I was driving my kids to their swimming lessons the other day when I listened, a bit amused and a bit horrified, as disagreement escalated into full-fledged debate over what they clearly considered a crucial point of contention: Do leprechauns wear brown boots or black?

They agreed that leprechauns always wear green clothes (of course) but, in addition to the boot issue, sparred on whether we can't see leprechauns because they're too small or because they're too quick.

"What's the truth, Mommy?" my older son asked.

Instead of answering with the truth truth, something on par with, "I have failed as a parent," I dodged:

"I don't know. I've never seen a leprechaun."

My kids learned about leprechauns, obviously, in school, the same place they learned about elves (on shelves) and the tooth fairy.

They haven't stopped talking, or arguing, about any of them, and I find myself marveling at how, in many places, it's perfectly acceptable for teachers to instruct on the existence of fake Christmas sweatshop employees but not on real life — people who actually exist and events that actually took place.

It's not OK to teach history anymore (if it's something that makes anyone feel guilty or sad) and it's not acceptable to talk about anyone being gay or trans because, apparently, admitting that some men marry men is worse than vividly describing the plot of "Fifty Shades of Grey." Science is too controversial, and not even a teacher with a master's degree is allowed to question the beliefs of parents who think vaccines make you magnetic.

Perfectly fine in school, however, is asking kids how much the tooth fairy brought them for their first tooth. Thanks to that instructional topic, I now have a bone to pick with the parents of one of my son's classmates, who gave their child a $100 bill for losing a tooth.

"Does the tooth fairy always give $100?" my son asked in amazement.

"No, she most certainly does not," I replied firmly.

Thankfully, someone else (maybe a fellow classmate, who even knows anymore) told him an absurd story about the tooth fairy using the smuggled teeth to build a giant castle.

"That must have been a super important piece of the castle," my son said, justifying the largess.

"Exactly. A cornerstone piece, maybe."

I then had to explain what a cornerstone is, which was fine — good, even. If he's going to learn about mythical tooth-hoarders, maybe I can sneak in some facts along with it.

And facts should be on the curriculum, don't you think?

My younger son came home from preschool and recounted several facts about his classmates: one has a peanut allergy; another has two dads. A third threw up on the table and the teachers had to move everyone, even though I'm told it still smelled from the other side of the room.

These are facts. They wouldn't bother me as school topics even if I had a problem with gay marriage, because the idea that my 3-year-old has any clue what being married sometimes entails (if you're lucky, and you've already put the kids to bed and done the dishes and laundry and you have any energy left) is laughable.

Now, not every parent who wants teachers to avoid contentious topics is a bigot, and you can be forgiven for worrying that kids are susceptible.

But every day our children encounter, in forms both benign and foul, topics we may wish they didn't. And some of those lessons are less delicately delivered than we would hope.

But that's pretty much life, isn't it?

If we can't handle the thought that our children will learn about this messy, gorgeous world, thanks to, or, in spite of us, well, homeschooling's always an option.

But in public schools, and on TikTok, and from their babysitters and friends, they learn all kinds of fiction.

Shouldn't they, sometimes, be exposed to facts, as well?

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: LollipopPhotographyUK at Pixabay