfortunate nickname I picked up on a Club Med vacation with my folks ) childhood is stirring uncomfortably. A ghostly skitter of childern’s laughter ripples through my memory. I mentally swat it away and concentrate on my son’s erm… expanding vocabulary. How on earth did he get stuck on this word? I’m not a big drinker… I like a beer or a glass of wine every now and then. Unfiltered sake with a good bit of sushi is always a delight. I’ve never been a big fan of the ‘cocktail hour’, never been a boozer-upper of the gin and tonic, vodka martini set. I’m worried, though, about how it must look to an outsider: cherubic three year old runs around rolling the word cocktail off his tongue like he was to tequila sunrises born. Doesn’t look good. A preschooler whose favorite words now seem to include ‘kinky’ and ‘cocktail’ is bound to make the child safety officers’ eyebrows twitch.

“Where did you learn that word, Boo?” I ask curious. I mean, seriously, there are worse ‘c’ words he could be throwing around in innocent delight. Something about his anticipatory pause every time he hawks out COCKtail (this kid could give Scarface a run for his money on eloquent enunciation of offensive phrases, I suspect) makes me think this isn’t all about phonics.

“At school! Cocktail. Cocktail. COCKTAIL…”

That ripple of remembered laughter trips through my memory again, bringing with it a memory of vague shame and embarrassment. Now I remember how it happens. Little kids being told by big kids to say certain words. “What’s another word for ‘rooster’?” or, “Say, ‘Rubber balls and liquor’ after everything I say, ok?” or dozens of other vague suggestions I can’t even remember, cause I don’t have that kind of imagination left.

“Did some other kids tell you to say that word, Boo?” He nods, and chirps, “Yeah, and they LAUGH every time I said it!” he announced proudly. I gather him into my arms, as much to hold him as to hide my rueful grin. Therein begins my attempt to explain…

“Those kids are trying to get you to say something that might be naughty. You know how there are words that sound alike but don’t mean the same thing?”

“Two, to, too!” he hollers, then resumes his exploration of the word ‘cocktail’ in all its sonic glory. I sigh.

“Look, just don’t let another kid force you to do something you don’t want to, ok? And please stop saying the word, ‘cocktail’.”

“OK,” my blue eyed wonder agrees. “Beaver. Beaver beaver beaver beaver. Old MacDonald had a beaver… with a chop chop here… beaver!”

And it’s only Monday.

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POSTED IN: mother's guilt, sanity