racism, cancer, boobs, and other things my four year old son knows about

on radical transparency in a sensitive world

"Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone." Colossians 4:6

In the last month I received several compliments from complete strangers on my parenting.

(If that sentence didn’t just leave you a bit rankled, you’re closer to Jesus than most of us).

The fact is, upon receiving said compliments I just about spit out my proverbial wine. I, mother of a small dragon, have much for which I feel shame. I fail my son constantly and am acutely aware of it, mainly because he reminds me.

Mom, get off your phone.
Mama, will you play with me NOW? You said you would forever ago!
That voice scares me! You’re scaring me!

And that’s the light shit—the stuff with which most of us struggle.

But back to the compliments from strangers (ick).

I think in those moments, what I appreciated most was someone saying something kind to me when I was doing a hard thing. My son is the brightest, shiniest child on planet Earth. He’s like a phoenix. But if you know your mythology, you know that phoenixes, rare though they may be, are also constantly bursting into flame and being reborn from ashes. It’s a lot. Sometimes the flame-bursting happens in public. I usually know how to avoid such a meltdown, or at least quell it, but it doesn’t always happen. And when it doesn’t, no one gives me compliments. That’s for damn sure.

So my approach with Sam has always been a bit different. I’m a candid gal (my husband called me based the other day and I had to go look that one up) and so my parenting is, well, candid. Sam responds well to me talking to him like he’s an adult. I have been using complex sentence structure with him since he’s been a child, but even more so, I’ve been using idioms, non-hurtful sarcasm, and humor when I teach him things. And I’m always honest with him. Perhaps, to a fault.

What I think has actually gotten me compliments in that past few weeks has been my candor and honesty with Sam. Though, not everyone appreciates it.

hot topics in the ymca locker room

Just last week, Sam and I went for a swim at the YMCA and were toweling off and getting dressed in the women’s locker room. It won’t be long before Sam isn’t allowed in this general space with me anymore, but I’m utilizing it while I can since it’s usually cleaner than the family dressing rooms. He is good at averting his eyes when a stranger is getting dressed and will often put his nose in the corner of a set of lockers to give people privacy. That said, in true Sam fashion, he never stops talking.

On this day, Sam was looking at me while I got dressed in order to give an older woman behind us her privacy. I turned my back to him for a moment and he looked at the jagged scar on my back and said “Mama, did you have a bad owie? That looks like it hurt.” I then, very plainly, told him that I used to have a mole there that needed to be removed by a doctor. He asked why and I simply stated “because the doctor thought it might cause cancer, so it was better for him to take it off than for it to make me sick later on.” Sam asked for clarification on what cancer was, and I said that it was a disease that could make people very sick and sometimes even cause them to die.

Sam and I have had conversations about cancer and death before—this wasn’t his first rodeo—so he nodded in understanding and I turned to face him. As I did, the woman we had been giving privacy to looked at me with eyes the size of saucers. Her look said,

You’re seriously talking to your four year old about cancer? And death?!

Yes ma’am, I am.

my wise, fire-bellied, hell raiser and me, mere weeks before his formal adoption. picture by the talented aaron courter

hell in a handbasket

As someone who can read the vibe of a room relatively well, it has seemed like the world is currently in a state of constant vibration. Politically speaking, there are a lot of opinions swirling. About Trump. About Musk. About Russia. About Urkaine. About Israel. About lists that were hidden that are now *supposedly* about to be revealed. About immigrants who are being deported. About what makes a man a man and a woman a woman and who gets to decide this. The internet is positively on fire with opinions, hot takes, and facts that are (and are not) being checked.

But you know where I’m not hearing these conversations?

Come on. You know this.

I’m not hearing them over coffee. I’m not hearing them at the beginning of Bible studies or around midwinter campfires. I’m not reading them in text threads with friends. I’m not hearing them in face to face conversations.

Maybe people think it’s too risky to say who they voted for or why they’re scared of certain goings on. The internet is a seemingly safer place when the world is going to hell in a hand basket. We can read on and comment about the hot takes without needing to be fact checked or challenged or disagreed with. We can worry in private.

Obviously there’s a time and place for hot button topics to be discussed. Maybe my choice to talk to my son about cancer in the women’s locker room disturbed one woman, but it was my decision to be thoughtfully honest with my son. I have direct experience with cancer, with surgery, with sickness and there was no reason to pretend that it didn’t exist. He deserved an answer. I didn’t need to go into gory detail with Sam for him to get the gist: cancer is bad and it can happen to anyone. Even our loved ones (Lord, have mercy).

I’m not sure why we’re so daunted to talk about these hard things in safe circles. Posting a scathing politically charged meme in Instagram stories while also being unwilling to talk to friends about the woes and worries you see in the world is next level cowardice. How’s that for based?

But I don’t post things on social media. I just also don’t want to talk to my friends about these things because I’m afraid they’ll [disagree with me, challenge me, mock me, judge me].

I’m not sure that’s much better.
If the weight of the world is pressing on our shoulders, why aren’t we talking about it? Why aren’t we being honest about our discouragement? And to take things a step further, are we doing our research before we worry, or are we worrying in a vacuum?

Basically, why aren’t we talking about the cancerous mole on all of our backs? Whether it’s operable or benign, if we’re carrying a burden, do we really think we should be pushing that bolder uphill by ourselves?

Friends, I call bullshit. I call pride. I call fear. And “based” though I may be, I for one think we can do much, much better.

i’ll show you mine…

Is this post political? No. Am I trying to poke the bear? Not really—unless you feel poked. I don’t want to pick a fight, but I do (desperately) want to call into question why so many thoughtful, kind, wise Christians are hush hush about hard things. Why are we showing up to church saying we’re “fine” when really it feels like our lives are crumbling around us? Again, there’s a time and place for certain conversations, but in safe environments, with thoughtful friends, why aren’t we talking about the topics that could potentially upset the apple cart? Is the apple cart really that strong if we can’t tip it over from time to time?

I cannot worry about the entire world going to hell in a hand basket. I am not God. I have to teach my kid the difference between the letter S and X because currently, he thinks they are the same thing. I have to check on my elderly neighbor who is being forced to move out of her home by her landlord and isn’t sure where she’s going. I need to find a way to get the stains out of my bathroom grout that preexisted before we moved in. And I definitely need to remember to pray in the shower and over the dishes or I’ll forget that I have that incredible option—to speak to my creator—until I’m in crisis and all I do is ask him for a miracle. If you want to talk about privilege, that’s some privilege.

I wish I could teach Sam the whys of things with the depth they deserve, but I am an ephemeral being on a rotting, spinning rock and dinner needs to be on the table in the next thirty minutes or there will be a mutiny.

But I can be honest. I can do my research. I can cold plunge my hot take and cool it down enough for it to no longer be considered reactive.

Y’all I got other things to do.
Not necessarily better things.
Just, things.
But I don’t want to do any of it in a vacuum where hard things can’t be discussed in open air.

And you shouldn’t either.

Always,
Emily

P.S. I have, in fact, had conversations with Sam about breasts and racism. He knows now that he shouldn’t attempt to “squish” mommy’s boobies or get a tattoo on his shins that says “white power”. And yes, he knows why. For both.

P.P.S. If you see a mom in public who is parenting the shit out of their kid, don’t be afraid to compliment or encourage them. It’ll likely make them cry in their car and make their entire day.

P.P.P.S. I’m happy to tell you who I voted for. Over coffee.