Chick Club

This morning the kids decided that they were forming a “chick club” – that would be a “club to get chicks.” They asked me for jeans (which previously were about as attractive to them as wearing a sandpaper suit) and also lollipops.
“Is that because chicks like lollipops?”
“No,” they replied as if I were a dummy, “Chicks dig guys who suck on lollipops.”
I stand corrected.
After I noted that ‘chicks’ don’t like guys whose hair looks like they slept in a trashcan, they let me brush it, and style it, complimenting my expertise with gel and hairspray. It felt so good to briefly pretend I had two girls, except when I realized that I’d wasted half of my hair product, and imagined what it would be like to have to share my stuff. I am not a good sharer.
I also schooled them on the way to summer camp…
“When someone tells you you look cool, don’t say ‘I know,’ it’s much cooler to just say ‘thank you,’” I want them to start to develop some sense of humility as I know what self-centered bragging has cost their mom.
“How about ‘I know I look cool, but thank you very much,’” Samson countered.
I guess honesty is better than false modesty at this age, but we’ll see.
After we stopped off at the gas station to buy sunglasses, I also explained to them that women and girls don’t like to be called “chicks.”
“We know mommy,” once again David looked at me like I was an ignorant being with a prehensile tail, “We just call it ‘chick club’ to ourselves.”
Then he looked crestfallen that he’d even told me about it. After all, the first rule of ‘Chick Club,’ is you don’t talk about ‘Chick Club.’ Especially not to your mom.


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