Socratic Questions, Kant, and Badly Worded Questions: A Survival Guide for Mothers with Philosopher Sons

My oldest son is a philosopher.

That little detail should come with a warning sign, because you can’t innocently show up and ask him for his humble opinion. Or tell him some random nonsense that just crossed your mind without feeling like you’re appearing before the Holy Inquisition itself.

No, for fuck’s sake.

With Brayan, one simple opinion, an innocent question, or a perfectly ordinary conclusion can turn into an all-out battle about morality, human existence, and whatever other bullshit never crossed my mind when I had the brilliant idea of letting him wander into my thoughts without supervision.

That’s when I deeply regret opening my mouth.

Let’s get one thing straight: I’ve always liked giving my point of view, even when nobody asked for it.

Philosophy, ethics, religion, fucking politics…

(Talking about that pack of thieves is tempting, but let’s keep quiet.)

See? This habit of getting lost in my thoughts… I’ve already wandered off from what I was saying. Hahahaha. What a stupid fucking habit.

But seriously, back to my little philosopher… The thing is, human behavior and existence have always interested me. And to me, philosophy is practical. I’m a street-level philosopher, the kind who learned to think through bruises and bills. The whole thing started when my kid decided to study philosophy, and now he has a degree, a diploma, and thinker glasses—like that Smurf who lectures the whole village and doesn’t even spare Papa Smurf.

What I called thinking, reasoning, and making decisions turned out to be, depending on the context:

• —Socratic questioning.
• —Epistemology.
• —Ontology.
• —Phenomenology.

That’s when my competitive streak made me read, study, and research a little more every day. I may not have a degree, but nobody’s going to call me ignorant either.

Here’s an example. One day I innocently told him—anyone who knows me already knows all about my innocence and humility, hahahaha—that the corner store had given me too much change. I was as innocent as ever and happier than a pig in a brand-new bow tie, so off I ran like an idiot to tell him.

But I forgot I wasn’t telling this story to just anybody. I was facing my philosopher inquisitor, and things escalated beyond anything I expected. To me, it was a divine blessing; to him, it became a debate about distributive justice, socioeconomic morality, and Kant’s categorical imperative—an elegant way of suggesting I was a shoplifter from the neighborhood store. I left the kitchen feeling like the most immoral person on the planet over one blessed bit of incorrect change. God was trying to help a poor, struggling woman…and academia ruined my miracle!

And if you don’t get it, go study philosophy!

Moral of the story: In the home of a philosopher with a degree and impeccable morals, ignorance comes at a high price, and honesty… costs an arm and a leg. But I learned my lesson: now I’m secretly studying Socratic questioning—not to win an argument with my son, but to defend my ‘divine blessings’ with solid arguments the next time he tries to light the bonfire under me.