Let the Deflating began!

I just returned home from watching my son “Represent” his class at the 3rd grade spelling bee.
As I walked into the room and saw him sitting at the front of the room, with his little “participant” ribbon amongst his Fellow Spellers, my heart exploded with pride. “That’s my boy! My amazing, unique, wonderful little boy.” I wanted to shout it out for all of the 3rd graders, parents and teacher to hear. Instead, I stood in the back quietly, giving him the “thumbs up” and blowing him kisses.
He was the last of the 10 kids to go and his word was “equipment.” He had a pad of paper and pencil and ONE MINUTE to spell the word. I thought he’d pass through to the next round without any problems. However, his nerves had taken over and instead of taking his time and getting it right, he blurted the word out as fast as he could.
“Equipment. E-Q-U-I-M-E-N-T. Equipment.”
AH! He was disqualified in the first round.
I could see the look of disappointment on his face, he was on the verge of tears. So, instead of scolding him for not taking his time and using the pen and paper to spell it out first, I walked over to him and said “I’m so proud of you, you have NOTHING to feel bad about. Out of all the kids sitting in this room, you made the top 10. Hold your head high and be proud of that.”
(Honest! I said all of that! The only thing missing from that Awesome Parental Speech was the cheesy soap opera background music.)
I meant what I said. However, I’m an extremely competitive person who has a hard time accepting defeat and since my son doesn’t read this, I’m going to go ahead and vent here real quick.
OMG! WHY DIDN’T HE USE THE PAPER? WHY DID HE RUSH? OMG! THERE WAS NO NEED TO RUSH. AAAAHHH. AND AHHH! HIS COUSIN MOVED ON TO THE NEXT ROUND AND NOW I’LL HAVE TO HEAR THE BRAGGING FROM MY SISTER AND MOTHER IN LAW AND AAAAHHHH! WHHHYYYYYY?
The truth is, I’m proud of that kid for making it as far as he did. He’s an incredibly smart boy and I don’t know that he’ll ever truly understand how proud he makes me on a daily basis.
But next time, use the pad of paper, kid.
Ha! I kid! I’m TOTALLY OVER IT.
Yesterday, I did not chicken out and I did go to see my doctor. The weight gain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Five pounds. But still, five freaking pounds. But! [weight watcher leader mode] I’m not going to obsess over it! Because today, it’s all about being positive! And “looking at the bright side!” Because being negative breeds more negativity! DOWN WITH THE NEGATIVITY! Hey! at least it wasn’t 10 pounds! Positivity. P-O-S-I-T-I-V-I-T-Y. Positivity! [/weight watcher leader mode]
Excuse me for a minute. I just threw up in my mouth a lot.
My Doc ordered a buttload of tests, which I have yet to go have because I had G-Unit with me and I didn’t feel like trying to pee in a cup with her standing in between my legs giggling at my “Pachina.” I can’t remember all of the tests that he ordered (I’m not exaggerating when I said “Buttload.”) but I do know that he’s checking my thyroid and having x-rays done on my lower back. He also gave me a shot of B-12 and prescribed muscle relaxers because “my back is tight and full of knots.”
When he prescribed the muscle relaxers, he was all “You’re not still breastfeeding, are you?”
And I was all “Ummm. Yes! I am still producing and distrubiting the Tittymilk!” And he was all “well, you can’t take these pills then and you really need to be taking these pills” and I was all “Ok! I’ll stop today! No! Really! I will! Because Girlfriend kinda thinks she owns them and ha! ha! GET THIS! She acts like a dirty old man when she sees them. She giggles and wraps them in her arms and says “Oh boobies. Niiiiiiice boobies. Oh Boobies.” so, it’s time to stop anyway because SHE DOES NOT OWN THEM.” And he was all “Right, you tell her that they belong to Daddy.” And I was all “Uhhhh…um, hahaha, uh, yeah, daddy wants his titties back. hahah Um..I shaved my vagina for you today. hahah. Um, Hellooooo akwardness! CAN I GO NOW HAHA?”
(Word to my doctor: Having you talk about my boobs in “non clinical terms kinda makes me feel all weird inside so please don’t ever do it again because I don’t like feeling akward when you’re standing next to me.)
I’m happy (and yet very, very sad and conflicted because oh my GOD, this part of my life is coming to an end and my heart? It’s kind of hurting.) to report that my daughter did not partake of THE BOBS at all yesterday and has not partaken of them today either. She only asked for them once, but has since seemed to have forgotten about them (Except for when I was changing and she saw them and said “Ha! Ha! Boooobs. HI BOOBS!”) I expected it to be much harder on her than it’s actually turning out to be. It is I who is the one having a hard time with this. I’m sitting here feeling rejected, sad and as if I NO LONGER HAVE A PURPOSE IN LIFE.
So, it’s official. Operation “Let The Tittymilk DRY UP” is in full effect and I am no longer a “Breastfeeding Mother.”
*Sobs*

I think I’m going to hide now.

Weight loss is not going well.
I have no idea how much I’ve gained, but I know I’ve gained. I can tell by the way my clothes are fitting me.
I’ve not talked a lot about my “health” because, well, you know how I can be a little dramatic and how I always think I’m dying?
Yeah. That.
But, I’ve not been feeling well. Still tired all of the time, my hair is falling out (AWESOME!) I can’t sleep at night because my right leg falls asleep, my hands go numb and swell up. (Which explains why I feel tired all of the time, I’m up half the night beating the shit out of my leg trying to get the blood circulating in it.)
The lack of sleep has made me too exhausted to go to the gym as often as I need to go to continue with the weight loss. (Which is at LEAST 5 days a week.) I went on Friday night and left in tears because I didn’t even have the energy to do 30 minutes on the eliptical.
I am feeling like a huge failure these days. I’m very ashamed of myself and my inability to lose these last 40-ish pounds. So ashamed, I’m so ashamed of myself that I’ve actually avoided going to my doctor because I don’t want him to know I’ve gained weight. Tony’s been on my case for weeks to see my doctor, and I keep making up excuses. If he knew the real reason that I haven’t gone to see him , he’d KICK MY ASS.
Something that I never told you people is that a few months back, my doctor offered to put me on weight loss pills. We were talking about how hard it’s been for me to lose weight, about how long it’s taking me, about how far I’ve come, but yet, how far I still have to go.
The next day, he called to tell me that he was willing to do something for me that he does for very few patients.
“Y, I’m willing to put you on weight loss pills. I know you’ve worked hard, and I’m willing to give you something to help get you to your goal. You’ll have to have blood work done every 30 days and be monitored closely, but I’m willing to do that for you.”
I’m not going to lie. I was tempted. So very, very tempted. After all of these months, after all of the hours spent in the gym, after all of the obsessing over how many “points” each damn piece of food I put into my mouth was, I was so ready to just “pop a pill” and watch the fat melt off.
Oh yes, I was THIS CLOSE to taking the easy way out of my Fat Problems.
After much thought (about possibly getting greasy, explosive ass syndrome, or you know, causing liver damage) I decided to NOT take him up on his offer to take the pills. “I can do this myself!” I said proudly. “Thank you, but no thank you, I can do this!”
Ha! I lied! I’ve not done what I swore I could do without the pills. How embarrassing. And that is why I’ve not been to see my doctor, because I feel like a giant jackass.
I’ve put all of my feelings of shame and embarrassment about my weight aside and have made an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Not sure I’m going to actually KEEP the appointment, but hey, at least I made the effort to actually make an appointment.

I can’t believe I just wrote a post about “my hair.”

Today, I have an appointment to get my haircut. I haven’t had my haircut since November. That’s craziness for a woman who used to get her hair cut and colored every 6 weeks.
Funny how life changes after you quit your job to take care of your three (THREE!) children. No more money for things like “haircuts” or “dye jobs.”
I had long hair for most of my life. But that all changed a few months after I got married and decided that I wanted a perm.
Not just any perm. A spiral perm.
Do y’all remember the Spiral Perm? It was all the rage in the early 90’s. Kinda like how the ““Merm was all the rage in the 80’s.


Oh! The Merm! How I still long to have Perm Sex everytime I see that picture. Look at me, getting all distracted by my husband’s Merm. This post isn’t even about him! But MY GOD. The Merm.
Ahem. Back to MY Perm.
My mom’s very best friend was a hairdresser and agreed to give me A Spiral Perm. I trusted her completely, which turned out to be a very bad mistake. The Perm didn’t take because my hair was so long and thick, that it was too much for the perm to handle and it refused to hold the curl.
“You need layers.” She tells me AFTER having spent hours in a chair with horrid smelling chemicals burning the shit out of my scalp.
A couple of weeks later, I agreed to have layers cut and redo the perm. Oh my God. I hated it. It was horrible. So, later that night, I decided to go buy a chemical straightner and rid myself of The Perm Head.
My poor, sweet virgin hair. What was once a shiny, split end free head of hair was now a burnt, crisp mess. I’ll never forget standing in front of the bathroom mirror sobbing my eyes over the damage I had caused to my precious hair.
The next day I went to a professional hair dresser who was NOT my mother’s best friend and had my hair chopped off. And for the first time in my adult life, I had short hair.
I hated it at first, but eventually I grew to love it. It was easy to take care of, it was bouncy and “fun.”
Who knew! Hair could be fun!
I never was able to grow it long after that. I loved the short hair too much. And man, the compliments I would get about how “short hair really framed my face” made me love it even more. I did grow it out a few times for certain events (like my sister’s wedding) but for the most part, short hair was My Thang.
When I went through my depression, I gained a lot of weight. Especially after I started taking the anti depressant drugs. I started to let my hair grow because my face was too fat for short hair.
What hair has to do with weight, I do not know, but I do know that I feel like I’m “too fat” for short hair. I feel like if I cut it off, my face will look ENORMOUS. There’s a “security” I feel in having hair that covers my fat arms and hides my double chin.
My hair is longer now than it’s been in 12 years and I WANT to cut it off, because, um, I think that I am going bald but shhhhhh because people will think I’m crazy, because I also think that I have tumors and various other diseases that the doctors just can’t seem to find. But, HELLO? Why is my right leg going numb every night? summer is coming and I’d love to not have to deal with all of this hair hanging everywhere, but, I don’t know that I’m ready to let it go yet.
It’s just hair! Get over it! It will grow back!
I know, right? And yet, I sit here with knots in my stomach and kind of wanting to puke at the thought of letting someone chop it off.

My heart. It hurts.

For the past few days, everytime I look at my oldest son, I cry.
I cry because I can no longer pick him up, hold him in my lap and bite his little cheeks.
I cry because the adorable little toddler who used to stand no taller than my knees and who would raise his hands high in the air so that I could pick him up, is now as tall as I am.
I cry because the precious little boy who used to be so proud to have his mommy walk him to class everyday is now a pimply faced teenager who doesn’t even want me to get out of the car when I take him to school.
I cry because as of last month, I have to buy his shoes from the “mens” department.
I cry because he no longer thinks girls have cooties, but watches them with a curious eye when they walk by.
I cry because the little boy who used to walk around in a Ninja Turle Jumpsuit doing kicks and turns now walks around with a walkman singing rock songs and bobbing his head to the music.
I cry because the little boy who wanted nothing more than for his mommy to read him a story or play catch out in the front yard is now to busy hanging out with friends to give his mommy the time of day.
I cry because the first child I concieved, the beautiful little baby boy who made me a mother, my little “Nunu” is growing into a young man right before my eyes and as proud as I am of the man he’s becoming, my heart wishes I could stop time, rewind it and let him be my little boy for just a little while longer.

And so began a lifelong pattern of making “bad choices” with scissors.

There was a period of time where the church I grew up in went all “Cult.” They started preaching crazy things from the pulpit. Things like “Christian women didn’t wear makeup, because that made them Jezebel whores” or “Women had to wear dresses because ONLY MEN CAN WEAR PANTS.”
Also? Women had to have long hair. Pretty long hair.
As a young girl, I wanted nothing more than to have bangs. You see, I had this crazy widows peak and when I’d wear my hair back, people would make fun of me. On more than one occassion, I was called “Squiggy” (from Happy Days.) Kids are so cruel! I asked my parents if I could cut bangs, but the answer was always “Absolutely not!”
One night, whilst in the bathroom, I started playing with my hair to see what I would look like with bangs. I pulled some hair to my forehead and held it there. It was in that moment I came up with a brilliant idea. I thought “if I cut a little piece of bang, no one will ever notice and I can get a better idea of what I would look like with bangs!”
I got the scissors, took a chunk of hair from my widows peak and chopped it off.
There, in the middle of my forehead, layed one piece of bang. The minute I saw it, I panicked. How in the world could I hide that chunk of bang from my parents?
But then, I had another brilliant idea! I would shave it! Shave the piece of hair and Ha! Haaaaa! No one would ever know what I had done.
Um, except the very next day in Sunday School, the Sunday School teacher was all “What’s wrong with your head, Y? Is that a bruise?”
(Because, you know how when you shave a patch of hair and there is stubble left, it kinda looks purple?)
I wanted to lie, but I was in The House of The Lord, so, I told her the truth of what I had done. After she finished laughing hysterically, she asked if my mom knew about it. Of course my mom didn’t know about it! But Sunday School teacher made sure that she knew about it. (Just like the time she “made sure” that my mom knew that I had thought it was be HILARIOUS to change the first line of the hymn “The Old Rugged Cross” to “On a hill far away, where we all used to play, :insert something funny about a boy seeing my underwear:” Man, I got whipped GOOD for that one.)
My mom was P.O’d. And as punishment, she REFUSED to allow me to cut bangs, meaning I’d have to suffer the “grow out” in humiliating fashion.
Oh, The teasing I had to endure! Especially once it started growing in and got all spiky and shit.
“PORCIPINE!”

Here is the only photographic evidence I have of the actual growing in of the bangs. Thank GOD I was such a “looker” who did not need makeup to look all hot, because, MAN, life would have really sucked if I was akward looking in addition to having a protruding patch of bangs sticking out of the middle of my forehead.
(I wanted to bad to make a “She thinks my tractor’s sexy” joke, but FOR THE LIFE OF ME could not think of one that was actually funny, but look! I found a way to bring up the tractor without it having to actually be funny because ha! ha! ha! ha! I’M LEANING ON A TRACTOR.)

Farting on command = Funny. Biting people’s faces = not so much.

I really wanted to write about what could easily be called The Best Aerobic Dance Class EVER. I’m not just saying that because I remembered the routine and did NOT mess up when the instructor forgot the moves and how I kept going and how the instructor was all “VERY GOOD EVAN” (that’s what she calls me and oh, how my heart melts when she calls me that) and how when we were finished with the dance, she turned, looked right at me, started cheering and said “BRAVO, EVAN!
BRAVO!
SWEET REDEMPTION.
God, how I want to tell you all about the class last night, but, man, I need to talk about my daughter.
Do you mind if I talk about my daughter?
I think she’s the most beautiful, loving, funny (She farts on command, people! Which reminds me, last night, my husband asked me to stop commanding her to fart because, apparently, one night when we were having a Farting on Command-athon, she “squirted” a little and when he went to give her a bath, there was a streak of wet poop in her diaper and GOD FORBID HE HAVE TO WIPE A STREAK OF WET POOP. Seriously, people, he asked me in a SERIOUS TONE to stop “commanding her to fart.” Ha! Ha! I love my life!) little girl I’ve ever known. I’m constantly in amazed by her personality and MY GOD, I love her.
I love her. I love her. I love her.
However! She’s turning into a stinkin’ little brat.
Funny thing is that whenever I mention this to people, their response goes a little something like this “Well, DUH!”
Pick up your copy today! People say things like “of course she’s a little brat, she’s got all of you people spoiling her. How could she NOT be a little brat?”
The good news is that she is not an “asshole” brat. She’s more of a “throws herself back and screams in a high pitched voice when she doesn’t get what she wants” brat.
Come to think of it, she’s not really a brat at all, but more of an “overly emotional drama queen who refuses to keep her diaper on during naptime.”
(Can you tell I’m uncomfortable calling my Precious Daughter a “brat?”)
She’s always been prone to The Dramatics, but it seems to be getting worse.
(Bonus: The Dramatics: A slide show.)
Girlfriend gets pissed in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s kissing and hugging me, the next she’s trying to bite my finger off.
I think part of her “acting out” has to do with her inability to communicate what she wants. You see, my daughter doesn’t have a great vocabulary. It’s crazy to me and my husband because our boys were both early talkers. They were talking in complete sentences before they turned two. We get excited when G-Unit puts two words together. And they’re words that DON’T EVEN MAKE SENSE.
Let me give you an example of her vocabulary.
“DoeDoe”-Cereal (and yogurt)
“Beebee”- Blankie
“hmpeeet”- armpit
“duddee”- Duckie
“buhwhat”- Butt
“brubers”-Brothers
And so on and so forth.
Total improvement from her vocabulary of two months ago, which basically consisted of EVERYTHING (Except BOBS, DAD, MOM and NO) being called “DADA.”
This is how a conversation went back then.
Her:DADA!
Me: Blankie?
Her: NO! DADA!
Me: Crackers?
Her: No! DADA! DADA!
Me: Um, You want to color?
Her: NO! WAH! OMG! DADADADADA
Me: UM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, CHILD OF MINE?
Her: pointing to the TV- DADA!
Me: Ohhhhhh! You want to watch TV?
Her: DADADADA!
You get the idea. It was maddening.
I’m sure if she could articulate her needs that she’d be less prone to do things like “bite her brother in the face” when he doesn’t understand that “DOODOOGOBODOBRUBBER” means “back the hell up and stop kissing me RIGHT THIS MINUTE!”
I’m not making excuses for her biting, because it’s unacceptable behavior, but! If someone was all up in your grill and you your jibber jabber couldn’t convince that someone to kindly remove themselves from your grill, wouldn’t you get frustrated at your inability to communicate your need for them to STEP OFF?
Or, maybe I am making excuses for her biting because having a child that bites is embarrassing!
My boys were NEVER this demanding, this dramatic, this… this… DIFFICULT.
Is it a “girl” thing? Is it a “last child” thing? Or is it just a “GABRIELLA” thing?
Or, perhaps it’s a “We’ve really turned into crappy parents in our old age” thing.
Gah.

Respect…my consultantship.

beauty and the blue sky Yesterday, the sky was unbelievably blue, with bright white clouds scattered about. A sharp contrast to the gray, smog filled sky the day before. A crisp blue sky is rare here in the polluted “Inland Empire” of Southern California, so you KNOW I had to go grab the camera to document the special occasion.
My God, it was such a beautiful day. Warm sunshine, clear blue sky, puffy white clouds. It made me happy. So very happy. (Oh my God. The Cheese&trade)
The kids weren’t too happy when they heard me say “Watch Gabby, I’m going to get the camera.” Infact, I’d say they were very UNHAPPY and at one point, threats were handed down because OH MY GOD, JUST LET ME TAKE A FEW PICTURES AND STOP ACTING LIKE I’M TORTURING YOU, DAMMIT.
four Eventually (after many threats of “if you do not let me snap this shot, NO PAINTBALL FOR YOU!”) they stopped whining and I was able to get a few really great pictures.
What is WITH my kids and their raging hatred of my camera? Seriously. (I’m sure my kids, along with other family members, would say something like “We hate your camera because you ALWAYS HAVE IT IN OUR FACES.”)
The weather put me in such a great mood yesterday, that after months of complaining about not having extra money, I agreed to finally stop complaining and actually DO SOMETHING to try to contribute a little extra cash to this household. OMG! People! I am going to sell candles. ME! SELL THINGS! TO PEOPLE!
This is such a giant step for me, as I NEVER take chances with anything because I? Am Chicken Shit. I always SAY I’m going to try things, but then, when it comes to actually DOING things, I get scared of failing and think of a million reasons why I would suck at it and never follow through because I’M SCARED SHITLESS OF FAILING.
Yesterday, the blue skies and clouds made me think “Hey! I love these freaking candles! Why not sell them so I can earn free candles AND make money!” So, I told my friend “Sign me up TODAY!”
Now, I’m regretting it because they sky is no longer blue, but cloudy and overcast and I do not think I will meet my 6 shows/$1,200 in SIX WEEKS quota and OMG. I AM A PATHETIC PERSON WHO DIDN’T GO TO COLLEGE AND SHOULD NEVER TRY THINGS THAT DO NOT INVOLVE WIPING ASSES AND COOKING DINNER.
That is how my mind works and that is why I never try things that could possibly make me successful. I am scared. I do not believe in myself the thought of having to annoy friends about having a party makes me want to PUKE.
So, um, hey, Internet, who wants to have a “book” party for me? ANYONE? HUH? UM NO IT’S OK YOU DON’T HAVE TO SORRY I ASKED OK THEN BYE.
(Oh my God! I can’t do this! And, oh my GOD! remember how I used to be all “TAKE YOUR CANDLES AND SHOVE IT!”? And now? Am.Selling.Candles. AH.)
Tony was all up in my grill last night, telling me things like “You need to take it seriously” and “You better meet your quota because I aint paying for that kit, woman.”
He’s supportive in his own, cute little way.
I do plan on taking it seriously. Well, as seriously as I can take the selling of candles, but I am allowed to freak out before I actually start taking The Selling of The Candles seriously.
Because Ha! Ha! I am a seller of candles.
(p.s. have no fear, this will NOT turn into a “buy candles from me” blog. I PROMISE YOU.)

I’m hoping to go deaf before they get to the part about “wet dreams”

A couple of weeks ago, my son announced that Sex Education was going to start and I needed to sign the permission slips.
I signed them without any hesitation because I was the ONE AND ONLY teenager in my class that wasn’t allowed to participate in sex ed. I’ll never forget how humiliated I felt when the teacher announced that I needed to leave because I wasn’t allowed to participate because MY PARENTS CHECKED NO.
Well, the classes started last week and let me tell you, I’m having a hard time with the whole thing.
Talking about sex with my boys when they were small was easy for me. But as they get older, it became more difficult because, well, you know, BONERS AND STUFF.
I have been asking him questions about The Sex Ed everyday because I want to be involved and in the know about what they’re teaching my son about The Sex. And also? I’m trying to pretend to be completely mature and NOT IN THE LEAST BIT UNCOMFORTABLE with the whole thing but let me tell you, it’s so completely uncomfortable. (For both of us.)
The other day, I picked him up from school and because I am truly trying to be “open and totally ok” with The Sex Ed, I was all “So! How was sex ed? What did you learn today?” And he was all mortified and turned white and said “It was totally gross and disgusting.” And I was all “Why!? What did you talk about it?” And he was all “Um, I don’t want to talk about it Mom.”
I honestly think he would have rather allowed me to stab him in the leg repeatedly with a #2 pencil then continue the conversation, but DAMMIT, I am an involved, open minded parent and I was not going to be shut out like that.
“Son, I’m your mother, there isn’t anything you can’t tell me. I already know everything you’re learning, so tell me.”
“Ok. We had to watch the movie about ‘girls.’ And we learned about, you know, tampons and stuff.”
At this point, I had conflicting emotions. I kind of wanted to throw up because OMG. VAGINA TALK WITH MY 13 YEAR OLD SON IS FREAKING ME OUT, but, I also wanted to be mature and matter of fact because VAGINAS ARE A PART OF THIS THING WE CALL LIFE.
I tried to be mature. I honestly did, but The Akward took over and I took the TOTALLY IMMATURE ROUTE. I started tickling him and saying things in a really high pitched voice like “HAHA! Andrew knows about The Period. TAAAAAMPPOOOONSS. WEEEEEEE!”
Can you feel the akwardness?
The next day, he stormed in to the house and said “MOM! Sex Ed is getting grosser by the day! Today we had to watch a baby be born.”
My first thought was “Holy SHIT! My son saw a V-A-G-I-N-A” and, again, I wanted to throw up, but this time I took the high road, people.
“There’s nothing gross about a baby being born son, it’s natural and a beautiful, spiritual experience that changes your life forever in the greatest way.”
I think he likes it better when I act 12 because the kid didn’t know how to respond.
“Whatever, mom. There was blood and amniotic fluid and um, mom…”
I panicked a little because, OH MY GOD! What if he’s about to say something really gross, like “And the womans vagina was all hairy” so I started thinking of ways to cut him off. Perhaps I could interrupt him by saying something really important, like, you know, “hold on, I have to fart!” but before I could interrupt, he finished his sentence with “And the baby looked like an alien.”
What a relief! I did not have to hear my son say “vagina”, but! I did have to hear my son say “HYMEN”, (As in “Hey, mom, is a HYMEN a male or female part, I forgot” to which I responded with a dry heave and a “Um, which do you THINK it belongs to” because um… I totally wasn’t prepared for him to blurt THAT out all non chalantly.)
Knowing that my son “knows things” now is effecting me in ways I never imagined. For instance, the other day, Tony and I were making out in the room and when he got up to go outside, I was all “OMG! You can’t go outside like that! Look! You can see your, um, you know, boner and ANDREW TOTALLY KNOWS WHAT THAT IS AND OMG. WHAT IF HE NOTICES?”
(True story! I actually freaked out about that. OH MY GOD. HELP.)
Perhaps I’d have a completely different attitude towards this whole “Discussing sex with my children” if my parents had discusssed sex with me. But, my parent did NOT discuss sex with me, except to tell me that you get pregnant by standing too close to a man and so I’m kind of lost as to how to not make it one big “HAHAH YOU KNOW WHAT A PERIOD AND A HYMEN IS” joke.