ROLE MODELING 101

I may or not be the best role model to young people. And since the verdict is still out, let me explain my side of the story.

Kids are always being told what to do, but not given the how’s or the why’s of life’s meaning. I mean, how many times did you hear growing up, “Because I said so.” Well, I never fell for that line of bull then and I won’t preach that to kids now.

My role modeling skills help parents who are trying to teach their kids the rights and wrongs of the world. I’m setting the stage for growth and development here. Sure, there’s a constant threat of swearing, or smoking, or overall bad judgement in teaching children how society functions, but I’m not bullshitting them. The way I see it, those under-developed frontal lobes need a synopsis zap before the wrong person gets ahold of them.

Bottom line, kids need to learn early in life that not everyone is as pure and kind as myself. Which brings me to explain the latest example of how my Auntie-ing skills are working according to plan.

If you recall, my eight-year-old nephew came to visit last August. And since children have the memory of elephants, it took three months to hear how I truly made a difference in this kid’s world.

His mom picked him up from school recently. Little man got in the car, squirmed in his seat, and asked to get rushed home. He had to poop. Mom nicely nudged him, saying that he could go at school. And his response was simple and to the point. “I can’t get naked at school,” he said in his cute high-pitched voice.

Yes, the response leads to dog face—you know, the one where the dog tilts his head slightly, trying to decipher what the human just said. Yep. That’s the one. And the conversation didn’t stop there.

“Why do you have to get naked to go to the bathroom?”

“So I don’t get poop on my shirt like Auntie Becca.”

Three months. Three months since I role-modeled the boy. Three months.

I scrubbed my forehead, shuffling through my memory files from three months ago. What did I do to make this kid think that I poop on my shirt—all-the-time?

Then, it dawned on me. I always have some kind of stain on my shirt. Every shirt. Most pants too. I’m always dropping food or wine on my boobs. I don’t know why. It’s a thing. And every time I’m around the sister-in-law, you know what she says? She always points out, “You have shit on your shirt.”

I guess I’ll throw out the common cliché here, from the mouths and minds of babes. He associated shit as literal. And now my nephew can’t poop unless he’s naked. I’m an awesome role model.

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