Adulthood: Mama Needs a Clean Pair of Underwear

I need to get this off my chest.  It's shameful, embarrassing and yet I feel the need to share it with someone. Perhaps I need some sort of validation that I'm not crazy or alone. Ok, here it goes.  Sometimes I wear bathing suit bottoms as underwear because I don't have any clean laundry.  Sadly I am a 31 year old, mother of two, working at an Ivy League institution and at times I wear bikini bottoms under my clothing.  What is wrong with me?!

As I'm confessing this, I wonder at what point in my life, if at any, will I reach a point where I don't do things like this. I would have thought that I’d have outgrown this type of behavior by now.  But, desperation sets in and it seems better than going commando.  

It's a miracle I even have bikini bottoms because there is no way in hell I would be caught dead in a two- piece bathing suit (thank you very much stretch marks that could be mistook for 3rd degree burns).  But I digress... 

I guess the real reason I bring this up is because lately I’ve been contemplating the true measure of an adult. When do you leave behind certain adolescent/juvenile behaviors and become a real grown up?

Growing up I had notions of what being an adult and parent actually meant.  Adults/parents are responsible, boring, even tempered, clever, etc.  They never swear, don't do drugs and seem to have the answers to all of the world’s problems.  At least that’s what I thought.  So it follows that I assumed that once I made that passage from childhood to adulthood (for me I assumed it was when I became a parent), than I too would miraculously become a stand up citizen who confidently charges through the world balancing family life with career and enjoying an enriching and RESPONSIBLE existence.  Unfortunately, this didn't quite work out the way I thought it was going to.  Below are five things that I thought would change once I became a adult and mother.  

The Foundations of Hate

I hate ketchup, quinoa, books by Orwell, Cracker Barrel restaurants and Bill O'Reilly. On a real bad day I hate everyone.  And now, my two-year old son hates bananas. He didn't always hate bananas. In fact, in the past I would have gone so far to say that he loved bananas. He would eat them with gusto. Whether plain, on toast, or in fruit salads, he really enjoyed them. He would even request them without prompt,

"Mommy, can I have a banana?"

What kid asks for fruit? Why not a chocolate chip cookie?

So, you can imagine my shock the other day when I handed him a bagel with mushed bananas on it, and he pushed it away as he told me,

"I hate bananas."

At first I assumed I misheard him. He's only two and his speech is understandably indecipherable at times. Nevertheless, I was sure there was no possible way he actually said he hated bananas. A two-year old doesn’t comprehend hate. So I pressed on and tried to hand him his plate again. This time he responded more vehemently,

"I don't want it. I HATE bananas!"


Despair. Now there was no denying what he said. So I said to him,

"Sweetie, what do you mean?"

Even though he used the word, I knew it must be a fluke that he used it in the proper context.

His response to me,

"I don't like them!"

His tone indicated that I obviously have inferior mental capabilities. I even think I caught him rolling his eyes. The subtext was clear, “Duh Ma, what do you think I mean when I say hate?”


I know toddlers are notorious for repeating things and most of the time it's things that you wish they wouldn’t. But his use of this particular word and the fact that he said it with such fervor and disdain, made me want to crawl up into a ball and cry. Am I being dramatic? Yes. But in that moment I realized hate had been added to his arsenal of vocabulary words, and it was also clear he had a firm grasp of its definition.  Most alarmingly, I realized I was the source, the teacher.

I generally consider myself a tolerant and kind-hearted person. I’ve always been accepting of all people regardless of age, race, sexuality, and ethnicity. In fact, I made a career out of emphasizing the importance of learning about other cultures, understanding other people. That being said, when it comes to strong opinions, when I dislike something, my knee jerk reaction is to say I hate it. I say it without pause, without reflection.  It spews out of my mouth easily and freely. And though I’ve attempted to curb swear words since the birth of my children, I never gave thought to my usage of hate.

Some people may think I am overreacting, and perhaps I am. I hope so. But I can’t help but think that perhaps I’ve laid the seedlings of hate and intolerance in my son’s psyche. First it’s bananas, but what’s next? Will he hate classmates if they don’t share the ball on the playground? Will he hate Mrs. Smith if she gives him a B instead of an A? Can hate metastasize? Who’s to say where it begins and ends?

I learned an important lesson the other day. I definitely need to restrict my use of the word hate, but I also need to reflect on my use of it. Do I really hate things and people? Hate is a strong word. Hate has caused world wars, genocide and entire social movements. It certainly can’t and shouldn’t be taken lightly. Upon further examination I realize that I don’t particularly like ketchup, quinoa, books by Orwell, Cracker Barrel restaurants and Bill O'Reilly. But I don’t hate them. And to tell you the truth, on most days I even like everybody and everything. Now that’s something I hope I can pass on to my son.