We're going back...to the future
Ladies, Gentlemen and perverts, I have seen the future, and the future is 16-year-old cheerleaders — well Connor's future, at least. (I can see how that might have caused some confusion. You can stop calling the authorities now.)
This evening, Connor's grandparents took us out for Mexican food (or, as they call it in Mexico — food), and our table was right next to a table of six high school cheerleaders in full-on "cheer gear." Apparently, between determining who was and wasn't a slut (including the classmate who stopped by to say hi) the royal agenda included pretending to make out while they snapped pictures on their camera phones and generally giggling like a group of mental patients on laughing gas. They'd also been glommed onto by two male classmates who happened to be eating there as well. For some reason, these dudes kept eyeing me as if I was staring at their six "dates."
I know it looks bad that I have a lot of details about these ladies, but I wasn't staring, I swear. They were so loud that it would have been impossible not to have noticed these kids' behavior if I had been at home asleep.
The night left me with one distinct thought (well, two if you count my concern at how my body would handle the massive bean burrito I consumed) — I'm not looking forward to Connor's teen years. When I was that age, I kept hearing that it was so much tougher being a teenager than ever, and that I faced more temptations than my parents had ever imagined. Enter into the picture e-mail, instant messaging with video chat, camera phones, the evil that is MySpace, or any of the technological inventions that will put more stress on kids than ever, and the recipe for disaster is multiplied at least one thousand-fold.
For the record, the real recipe for disaster is an Eminem performance at a screening of Brokeback Mountain. Ba-dum-dum.
I feel incredibly grateful to have a boy, because if my daughter was one of those cheerleaders and I knew that there were 100 dudes a day trying to figure out ways to get that cheerleading outfit on their floor, I'd probably pop a fuse, and some skulls too.
This evening, Connor's grandparents took us out for Mexican food (or, as they call it in Mexico — food), and our table was right next to a table of six high school cheerleaders in full-on "cheer gear." Apparently, between determining who was and wasn't a slut (including the classmate who stopped by to say hi) the royal agenda included pretending to make out while they snapped pictures on their camera phones and generally giggling like a group of mental patients on laughing gas. They'd also been glommed onto by two male classmates who happened to be eating there as well. For some reason, these dudes kept eyeing me as if I was staring at their six "dates."
I know it looks bad that I have a lot of details about these ladies, but I wasn't staring, I swear. They were so loud that it would have been impossible not to have noticed these kids' behavior if I had been at home asleep.
The night left me with one distinct thought (well, two if you count my concern at how my body would handle the massive bean burrito I consumed) — I'm not looking forward to Connor's teen years. When I was that age, I kept hearing that it was so much tougher being a teenager than ever, and that I faced more temptations than my parents had ever imagined. Enter into the picture e-mail, instant messaging with video chat, camera phones, the evil that is MySpace, or any of the technological inventions that will put more stress on kids than ever, and the recipe for disaster is multiplied at least one thousand-fold.
For the record, the real recipe for disaster is an Eminem performance at a screening of Brokeback Mountain. Ba-dum-dum.
I feel incredibly grateful to have a boy, because if my daughter was one of those cheerleaders and I knew that there were 100 dudes a day trying to figure out ways to get that cheerleading outfit on their floor, I'd probably pop a fuse, and some skulls too.
posted by Carter at 7:53 PM
7 Comments:
I hear if you slip your ob/gyn a 20 under the table, he'll make sure that none of those chromosomes of Stacey's enter into the equation. Dad told me about that trick. It worked in our family, didn't it?
Uh, yeah, I have a girl. And I'm already saying nasty things about her "boyfriends" in daycare. (She's 3. It's a sickness.)
What astonished me about the scene, as I was closer to the gaggle of girls and in ear range, were the massive amount of f-words and ugly conversation coming out of their mouths. My goodness, I'm no prude but hearing that from such angelic faces scares me to no end for our youth and society. All from fashionably famous Suwanee and Sugarloaf by the way.
What scares me is thinking about the number of Dads that are going to see Connor and want to "pop" his skull.
Another trip to the ATL? Where is my tape? HEY EVERYBODY...CARTER BORROWS THINGS AND THEN NEVER GIVES THEM BACK. THEIF! THEIF I SAY!
Oooh. Tough talk from a man they call "Cakes."
Don't worry, brah. I'mma hook you up! Besides, the goods are in an air-tight, temperature controlled vault. No worries.
yes, my husband's theory is lock her up until she's 25. Won't work. I say, teach them your values and the things that they need to consider, give them responsibilities from early on so they know thye have serious choices to make and consequences to deal with, and then all you can do is trust that you have raised a sensible kid. Not that it's not nerve-wracking and angst-filled, it's just the best you can do.
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