“How did Nikki handle it?” Andy asked laying next to me in bed.
“I don’t know?” I thought. “She didn’t really ever say anything. I used to wonder if she even saw it?”
“How could she not see it, we all saw it!” He laughed.
And we did. We all saw it. We all saw the mustache on her 11 year old son’s face.
Not a purposeful, iconic, Freddie Mercury mustache, but a sparse, yet at the same time long, catch me outside how ’bout dattttt sun catching those wiry strands of intense puberty mustache kind of mustache.
Now, at the time my kids were still small, and I was oblivious to the hormonal hellscape before me. It was easy to sit there and wonder, no but for real, do you see the dark shadow above the lip of your tiny cherub, because we all see it and he’s stroking it while he talks to us.
A habit, I’ve decided, that is some sort of leftover evolutionary thing. If there’s hair there, guys have to touch it.
But now that I am here, in this place of puberty and change, I will concede to the blind spot.
Thankfully, I’ve prepared for this day.
I made a pact with my fellow mom-of-son friends; if one of our kids gets to the point that the unsettling, uneven, hombre colored, kinda creepy mustache needs to go, we’ll quietly tell each other.
Last weekend, I got the mom-bat signal. A gentle hand on my arm and a squeeze, “it’s time,” she whispered with a nod.
“What? No.” I shook my head. “I’m not going to hand my infant 12 year old son a razor and show him how to shave off part of his face!”
“He can barely spread peanut butter, and now I’m supposed to give him a weapon?” I breathed into the paper bag.
“Clearly,” I snipped, “You need your eyesight checked.”
There it is. The mom blind spot. My friends saw a mustache. […]
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