Birth Control

th-8It was easy to be frothy yesterday.  Yesterday was the start of a new month.  Friends on both coasts posted Facebook pictures of themselves and their kids frolicking on the beach.  It was even a holiday in Canada.  But today I’m finding it harder to lack profundity.  (case in point: my use of the word “profundity”).  Maybe it has something to do with an evening spent at my friend’s self-improvement seminar graduation, a three-hour hard sell akin to watching an infomercial that you can’t turn off.   Or having cereal for dinner,  then getting my ass kicked by advanced computer Scrabble.  Or maybe it was dreaming that I was back in Charlotte, North Carolina, the place where I spent the darkest three years of my life in the 1990s.  Definitely not the makings of a light and breezy mood!

But a promise is a promise.  So here’s a little something to smooth out your hump day.  A couple of haircuts ago, my boys switched from the Beverly Hills children’s hairdresser they’ve gone to since toddlerhood to a green-haired young woman covered in tattoos at a hip barbershop called Shorty’s in West Hollywood.  Last Saturday, while waiting to pay, my younger son, 8, noticed a giant glass jar of free condoms on the coffee table.

“Can I have one?” he said, reaching into the jar.

“No!” scolded my 12-year-old son.

“Why not?  What are they?” he said.

A guy waiting for a haircut smiled at me as my husband grabbed my son’s hand and whisked him out the door.

“What are they?” he repeated.

“You’ll find when you’re older,” my tween replied, plugging his ears to avoid hearing my explanation.

“Birth control,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“Really?” my 8-year-old said.

“Yep.”

He giggled and that was all.  Sometimes no further explanation is necessary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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