Having five boys is like running a five-ring circus where the animals have unionized, and they all have wildly different acts. One kid? Total mystery—he treats personal details of his life like he’s the CIA and you don’t have clearance. Another? Buckle up, because he’s about to give you the play-by-play of his love life like he’s the star of his own reality dating show.

That first one? You’d get more out of a brick wall with a lock on it than you would out of him about his crush. The second one? Oh, he’s the guy who’ll drop gems like, “Her tongue tasted like Cheetos—in a good way,” while you’re just trying to choke down your coffee with breakfast. And while you're mentally spiraling into, "Did he just say Cheetos?" you realize, “Well, at least he feels comfortable talking to me about this stuff.” So instead of diving face-first into the Raisin Bran to escape, you end up oddly grateful... even though some details should probably remain in the vault.

So, imagine my surprise when my Fort Knox son had a “rash” on his neck. It was a totally normal day. We’re in the car, probably on our way to some important mom-taxi destination, when I glance over at my teenage son and bam—I see it. Right there, on his neck. The undeniable, reddish-purple mark of his first hickey (subdued by some concealer that was probably mine).

Of course, I immediately do what any sane mom would do—internally freak out. My brain’s going a million miles a minute. “When was the last time I talked with him about sex? Was it June? Oh, God. I can’t remember. That was like four years ago in dog years.”

So, naturally, I blurt out, “Hey, what’s that on your neck?”

Cue the legendary teen shrug: “Oh, this? It’s just a rash. Like the one I had in 6th grade that one time after I ate a soy burger.”

Uh-huh, a rash. Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what it is, just like how I “accidentally” bought three pairs of shoes online last week. Now, I’m stuck in the classic parent dilemma: Do I call him out? Do I ask who’s been nibbling on his neck? Or do I just hand him some cream and pretend like we’re still living in an innocent, pre-hickey world?

But I know better. This is my chance. This is the universe throwing me a big, flashing neon sign that says: "THIS IS A TEACHABLE MOMENT!" Damn, universe. So, of course, I dive in—right there in the car, trapped together with nowhere for either of us to escape.

Step One: Offer the Cream… But Also, the Truth (No Cap)

Because I’m still trying to maintain a shred of denial, I start with, “Oh, a rash? You want some cream for that?”

He declines, obviously, because he’s 16 and clearly knows everything about the universe and his skin’s needs. But now that the awkwardness door is open, it’s time to go for it. I take a deep breath and say, “Well, rash or not, this seems like a good time to talk about, you know, other things.”

You can practically hear his eyes rolling into the back of his head. But guess what, bro? We’re doing this. I am going there.

Step Two: Sliding Consent into Casual Conversation (While You’re Trapped in Traffic)

I start slow. Easy. Don’t spook the teen. “So, listen. Whether that’s a rash or a hickey, I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about something important—consent.”

His eyes are still rolling. He’s heard it before, but I press on because I’m a mom on a mission. “It’s like this. You know how if you want to borrow someone’s fries, you ask first? Well, same deal. Everyone’s gotta be on board. No assuming that someone’s okay with being involved just because you’re into it. Even if they’re giving you… you know… rashes.”

I feel like I’m bombing a stand-up routine. He’s now staring out the window like he’s hoping to spot an escape hatch. But the point’s been made. I even snuck in a joke. We’re making progress, people.

Step Three: Bring Up Sexting, Because Why Not Just Jump Off the Deep End?

Since we’re already wallowing in a pit of awkwardness, I figure, why stop now? Let’s keep the discomfort rolling and throw sexting into the mix.

“While we’re on the topic,” I say, all casual-like, “I know you’re smart enough not to send or ask for any pictures that you wouldn’t want me to see, right?”

This is where the real horror flashes across his face. “MOM!”

“Oh, yes,” I continue, now on a roll. “Because once it’s out there, you can’t get it back. And trust me, the internet has a long memory. Like, I still get ads for a crochet llama kit I clicked on once in 2017. So if you’re ever tempted, just remember: What would Mom think?”

I see him visibly shudder, which tells me my point hit home. Mission accomplished.

Step Four: Normalize the Weirdness and Wrap It Up with a Side of Cream

At this point, the air is thick with embarrassment, and I can practically hear his teenage brain begging for the conversation to end. But like any good-ish mom, I know this isn’t the last of many awkward talks we’ll have.

So, I say, “Look, I know this is weird and uncomfortable. But it’s important. We’ve talked about it before and we’ll talk about this stuff again. And if you ever need answers to real questions, or more cream for your rash, you know where to find me.”

He mumbles something that I’m going to assume is a thank you and promptly slinks out of the car like a teenager who just survived the world’s most awkward hostage situation.

But here’s the thing—I’ve done it before, a lot ... and I’ll do it again. My discomfort be damned because it’s too important. Does he love these talks? It's a hard pass for him. Do I? Sometimes I feel like my head is swirling around in the Skibidi Toilet, and I'm failing miserably. But someday (maybe in, like, ten years), he’ll appreciate that I cared enough to drive into that swamp of discomfort.

Final Thoughts: Hickeys, Cream, and Laughing Through the Awkwardness

So, if you find yourself in a similar situation, staring down a questionable mark on your son’s neck, don’t panic. Lean in, offer some cream, and tackle the uncomfortable conversations head-on—because if you don’t, who will? Plus, it’ll make for a great story later (just ask my 30-year-old son).

Remember, humor is your friend, and always keep a tube of cream on hand. You never know when it might come in handy.

About the author

Chelsea Jackson Garcia is a Licensed Professional Counselor (LPC) in Texas and an NBCC National Certified Counselor. She owns SHAW Psychotherapy, an inclusive private practice in Waco, TX, specializing in adolescents and women.

Disclaimer: The information presented and contained is for entertainment value only (Just remember, laughter is great, but therapy is even better) and should not be construed as mental health service or medical care.