No Son Of Mine

This past weekend we went to Adventureland in Des Moines, and as we drove home Ben summarized his experience at the theme park:

“So, like, I got kinda sick on that ride that went, like, in circle. And Mom it was, like, really funny when you had to, like, jump into the pool to, like, save me.”

It was as if fingernails scratched across a chalkboard. I winced and instinctively threw my hands to my ears to protect them from the painful clatter. My blood boiled and rage and anger coursed through my body as I contemplated what my son just said:

Like????

I have tolerated my children coming home from school in December and telling me about how God died for their sins. I have looked the other way when Noah reported to me jobs that were “girl jobs” and jobs that were “boy jobs.” I have accepted as perfectly normal the obnoxious behaviors they have picked up from their friends, such as rolling their eyes at me, heaving a heavy sigh and saying “Whatever, Mom.”

But this…

This. Is. The. Last. Straw.

Let me be clear: I was not a nationally ranked speaker on the speech and debate team in college only to raise a child who channels Moon Unit Zappa. I can not spend more than 40% of my professional life relying on my public speaking skills while my son becomes the latest victim of a pernicious verbal epidemic. I will not stand idly by as Ben is heralded into the throngs of the inarticulate. No son of mine will be possessed by the evil spirits of the San Fernando Valley. One way or another, I will banish the Mall-speak demons from him!

Within seconds my car careened across three lanes of traffic. I jammed on the brakes and we came to a screeching halt. I turned my icy stare to Ben in the back seat. He sat there, looking at me through inquisitive and earnest eyes and asked: “Like, are we going home or what?”

“Ben,” I said to him, “I want you to tell me about this weekend again, but this time I want you to say it without using the word ‘like.”

“Why?” he asked.

I took a deep breath as I searched for the words to convey the fear and loathing his new habit had instilled in me. How could I explain that use of such verbal garbage was a certain path to intellectual underachievement? Would he even understand that the word “like” is a gateway term to more linguistic imprecision and insipience? All at once my child’s future became clear: One day his speech is peppered with “like,” and the next thing you know he’s wearing baggy pants, uttering phrases such as, “Dude, that was like so totally rad, you know?” and “I was all, ‘I’m so sure’ all the while cruising down the street on his skateboard without a helmet.

I shut my eyes, shuddered, and shook the image from my mind. I told Ben: “Because talking that way is what people call a “juvenile speech pattern. And if you talk with a juvenile speech pattern when you grow up, people won’t think you are very smart, and you won’t get a good job. And then you won’t be able to buy any toys or books or candy.”

Unimpressed, Ben looked at me, yawned, shrugged his shoulders and said “Like, whatever, Mom. It’s totally no biggie.”

Does anyone have the number of a good exorcist?