There comes a point in every mum’s life when she hears a word her child (or the internet) says… and immediately needs to lie down.
“Skibidi.”
“Rizz.”
“Gyatt.”
“Sigma.”
“Fanum tax.”
“NPC.”
“Ohio.”
What in the fresh hell are we even talking about?
I’m a grown woman. I have stretch marks, a favourite spatula, and a child who won’t nap unless glued to my chest like a baby koala. I don’t have time to learn a new dialect every time the internet’s smallest generation collectively decides that grammar, vowels, and sanity are optional.
And yet, here we are.
So for every mum who has smiled politely while their offspring announced, “That’s so Ohio, no cap,” this one’s for you.
Consider this your Mum Survival Guide to Gen Alpha Slang — a field manual written by a woman running on cold coffee and pure confusion.
“I didn’t survive dial-up internet
just to be defeated by a toilet that sings
the word ‘Skibidi.’”
First Things First: Who Even Are Gen Alpha?
Gen Alpha are the ones currently destroying your Wi-Fi, narrating their lives in Roblox voices, and filming vertical videos of their cereal. They’re the generation born between roughly 2013 and now — the first humans to learn to scroll before they could read.
If Gen Z grew up on TikTok, Gen Alpha were born on it.
They live on YouTube Shorts, they use “Skibidi” as a full emotional sentence, and they think Facebook is something you only hear about in documentaries.
They have never known a world without streaming, Wi-Fi, or the word “slay.” Their first toys were iPads. Their lullabies were unboxing videos. They believe “CapCut” is a personality trait.
We millennials and older Gen Xers grew up rewinding VHS tapes and listening to dial-up tones that could summon demons. Gen Alpha grew up watching a man in a suit fight a toilet with a camera for a head — and they call it entertainment.
It’s not that they’re wrong. It’s that they’re terrifying.
The Gen Alpha Translation Guide (So You Can Stop Googling at 11 p.m.)
Grab your coffee (reheated for the third time), your emotional-support snack, and let’s translate the sounds coming from your child’s mouth before you assume they’ve joined a cult.
“Skibidi”
What you think it means: A word your kid made up while possessed.
What it actually means: A series about toilets with faces that sing and battle camera-headed humans. Yes, this is the hill civilisation dies on.
Example:
Kid: “Skibidi Toilet Ohio Sigma Rizz!”
Translation: Don’t ask. It’s just noise now. Language has left the chat.
“Rizz”
What you think it means: A snack brand.
What it actually means: Short for charisma — your ability to charm or flirt.
Example:
“That kid’s got no rizz.” = “He flirts like a damp sponge.”
I once told EJ he had rizz, and he said, “Is that contagious?” Honestly, not entirely wrong.
“Gyatt”
What you think it means: A typo.
What it actually means: Shouted appreciation of someone’s bum.
Example:
“GYATT damn!” = “That person’s backside deserves applause.”
The only gyatt I care about is “GYATT in the car, we’re late.”
“Sigma”
What you think it means: A Greek letter, or maybe a car part.
What it actually means: A “lone-wolf alpha male” archetype — usually discovered right before a boy starts quoting motivational YouTube shorts.
Example:
Kid: “He’s so sigma.”
Translation: “He thinks emotions are a government scam.”
“Ohio”
What you think it means: A U.S. state.
What it actually means: Anything cursed, weird, or broken.
Example:
“That video was pure Ohio.”
Translation: “That made no sense, and I respect that.”
Somehow, an entire state became slang for chaos. Geography teachers everywhere are sobbing.
“Fanum Tax”
What you think it means: A new rule you missed in the budget.
What it actually means: The right to steal someone else’s food mid-bite.
Example:
Kid: takes your chip “Fanum tax.”
Translation: “Possession is nine-tenths of the lunch.”
Toddlers invented this, Gen Alpha just branded it.
“NPC”
What you think it means: No particular clue.
What it actually means: Non-playable character — someone who seems like a background extra in life.
Example:
“That lady watering plants in silence? Total NPC.”
Translation: “She looks peaceful and that confuses me.”
“67”
What you think it means: Maths homework.
What it actually means: Nothing. Everything. Chaos itself.
It started from a viral song and now means “whatever,” “meh,” or simply “I am a child of the algorithm.”
Example:
Kid: “That dinner was six-seven.”
Translation: “It existed. Moving on.”
Sometimes they just yell “67!” into the void for fun. And honestly, same.
“Delulu”
What you think it means: Something contagious.
What it actually means: Delusional, but make it aspirational.
Example:
“I’m delulu but I just know I’ll win the raffle.”
Translation: “Let me have my fantasy.”
I’m delulu enough to believe I’ll fold the laundry before next week.
“It’s giving…”
What you think it means: Giving what? Back pain?
What it actually means: It’s serving a vibe.
Example:
“This outfit is giving teacher-core slay.”
Translation: “You look confident and slightly unhinged.”
When I say “it’s giving,” I mean “this child is giving me grey hairs.”
“Cap / No Cap”
What you think it means: Hats.
What it actually means: Lies / No lies.
Example:
“That lasagna slapped, no cap.”
Translation: “That was genuinely delicious.”
Meanwhile, when I say “no cap,” it’s because the bottle lid is missing again.
“Mid”
What you think it means: The middle of something.
What it actually means: Mediocre, bland, barely worth existing.
Example:
“That show was mid.”
Translation: “My attention span expired halfway through.”
Every cold cup of tea I’ve reheated? Perfectly mid.
“Some days I don’t need a translator,
I need a priest, a Wi-Fi signal, and a nap.”
Why Are They Like This?
Because they were raised by the algorithm.
We were raised by parents, teachers, and boredom.
They were raised by TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and chaotic Minecraft streamers yelling into headsets.
We had to wait a week for the next episode of Home and Away.
They can watch a thousand jump-cut edits before breakfast — all set to a sped-up remix of a song that already came out yesterday.
Their humor is lightning-fast, surreal, and proudly nonsensical. They don’t do punchlines; they do entropy. They laugh at frogs dancing in space helmets.
They find emotional depth in videos titled “Sigma Skibidi Ohio Core Edit (Sad Ending)”. And when you ask them what any of it means, they’ll shrug and say “67.”
We grew up with The Simpsons. They grew up with a man fighting a toilet on YouTube and somehow learned empathy from it.
It’s not stupidity — it’s survival.
They’re trying to make sense of a world on fire: climate change, cost-of-living chaos, and adults arguing over whether oat milk is “woke.” Absurd slang is how they cope. It’s the linguistic equivalent of a stress ball — weird, loud, and vaguely sticky.
So next time your kid says “Skibidi Ohio 67,” just know: they’re not broken.
They’re fluent in nonsense because nonsense feels safer than reality.
Why This Is Extra Exhausting for Mums
Because we already speak six dialects before breakfast.
We translate toddler screams into meal requests.
We decode passive-aggressive texts from relatives.
We interpret partner grunts like we’re at the U.N. summit for Emotional Miscommunication.
And now we’re expected to decipher sentences that sound like someone sneezed into a Wi-Fi router? Absolutely not.
I am tired. I am wearing pajama pants that could qualify as heirlooms. I have not peed alone since 2021. If I say “vibe check,” I mean “Have I had caffeine?”
Let the children have their chaos. Let them talk in riddles and toilet songs and cryptic basketball numbers.
We’ve earned the right to sit back, sip our cold coffee, and whisper, “It’s giving too much.”
Because we speak a greater language — one made of sighs, side-eyes, and snack diplomacy.
“Some days I’m less a mum,
more a translator for a small human
who speaks Wi-Fi.”
The Mum Dialect (AKA The Only Language We’re Fluent In)
Here’s the thing: we already have our own dialect, and it’s more powerful than any TikTok trend. We don’t need “rizz” or “delulu” because we speak fluent Mum — a language forged in the fires of sleepless nights and four thousand repeats of Bluey.
Our dialect is made up of the subtle weapons only mothers possess. It’s the threats whispered through gritted teeth in the supermarket aisle, the ones that sound like, “If you don’t put that back right now…” but somehow carry the weight of a Supreme Court ruling. It’s the silent glance across a messy lounge room that communicates entire essays to your partner: You’d better help me clean this before I lose my ever-loving mind.
We speak in the language of snacks — because nothing says “I love you” or “please stop screaming in public” like a well-timed sultana box pulled from the depths of a nappy bag. We have an advanced system of tonal “Okays”: the sharp “Okay” that means stop right now, the soft “Okay” that means I hear you but I’m too tired to fight, the stretched “Okaaaay” that means fine, you win, and the deadly quiet “Okay” that signals you should probably start writing your will.
It’s not pretty. It’s not cool. Nobody’s making viral edits about it on TikTok. But it’s effective. Entire households are run on the invisible grammar of Mum. If Gen Z wants to talk in vibes and riddles, that’s their problem. We’ve already mastered a language that can move mountains, stop tantrums, and communicate love and rage in the same breath.
Final Thoughts: Let the Teens Be Delulu, We’ll Be Tired
Gen Alpha can keep their mid delulu skibidi no-cap vibes. I’ll be over here vibing with magnesium powder and celebrating the rare moment when I get to drink tea while it’s still hot.
We may never be fluent in their language, but we speak Mum. And Mum is eternal.
So slay, queens. Or whatever the kids are calling it now. I’m dead. No cap.
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