Explaining Roadkill

“Wook Mommy, kitty sleeping!” my toddler exclaimed from her carseat as she pointed to the bloody-headed river rat lying dead in the road.

It was the perfect opportunity for me to begin introducing the vast concept of life and death, a topic that would inevitably have to be dealt with. Using something as innocent as roadkill would enable me to bring up the subject in a way that wouldn’t be detrimental or instill a sense of fear. It was the chance for me to help start the development of her analytical mind, and introduce the idea that there was a world beyond herself, but in the end, I pussed out with a pansy-assed reply that went something like, “yep, kitty sleeping.”

When you have a kid you become aware really quickly that everything they know for the first five years of life will come from you, and once you actually internalize that, it’s disturbing as hell. I watch my daughter mimicking me. When I brush my teeth, she stands next to me with her toothbrush, when I buy something at the store and get a shopping bag, she wants one as well, and when I’m cooking, she has to be perched on a stepladder completing a menial task right next to me. All of this is very sweet, because I know it won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll call me “lame” or “totally lame” or “really, fucking lame.” I know the day will come where she’ll run into the house without even as much as a “hello” and haul ass to her room to IM her friends (or whatever means of instant communication they will have around ten years from now).

In the interim, however, I have the enormous task of trying to explain difficult subjects in ways that she will find palatable without defaulting to the chicken-shit behavior I displayed while passing the furry lump of rodent guts festering in the road.

Some of the subjects I know I’ll come across in the next few years will be things like sex, particularly the first time she walks in on her parents having sex. We all did it, and no matter what your age, background, or how much you fancy yourself an open-minded person, the idea of your parents fucking is the most disgusting thought that could ever cross your mind. When that Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape was all the rage, my mother made a remark that not everyone could be okay with it, and while most of us found it amusing, I guarantee that their two sons will get nauseous whenever one of their smartass friends bring it up. I don’t care if your parents look as good as Tommy and Pam, there is no way to burn that image out of your mind once you see it, and therapy won’t help a damn bit.

Homosexuality is another topic that my daughter will undoubtedly have questions about, and that one could be a little sticky. We aren’t homophobic, right-wingers or anything like that, but it’s one of the subjects that my husband and I don’t really see eye-to-eye on. My position is that there’s nothing wrong with being gay, you are born that way, and that’s all there is to it. If you want to get married, fine by me, you have every right to spend the day pissed off because your sloppy spouse left the cap off the toothpaste, or deposited their socks on the floor instead of in the hamper. However, my husband has a more conservative view, so I guess that’s something we will have to work on the first time the little one comes home and ask why her friend has two mommies or daddies.

Bratz dolls; I fucking hate them. In fact, I would rather buy my daughter a dozen Barbies than one of those bastard Bratz. Rachael has pointed them out in the store and I’ve already started with my own version of anti-Bratz rhetoric. I tell her that those are bad dollies, and that she is too good to play with something stupid like those bad dollies. Any dolls that are supposed to replicate toddlers and include makeup, belly shirts, and big, pouty, “come hither” lips are nothing that my kid will own. Pedophiles everywhere might be jerking off with glee holding a variety of Bratz dolls in their free hand, but my hard earned dollars aren’t going to advance the cause of sexualizing little girls.

I’m sure these few things are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to topics that I’ll have to come up with a reasonable explanation for. I won’t take any of these subject matters lightly, because I know that my impressionable child will carry this opinion with her well into her 20s and possibly longer. Hopefully, I’ll do a good job and raise an independent-minded woman with the ability to think for herself, use her high esteem to make her dreams come true, and be quick to respond to those who are close-minded and oppressive with their beliefs. If not, then I’ll have to use my early retirement account to pay for her therapy, but either way, she’s covered.