The Bigger They Get…

I was an overprotected Yankee child raised by an anxiety-prone mother who saw monsters around every corner. Yes,Dear was a barefoot North Carolina boy who played outside in the dirt from dawn to dusk, unsupervised, from the day he cut his first tooth. Wearing nothing but a diaper. That’s right. Not even sunscreen.

Needless to say, our parenting styles are different.

So years ago we came up with a compromise. It’s called the THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU JUST DON’T TELL YOUR MOTHER COMPROMISE ^TM and it works like this:

The kids know I am free to be an overprotective, nagging, worrywart martyr about things I know or find out about. I don’t miss much. At least I hope I don’t miss much.

And the things I don’t know about? So long as no one gets hurt, there’s no blood or fire, and I’m not going to hear from another parent or, God Forbid, a pregnant teenager, a hospital or the police, the kids remain silent and I remain blissful in my ignorance and save a fortune on Xanax.

That’s the kind of mother I am – feet planted firmly on the ground, head buried firmly in the sand.

With that in mind, would someone please remind the boys to clear browser history and not download stuff to my desktop when they use my computer? Too much information…