There’s this place Noah and I have. It’s a safe place. A place where he can tell me any secret, ask for any advice, confess any crimes, confide about bullies, and… curse like a sailor. All without any repercussion.
The kid is seven. He probably shouldn’t be saying things like “damn,” “ass,” “bitch,” or “shit.” But… I’m not going to stop him. Not when he’s officially inside of what we call, “the bubble.”
Now, before you go gettin’ your parental knickers twisted so tight that your granny panties cut a line right through you, let me explain why I’m totally okay with it. Only then can you think I’m the dill-weed dad of the century. Deal? Good.
I can’t take credit for it. Tobi and AJ have been offering their kids the bubble for a while now, and I totally stole it right out from under their noses. I know, some friend I am.
Let me explain, “the bubble.” Or, at least the way we do the bubble here.
When I was a kid, my parents were pretty dang conservative. I mean, they’re still conservative now in a “there’s only one right and wrong way to live” sort of way, but back then it was more of a “there’s only one right and wrong way to live, aaaaaaaaand also to think, breathe, eat, and poop,” sort of way. No gray areas. Everything was cut and dry, black and white, strict as strict, and “variance” was a word which they probably wrote into Webster’s to have stricken from the dictionary. Repeatedly.
There just wasn’t a safe place growing up to ever go when it came to anything outside of “right.”
I remember at some point I stopped believing in Santa Claus. My mom for some reason asked me if I still believed, and I remember being so terrified of telling her the truth. It wasn’t safe to do so because… well… she had told me my entire life that Santa was true, and I wasn’t about to get a butt-whoopin’ for somehow knowing otherwise.
And so it was for anything spiritual or religion-related. So it was for anything dating or love related. So it was for anything school related. So it was for anything that they considered to be morally-related in the least. There was no safe place to discuss or ask about anything outside of the very narrow box in which we all were required to live our lives and guide our minds.
I don’t want that for my kid. I don’t want him to be terrified to tell me something so simple as, “dad, I know the Easter bunny is one big crock of crap on a biscuit.” I don’t want him to feel like he might get in trouble for questioning much of anything that I teach him.
And that is why I love the bubble.
But before I tell you about the bubble. Let me tell you, my parents are the bomb.com. They are the best nana and bapa a kid could ask for. They came from a different time, and they have worked really hard to leave those unhealthy parts of generations past in the… well… past. Sure they would like me to be a God fearing, totally straight Mormon who whistles while I swing my scriptures back and forth on a walk to church each Sunday. But they leave me alone about the fact that I just kind of think and live differently.
Anyway, back to the bubble.