Razors, Wit and Puberty. Ouch

Thanks to my smalls, I was struck down by the plague last weekend and my nose was raw and running for most of the week. In an effort to staunch the flow I went into the bathroom to get some toilet paper to shove up my nostrils (you're all welcome for that visual) and found my son standing at the bathroom counter.

He was shaving. With my razor.

He's not yet fourteen years old.

My legs are currently fuzzier than his face has ever been. (Again, you're welcome for the visual.)

"What are you doing Frac?" I asked cautiously, as I watched him hold the razor under his nose.

"Shaving." Swipe, swipe.

"Yes, I can see that. But I really meant to ask, why are you shaving? And why are you using my razor to shave with?"

"The fuzz was getting rather thick. Puberty. It's harsh." Swipe, swipe.

"And my razor?" I mean, he had to know it was mine. It's pink. His father avoids anything pink unless it's the inside of a steak or cotton candy.

"Dad didn't have any blades for his. He must have taken them all with him up North."

I see. Except I didn't. Because my son is 13. And blonde. And hairless. He's like one of those giant hairless cats I used to beg my husband to buy me.

I watched him shave his invisible whiskers and rinse off the blade and pat his face dry. I imagined this was a proud moment for him as a soon to be man and I didn't want to harsh his mojo with my motherly scoffing. I was stuck in the twilight zone of witnessing my son rush to be a man when all I wanted to do was keep him a boy for a moment longer.

"Let me have a look," I asked as he started to wipe up his mess.

"Aw Mom," he blushed.

With my face inches from his, I examined his boyish face, and felt the smoothness of the skin I helped create.

It was a scene so tender it should have been a razor commercial.

Until he handed me my razor and said, "Here Mom. You may want to use this. Looks like your moustache is coming in a little thick too."

The upside of him growing up and being taller than me is, while he can clearly see my own invisible moustache, at least he no longer sees the plethora of chin whiskers sprouting from under my face every day like his sister still can.

There's that, I suppose.

So while you all go and enjoy your weekend, I'll be here crying over the fact my moustache is thicker than my son's and plucking my chin whiskers one by one.


If you need any reading material, I've got a new post up over on Hogwash from A Hoser. I should have titled it "Your parenting is pissing me off" but I didn't think the Babble Gods would appreciate that. Feel free to add your two cents or tell me what a lame ass judgy witch I am.

And if you've got 90 seconds to spare and want a giggle, I've also got a new Momversation video up. I'm talking sex. There may be a reason my husband keeps offering to buy me a ball gag. This video may be reason number infinity.

I'd totally take him up on that ball gag thing but I'm too scared my moustache hairs would get caught in it. Ouch.

Have a great weekend everyone!