Oh man, this feels good to me.
So welcome to the new Pistols + Popcorn. Naked and unbranded, no agenda and not trying to climb any high heights. Most likely I will reach new lows but heh, it’s all sport, right? I was ready for a change and this’ll do. Hope you like it too.
Roan and I just got home from the Project Runway season finale taping at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. This is our third time going, and has become somewhat of a tradition for us. We love going. I’m not sure what it does for my son, but I revel in walking on the razor’s edge of embarrassing him. As my Roan gets older, he gets a little more worried about what I’m going to say. In public. Out loud. At Fashion Week.
So knowing this and seeing the slightest bit of mistrust in his face as we are surrounded by fabulous people everywhere, I whisper in his ear, “I think now would be a good time to talk about the changes that are going to happen with your body. I think we should have a little discussion about puberty.”
And I can pretty much guarantee that no one ever has rolled their eyes that far into the back of their head and lived to tell, no one except Roan Call. It’s not that I like to see him suffer. Mostly I like to see him laugh in spite of his overwhelming instinct to “shhhhsh!!” me. And then, I whisper, as the Pièce de résistance: “Pooooooo-berrrrrrrr-tyyyyyy”
I had a teacher, around 7th or 8th grade who had the enormous misfortune of teaching my class a chapter on reproduction. It wouldn’t have been so tragic had he been able to pronounce puberty correctly, but alas, he could not. Puberty was “Poo-berty” and each utterance was met with giggles and snickers and snorts. I mean, maybe he was a tomato to-mahto kind of guy and just couldn’t be bothered to care how it should be pronounced. But forever and ever and ever if I have to talk about puberty it will be a joke. Shout out to you, Mr. Marty!
I’ve told Roan that story, and as you’ve probably guessed, my child will forever and ever think of puberty as poo-berty, and as somewhat of a joke. But this kind of dialogue works for him because he’s not really into the gravitas of a heart-to-heart love blossoms and so does your body kind of discovery discussion with his mother. So we joke, and he has the facts, and lives in fear of me breaking it all down for him in front of Heidi Klum and Michael Kors.
But I did not. We spoke not of puberty but of fashion, and Roan will still hold my hand during the show. He had his picture taken with his favorite Project Runway winner of all time, Mondo. He had his favorite collection and I had mine. We are beginning to have different aesthetics in fashion, which probably means he is no longer my little shadow.
As we exited the show, a photographer touched Roan on the shoulder and asked if he could take his picture. Of course, Roan agreed to it and struck a perfect pose. Then another photographer joined, and soon there was a group taking pictures of my boy. I’m not sure who they thought he was or if they just enjoyed his awesome Jeremy Scott wing shoes. But Roan moved on from the crowd without even mentioning it. That’s his style, really. Always amazed by the world but rarely overeager to talk about it. A passing mention, or sometimes a little chat if it pushes bedtime. His life leaves me feeling slightly envious. It’s all open to him, this world. I want to live like he does. Humble and confident, excited but not anxious. If I could be him, (minus the mother who likes to wind him up) that would be my perfect life. Luckily he agrees to take me along. Though if I keep up with the poo-berty talk that good luck might end.