My Son Talks Weird

I blew out 52 candles on my birthday cake last month, but that didn’t make me feel old. Yeah, there’s a conspicuous bald spot in center of my scalp and deepening crow’s feet pecking at the corners of my eyes, but those are life’s battle scars. They don’t bother me at all.

Simply put, I don’t feel old. 

I hold fast to the hypothesis that age is just a number, but I must admit I’ve recently encountered subtle signposts in my life that point to the possibility I’m not a spring chicken anymore. This weighty prospect came courtesy of my kid.

My 12 year old son has become something of a "man of the world" in the past year. His knowledge of computers and video games is intimidating, he’s learned to make pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs with the best of them, and his physical appearance is transforming into that of a handsome, strapping young gentleman. 

But there is a problem: I can’t understand a damn word he says. 

You see, my son talks weird. He speaks a foreign language indecipherable to ears older than 18 years. His swinging gibberish has given me reason to pause and reflect on a frightening prospect: just because I don’t feel old doesn’t mean I’m not. 

It started with lockdown in 2020. Tik-Tok became extremely popular, but my son wasn’t impressed. "It’s nothing but people throwing clout."

"Throwing clout?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, they’re trying to get popular."

Curious phrases abound when I eavesdrop as he plays Xbox. Wearing a microphone headset and gripping plastic controllers his sweaty hands, periodic grunts of "Bruh!" or "Oh, straight fire!" or "I’m weak!" issue forth from his squeaky, cracking voice as he communicates with his friends online. 

In February 2020 we saw KISS. The show was met with descriptors like "Savage!" and "GOAT!" ...which I guess meant it was pretty good. (photo by author)

One afternoon I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, revisiting an old Def Leppard album on the hi-fi when my son zipped past me en route to the refrigerator. As the Joe Elliott emphatically exalted rock of ages, my son bobbed his head to the rhythm and professed, "This music slaps."

"Hey, what’s wrong with it?" I asked defensively. In my world, no one disrespects Def Leppard.

"There’s nothing wrong with it, Dad. It’s lit!"

Lit? That’s good, right?

As our music discussion continued, I proudly claimed I could name the members of every ‘80s hair band, recite every album released in chronological order and recall the producer of each one (my close friends will confirm this is, sadly, true).

Rather than being impressed with this heap of useless knowledge, my son shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly, and mumbled, "Weird flex, but okay."

What?

When I ask him what he’d like for lunch, I’m given a laid back, “Whatevs.”

More than once my son has walked out of the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet’s acting sus again." 

"It’s doing what?"

"It’s acting sus."

What the hell?

During one of his middle school football games, he excitedly told me one of his teammates "threw shade" at an opponent. Thankfully, no flags were thrown.

Speaking of school, his favorite subject is social studies because they discuss current events and it keeps him "woke." The kids are invited to share their insight on the day’s news, but if your "fam" doesn’t agree with your opinion, you might get "ghosted" in the cafeteria during lunch.

Sounds serious.

There are lots of cute girls in his class, but much to my relief he doesn’t have a “bae.” At least not yet.

Me and my rapscallion (photo by the wife)

I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wishes kids came with an owner’s manual (being a man, I probably wouldn’t read it, but still...). Certainly a primary responsibility of parenting is offering guidance to your child through this complicated world. Trying to be a good father, I started rehearsing a heartfelt conversation with my boy ("Son, you can’t keep speaking like a damn fool and expect a civilized human being to understand you. You’ve got to grow up at some point."). 

And then it hit me. 

I was abruptly met with a chilling reality from my own youth: I went through my adolescence navigating the vernacular of Valley Girls.

• "Grody to the max.”
• "Like, whatever."
• "Oh my god, like, gag me with a spoon."

The more I thought about it, the more indiscernible my own generation sounded: 

"Gnarly, dude!"  "Radical!" "Tubular!" "Eat my shorts!" "I’m gonna ralph."  "Take a chill pill." "That’s bogus." "Bite me!"

Yes, I confess I actually spoke that way in the '80s. In fact, some of those phrases still work their way into my daily lingo. After all, I was young once; maybe I never completely grew up? Maybe that teenage angst is still alive and well in my marrow? Maybe a drop of youth deep in my soul still oozes to the surface every time Def Leppard blasts through the living room stereo?

Like, totally. 

On second thought, I’m going to skip that sit down conversation with my boy. He can keep speaking his funky little dialect as long as he wants. I’m going to encourage him to stay young for as long as he can. That’s my fatherly advice.

Age really is just a number. I still feel pretty bodacious, dude.