The Book of Manners for Mothers

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I am not supposed to say “Make me a sammich, bitch!”
Not even in jest.
Not supposed to say “Baby got Bounce.”

Mothers are not supposed to
flash peace signs
break into spontaneous Douggie
or use the interrogative “Dude?”
the statement “Dude. Seriously.”
or the exclamatory “Duuuuuuuuuude!”

Nowhere in my Book of Manners for Mothers
does it give the reply when my teenager turns to me
asks why:
Anyone would buy scented condoms?
Why there is lube in the .88 cent bin?
Will I take a friend to planned parenthood?
Explain how you know you had an orgasm?

I want to shout “learn it on the streets like I did.”
But the truth is that a sweetly
fumbling boy
taught me love
on a fold out couch
as the rain fell in sheets.
1979,
I was dumb as a rock at the bottom of a muddy pond.

In my reality now:
Scents are for the bored or adventurous, often the same.
Never trust a pregnancy test from the dollar store.
I will happily call a mother but I won’t help a child lie.
And by the way,
Trust me, you’ll know.

I will hold my girl tight
knowing the moment to let go
is preceded by an agonized
“Mom!”
Then
do a little Douggie
as she walks away.