I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. It was thirteen years ago today.
I was sure I was having a girl. My mom was sure I was having a girl. My entire family was sure I was having a girl. Everyone at my baby shower was sure I was having a girl and spoiled me with lots of little pink outfits and pink blankets.
After many hours of labor and over 2 hours of intense pushing, imagine our surprise when my first baby finally slid out of my vagina and the nurse yelled…”It’s a BOY!”
This is the conversation that followed.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Tony: Thank you JESUS!
Me: Ok, enough with that, Tony.
Doc: He SHOULD be thanking Jesus.
My mom: It’s a BOY??
Me: HAHAHAHA
Tony: Hallelujah. (Don’t ask. He was SUPER SPIRITUAL that day.)
Me: Tony!
Mom: It’s A BOY? Ohhhhhhh man.
Me: HAHHAHAHAH
My mom: What are you thinking right now, Y?
Me: About all of the clothes I have to take back!
Tony: HAHAHA
Mom: HAHAHAH
Me: HAHAHAHA
Doc: Did they TELL you it was a girl.
Me: No. I just thought it was.
My Mom: We HOPED it was. It was a hope.
Doc: Idiots.
Ok, he didn’t call us idiots, but you know he was thinking it.
I’m so glad it wasn’t a girl. The poor thing would have been named Whitney Elaine.
WHITNEY! Or wait, was it Soriah?
SORIAH GRACE! It would have been Soriah Grace.
She would have hated me at some point in her life.
It was a boy. A little boy.
I had a son.
A perfect, soft, scrunchy faced, precious little boy.
I’ll never forget how perfect he was the first time I layed my bloodshot, tired eyes on him. He had all of his fingers. All of his toes. Scrunched up little eyes, eyebrows shaped just like his daddy’s, a nose just like his grandpa’s. Fuzzy, black hair and full, perfectly shaped lips.
The first time I held him in my arms, I felt my heart explode into a million little pieces and I knew in an instant that it no longer belonged to me. That little boy in my arms was now the Owner of My Heart.
I can’t describe the pride I felt as I stared at his sweet little face. I can’t describe the love I felt as I kissed his fuzzy little head. I can’t describe the joy I felt as he wrapped his precious little hand around my finger. There are no words to describe it.
Amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Exciting. Beautiful. Astounding. Breathtaking. Miraculous. Marvelous.
Those are powerful words, and yet, they don’t even BEGIN to accurately describe what I felt in my soul on the day my son was born.
My son.
Nor or there any words that could accurately describe what I feel inside of my soul today. The day that beautiful little baby turns thirteen.
I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m overjoyed. I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m sad.
Bittersweet That’s the only way to describe what I’m feeling.
Last night, we had the Greatest Dinner Conversation Ever.
Shrinkage. Sweaty balls. (And what one must do to unstick that sweaty ball from ones leg.) How to release poops that are stuck.
We all laughed so hard we cried.
At one point, Andrew was taking a drink and as Ethan got up to demonstrate how HE deals with Sweaty Balls, Andrew spit his drink out and started choking from laughing so hard.
It was in that moment it hit me that my son is a teenager. And at that point, the tears from laughter turned into tears of sadness, because I don’t know if I can handle him growing so quickly.
First. The Hairy balls. Then, the Fuzzstache. NOW THE TEENAGE YEARS.
Girls. Dates. Dances. Getting jobs. Driving.
Time is moving incredibly fast and my heart hasn’t had a chance to catch up to speed.
That sweet smelling, soft, calm, perfect little baby is now a teenager who has an incredible sense of humor, who is witty, kind, respectful and thoughtful of others.
And as I watch him become a young man, I feel just as much pride as I did the first time I held him in my arms. I’m so damn proud of the incredible human being he’s become in the thirteen years of his life.
My God, I’m so proud of him.
And yet, at the same time, I wish I could shrink him back into that little baby boy who cooed, and cried, and sucked on his little fingers and wanted nothing more than to be cuddled safely in his mommy’s arms. Because as much as I love the person he has become, as much as I enjoy his company, as much as I enjoy every day with this amazing young man, my heart aches because I can no longer hold him in my arms and kiss him all over the way I did when he was just my little baby boy.
I wish someone had warned me about how much it would hurt to watch your children grow. I mean, it’s beautiful and wonderful and exciting… but it’s equally painful and sad. Because you there comes a point where you realize they will be independent adults and when you’ve spent your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE being “their mom”, the thought that one day they won’t need you in that way anymore is a crushing blow to your heart.
Leave it to ME to make my son’s THIRTEEN BIRTHDAY a depressing event, rather than the joyous, exciting one it should be.
I know HE’S not sad today, I know he’s the happiest kid alive today because he can now proclaim that “HE IS A TEENAGER!”
I feel like an ass of a mother for having to go to a wedding on this momentous day in his life and he knows I’m not happy about it and is making me feel like a bigger ass at every chance he gets.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me on my THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY!”
And just as I start to cry from guilt, he laughs and says “I’m just teasing you mom! I understand that you have to go, I’m not mad at you.”
(Can you understand why I’m so damn proud of him? Not just proud. DAMN PROUD.)
I love that boy, even if he did go and turn into a “teenager” faster than I had ever imagined and I truly hope that this is a great birthday for him. He deserves all of the happiness in the world.
You look like a monkey and you smell like one too.
I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. It was thirteen years ago today.
I was sure I was having a girl. My mom was sure I was having a girl. My entire family was sure I was having a girl. Everyone at my baby shower was sure I was having a girl and spoiled me with lots of little pink outfits and pink blankets.
After many hours of labor and over 2 hours of intense pushing, imagine our surprise when my first baby finally slid out of my vagina and the nurse yelled…”It’s a BOY!”
This is the conversation that followed.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Tony: Thank you JESUS!
Me: Ok, enough with that, Tony.
Doc: He SHOULD be thanking Jesus.
My mom: It’s a BOY??
Me: HAHAHAHA
Tony: Hallelujah. (Don’t ask. He was SUPER SPIRITUAL that day.)
Me: Tony!
Mom: It’s A BOY? Ohhhhhhh man.
Me: HAHHAHAHAH
My mom: What are you thinking right now, Y?
Me: About all of the clothes I have to take back!
Tony: HAHAHA
Mom: HAHAHAH
Me: HAHAHAHA
Doc: Did they TELL you it was a girl.
Me: No. I just thought it was.
My Mom: We HOPED it was. It was a hope.
Doc: Idiots.
Ok, he didn’t call us idiots, but you know he was thinking it.
I’m so glad it wasn’t a girl. The poor thing would have been named Whitney Elaine.
WHITNEY! Or wait, was it Soriah?
SORIAH GRACE! It would have been Soriah Grace.
She would have hated me at some point in her life.
It was a boy. A little boy.
I had a son.
A perfect, soft, scrunchy faced, precious little boy.
I’ll never forget how perfect he was the first time I layed my bloodshot, tired eyes on him. He had all of his fingers. All of his toes. Scrunched up little eyes, eyebrows shaped just like his daddy’s, a nose just like his grandpa’s. Fuzzy, black hair and full, perfectly shaped lips.
The first time I held him in my arms, I felt my heart explode into a million little pieces and I knew in an instant that it no longer belonged to me. That little boy in my arms was now the Owner of My Heart.
I can’t describe the pride I felt as I stared at his sweet little face. I can’t describe the love I felt as I kissed his fuzzy little head. I can’t describe the joy I felt as he wrapped his precious little hand around my finger. There are no words to describe it.
Amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Exciting. Beautiful. Astounding. Breathtaking. Miraculous. Marvelous.
Those are powerful words, and yet, they don’t even BEGIN to accurately describe what I felt in my soul on the day my son was born.
My son.
Nor or there any words that could accurately describe what I feel inside of my soul today. The day that beautiful little baby turns thirteen.
I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m overjoyed. I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m sad.
Bittersweet That’s the only way to describe what I’m feeling.
Last night, we had the Greatest Dinner Conversation Ever.
Shrinkage. Sweaty balls. (And what one must do to unstick that sweaty ball from ones leg.) How to release poops that are stuck.
We all laughed so hard we cried.
At one point, Andrew was taking a drink and as Ethan got up to demonstrate how HE deals with Sweaty Balls, Andrew spit his drink out and started choking from laughing so hard.
It was in that moment it hit me that my son is a teenager. And at that point, the tears from laughter turned into tears of sadness, because I don’t know if I can handle him growing so quickly.
First. The Hairy balls. Then, the Fuzzstache. NOW THE TEENAGE YEARS.
Girls. Dates. Dances. Getting jobs. Driving.
Time is moving incredibly fast and my heart hasn’t had a chance to catch up to speed.
That sweet smelling, soft, calm, perfect little baby is now a teenager who has an incredible sense of humor, who is witty, kind, respectful and thoughtful of others.
And as I watch him become a young man, I feel just as much pride as I did the first time I held him in my arms. I’m so damn proud of the incredible human being he’s become in the thirteen years of his life.
My God, I’m so proud of him.
And yet, at the same time, I wish I could shrink him back into that little baby boy who cooed, and cried, and sucked on his little fingers and wanted nothing more than to be cuddled safely in his mommy’s arms. Because as much as I love the person he has become, as much as I enjoy his company, as much as I enjoy every day with this amazing young man, my heart aches because I can no longer hold him in my arms and kiss him all over the way I did when he was just my little baby boy.
I wish someone had warned me about how much it would hurt to watch your children grow. I mean, it’s beautiful and wonderful and exciting… but it’s equally painful and sad. Because you there comes a point where you realize they will be independent adults and when you’ve spent your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE being “their mom”, the thought that one day they won’t need you in that way anymore is a crushing blow to your heart.
(Leave it to ME to make my son’s THIRTEEN BIRTHDAY a depressing event, rather than the joyous, exciting one it should be.)
What’s that in the butter?
Last night I decided to mix it up get a little kahraaazy at the gym…
by getting a tan.
I’ve only “tanned” once in my life. I do not like tanning beds. They scare me. But, tomorrow is The Wedding and I thought it would be nice to have a little color on my skin.
The girl that works there took me into the tanning room, handed me my protective eyewear, and then, hands me a bottle of some kind of cleaner and informs me that I MUST CLEAN THE BED BEFORE I GET IT.
I have “germ issues”, and issues with “other people’s body sweat”, and so I would have preferred that the bed had been cleaned FOR me. Since that wasn’t happening, I forced a smile and said “Awesome! Thanks!”
Before she walked out, I asked her for a towel. I wanted to drape a little towel over my nipples (That word. Kills me.) because, I don’t ever want to experience burnt nipples.
“Sorry, we don’t have towels.”
Once again, I forced a smile “That’s ok! No big deal!”
But, actually, it was a HUGE deal to me. I did not want crisp-ay nipples and the thought of not having a towel to cover them with filled me with panic and anxiety.
It was time to “clean to bed.”
I picked up the spray bottle, got a bunch of paper towels (enough to protect my hands from Sweaty Wimmin Germs) and was about to spray when I saw “It.”
A pube.
Right there. In the middle of the bed. All alone, all curly. Just laying there.
Instant dry heaves.
No. Seriously. I couldn’t stop heaving.
A strangers Pube! On the bed I was going to lay naked on! STARING AT ME! ALL CURLY LIKE!
After I was able to stop heaving, I came up with “a plan.” No way in hell was I going to come near that thing, so, I decided to blow it out of the way. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and blew as hard as I could.
Now that The Pube was somewhere other than on the bed, I sprayed the shit out of that bed and after a couple seconds of wanting to throw up, I began to wipe that sucker down.
I am not ashamed to admit I cleaned it FIVE TIMES.
I began to get naked, but decided to keep the chonis on because NO WAY IN HELL was my naked butt going to lay on a bed where another woman’s pube had resided 3 minutes earlier.
Once I was naked (except for the chonis.) I had to decide what to do about “The nipples. I was seriously terrified of them getting burnt to a crisp and I can only imagine how much that would hurt. It only took me a minute and Ha! I had a plan! I came up with the awesome idea of making nipple covers out of paper towels. I tore a couple of small, (ok, large, because… ARE HUGE) round pieces, licked them and slapped those babies right on.
Pure genuis. I know.
After I made sure the protective eye wear was fitted perfectly on my eyes to avoid PERMENANT AND SEVERE EYE DAMAGE like the scary ass sign haning above the bed so clearly warned me about, I felt like I was ready to push the “start” button.
I took a deep breath, checked my Custom Nipple Covers to make sure they were in place, adjusted the glasses one last time to make sure that they were completely covered and finally… pushed the start button.
Six minutes later (I know, most people tan for about 12 minutes, but, being the paranoid freak of nature that I am, I asked her to cut my time in half because I was afraid of burning or getting blister and man, I would hate to show up at a wedding with blisters all over my body.) the whole ordeal was finally over and my skin has a lovely, very slight, darker tone to it.
I’m not quite sure it was worth all of the Drama, but, hey, it’s good to “live on the edge” and get a little wild and craaazy every once in a while.
And for me? That was wild and crazy, people.
The Writer’s Block continues, so this is all I’ve got, people.
This weekend I had to go shopping for a dress.
It’s been years since I’ve worn a dress, and to tell you the truth, I was terrified to go shopping for one.
(Oh, how dramatic I am. “Terrified” to shop for a dress. Give me a break, I know. But, you people have obviously never seen what shopping for a dress can do to what little self esteem I have.)
My friend is getting married this Friday (which, also happens to be my first baby’s 13 birthday.) and I wanted to find The Perfect Dress.
I had created this fantasy in my head of find that Perfect Dress and of it looking fabulous on me and of that dress showing JUST the right amount of cleavage and NOT showing just the right amount of ass.
Another dream crushed.
It was a horribly frustrating experience and yes, I cried.
I’m a little too thin (STRESS: LITTLE) for The Plus Sized stores. But, yet, I’m just barely small enough to shop in The Regular Sized stores. That in itself was frustrating.
Then there’s the cleavage issue. People? I’ve got Big Ones. My boobs, while no longer a 42E, are still a whopping 38D and, well, any dress that is low cut makes me look like a tramp. I mean, I’m all about showing off a little cleavage, but, I’m going to a wedding, not a “club” and I don’t think it would be too cool to walk in and be all “SAY HELLO TO MY LADY LUMPS!”
Maybe I’m paranoid (and maybe that’s because my husband made some comment about how “all of the eyes will be on your boobs and NOT on the bride. Is that what you want?) but as proud as I am of my Big Honkin’ Ones, showing that much of them at a wedding just seems… I don’t know… trashy? (And yes, despite the fact I like to Rip ’em often, I DO HAVE CLASS.)
After 4 hours of searching for a dress, I decided to go to Robinsons May, since they’re liquidating the store and everything was 60% off of the clearance price, and can I just tell you how much easier the experience had been if I had money to blow? Because, for a mere TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS, I could have purchased several beautiful dresses, but, um, I have a hard time spending $14.99 on skirts from Target, so, $200? For ONE dress? That I will only wear ONCE? HELL TO THE NO on that.
Anyway. Back to Robinsons May.
I found a dress there. A black dress, that was a size 14, which, ME? IN A SIZE 14? GET OUT OF HERE! (Because, um, I used to wear a 20/22) But, more importantly, it was only $30. I loved the bottom of the dress, but the top was, well, kind of ugly. But! Did I mention it was only $30? And a size 14? And that, my friends, was really all that mattered, so, to the dressing rooms I went.
The dress fit! A 14 fit! And it wasn’t even tight! But… remember how I didn’t want to show too much boob? Well, this dress wasn’t showing ANY boob whatsoever. I didn’t like that, because, well, I want to show a little boob.
However… THIRTY DOLLARS! AND IT FIT!
So, I bought it.
Tony loves it. (Whatever, he’s just happy that I’m not showing off My Big Ones.) My sister liked it, but she agreed that the top isn’t “her thang.” The cut is ugly. Oh, and the little rinestone thing? A LITTLE “Mexico”. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Overall, though, I’m “happy” with it and for the fit and the price? I think I’m going to go ahead and call it. “We HAVE a dress for the Wedding on Friday!”
Oh, what? You want to SEE the dress? (Ha! Ha! I like to pretend like I know what you’re thinking and what you want.) Fine! Here’s “The Dress.”
What “Blog Suckage” looks like.
Because I do not have time to write ,because I have a daughter whose idea of a “Good Time” is running on the sofa, falling off and almost breaking her neck… twice, ruining the 4 videos I’ve taken of her by ripping the tape to shreds, pooping, dumping my SORTED COUPONS all over the house, taking laundry out of drawers and so and and so forth, I “give you” my most recent weight loss progress picture…
I know, I know. Annoying, but the truth is, I’m proud of my progress (I’d like it noted in “the record” that I said something positive about myself.). And, again, I can’t actually write anything because my daughter is TEARING MY HOUSE APART.
However, if you want to read something that will make you laugh so hard you’ll cry a little, and that is not about my ass, please, go! read THIS.
“She’s practically bionic. She just doesn’t know it“.
Genuis, I tell you. I think I love him more than I love meatloaf.
And that’s like, a lot.
Yeah… I wrote about MEAT LOAF… Jealous?
I just ate meatloaf for dinner and I LIKED IT.
As a matter of fact, this is the second time this week I’ve had meatloaf for dinner.
I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that I am officially obsessed with meatloaf. Which, is funny, because as a kid? I hated meatloaf.
Infact, when my mom would make it known that meatloaf would be had for dinner, I would throw a tantrum.
“I hate meatloaf! Meatloaf is gross! I WILL NOT EAT MEEEAAAAATTLLLLOOAAAAFFFFFF!”
I think my aversion to meatloaf started when I saw my mom putting ketchup in the meat.
Ketchup? In the meat? Meat that will soon be in LOAF FORM?
Ah hells no. I seriously became disgusted at the mere mention of “meatloaf.”
“OMG! Not meatloaf! There is ketchup! In the meat! And? It’s a loaf! Barf!”
However, in my mission to find “quick and easy meals” to make for the family, I came across a recipe for meatloaf. And by “recipe”, I mean a “packet of seasoning” that said “mix this here packet with water and egg and HA! MEATLOAF IN ONE HOUR!”
No ketchup? SERIOUSLY? And all I have to do is mix an egg and water?
I was all over that loaf, man.
Not only was it done in an hour, but it tasted great. And the kids loved it. AND THE TONY LOVED IT!
But most importantly, I, the hater of meat in loaf form, loved it.
The kids aren’t too happy about it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they love The Loaf, but they’re like “MEATLOAF? AGAIN? I will not eat meatloaf TWICE IN ONE WEEK!”
Obviously, they don’t understand meat loaf addiction. Judgemental jerks! I promised them we’d not have it again for AT LEAST another week, but as I sit here inhaling the smell of meatloaf lingering in the air, I’m afraid that’s a promise I can’t keep.
A happy heart.
Saturday night was a “Girls Night In” at a friends house. A Passion Party followed by a game of poker.
The Passion Party was hilarious. Perhaps I should have taken it a little more seriously, but, there are products with the word “Nubby” in them, so, I think you can understand why it’s One Big Vagina joke to me. Don’t get me wrong, I think the products are great and the parties are awesome and everyone should have a party, but, still… NUBBY!
This time, I was tempted buy a dildo for my the dash of my van, and one to use as a “whip” to threaten my children with.
“Clean your room right now or I will whack you upside of the head with this here purple rubber penis!”
As you can see, I do not take dildos very seriously either. I’m sorry, I just can’t. Especially the one that has A FACE AND A BEAR ON IT. I know there are people who are really into those things, but, um, I’m NOT one of those people.
I do, however, take my Ben Wah Balls very seriously.
Ok. I’m lying. I absolutely do not take them seriously. Infact, I almost spit out my drink when she brought those shiny little balls out.
I was like “Ha! HA! HA! I’m sorry, ben wah balls KILL ME.”
However, as funny as SHINY METAL BALLS are, they do serve a purpose. They are used for a very important “test”. A test of tightness. No! Seriously! If you can “hold them in” for any lenght of time, then “your man is surely a happy man.”
Excuse me for one minute.
HA! HA! HAAAAAAA!
After the Passion Party, it was time for a game of poker.
I had never played poker before and to be honest, had no interest in learning how to play. I picked up my purse and was ready call it a night. But, the wimmins had other plans.
“We’ve already set a place for you. You’re so much fun, you HAVE to stay and play.”
That’s right. People think I’m fun! And they want me to stay and play poker with them!
(That gets the “Award for Blogger Who Brags About How Much Fun People Think She Is and How It Makes You So Sick You Want To Puke.”)
I was given a 2 minute crash course in poker and to the Very Awesome Poker Table we went.
I caught on pretty quickly, although, I was very annoying with all of “my questions.” How is one supposed to learn if one does not ask questions?
A few hours later, I found myself one of the last 2 players and the player with the most chips, but, in the end, I lost to someone who has played many, many times, BUT! I still won $20 for second place and had people doubting my “I have never played poker nor do I know how to play poker” story.
Don’t hate me because I’m a fast learner.
I had such an incredible time. It was the first time in a very LONG time that I didn’t have a million hangups or “issues” before going to a social event. Usually, I spend a great deal of time worrying about how fat I am, or who will be there, or if people will think I’m annoying, or if people will annoy me and so on and so forth… but Saturday night, I made a decision early in the day that I wasn’t going to think negative thoughts, or worry about stupid things like “being the only fat girl there”. I made a choice to HAVE FUN regardless of the size of my ass (which, by the way, is significantly smaller these days).
I told my husband how great it felt to let go of all of the negativity that usually keeps me from having a truly good time at most social events. He smiled and said “I’m so happy for you, baby, you are a fun person, people enjoy being around you and you should accept that and ALWAYS have fun like you did last night.”
It’s not easy for me to accept compliments, but I believed my husband when he said that, because I want to believe it.
I’m sorry, but how is it possible that a post in which I used the word “Nubby” took a serious turn? How did I allow that to happen.
That never should have happened. The serious ENDS HERE!
Howza’bout we get a little “random” instead…
Who is the GENIUS who thought “Hey! I know! Let’s make a stuffed animal WITH DETACHABLE BODY PARTS because the babies will love ripping off monkey heads and it will be a JOY for the mother’s to have to repeatedly put them back on throughout the day to stop the babies from crying because THE HEAD FELL OFF AGAIN.”? Do you know who that guy is? Because if you do, tell him I’m looking for him, I’d like to “show him” how grateful I am.
Ethan team lost another basketball game on Saturday. The brings their record to 1-6. Andrew also lost another game on Saturday, which brings his teams record to 0-7. The good news is that this is the first weekend I did not get into a fight with the refs nor did I get into a fight with the scorekeepers, so, really, everyone was a winner.
But THE REAL WINNER here will be my husband, in about 2 weeks, when a confidential black bag will arrive that will contain a very special passionate gift that I refuse to tell you about, other than to say that it is “rubber” and it is in the shape of a heart.
This is what happens when you don’t discuss The Nasty with your children, people.
My parents never gave me “The Sex Talk.”
Sex was not something we discussed in our household.
Not only did they not teach me about sex, but they always refused to allow me to take the “sex classes” at school. Man, that was embarassing. I was the only one that wasn’t allowed to watch The Pube Videos. THE ONLY ONE.
I remember one time, my neighbor thought that it was her job to teach me about The Sex. She started telling me things, and my mom overheard her and commanded her to “get out of our house!”
On the way out, she started screaming “THAT’S RIGHT, Y, YOU GET PREGNANT FROM HUMPING!”
I wasn’t too sure what “Humping” was, but I remember feeling a little sick to my stomach.
“That’s not true, mom, right? RIGHT?” You get pregnant just by standing very closely to a man, right, RIGHT.
I remember saying those exact words. Infact, I remember how scared I felt, how freaked out I was, how I just wanted my mom to reassure me that HER AND MY DAD DID NOT TOUCH NAKED PARTS.
Now, this was my mom’s chance to tell me the truth. To give me “The Talk”. Her response?
“Yes, mija. That’s how people get pregnant.”
I’m pretty sure that’s the reason I HID from my first boyfriend after every church service. Because, like, he was always trying to stand close to me. HE WAS TRYING TO HAVE MY BABY and I wasn’t trying to have JJ’s baby.
Then there was the time I started my period at church. I remember going to the bathroom and Oh my GOD! There was blood. I got out of the bathroom and asked my friend to go get my mom and tell her that I started my period.
Now, this was another chance to explain “things” to me. To tell me why this was happening to my body and to calm any fears I had about blood coming out of my twat.
Her response?
“HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PERIOD IS, LITTLE GIRL?” (Yeah, I got in trouble for knowing what “a period” was, which is almost as funny as the time I was “put on restriction” from talking on the phone with Tony at the age of 18 because I didn’t “properly roll my pads”)
Having children of my own, I completely appreciate how hard it is to talk to them about sex. Especially with boys. I want to run to my bed and curl up in the fetal position when subjects about sex come up with my boys. There have even been times where I just couldn’t bring myself to participate in the conversations. (And trust me, there have been MANY conversations…)
But, I know that as their parent, it is my job to teach them. I want to be honest with them, I want them to be prepared for the changes their bodies are going to go through, I want them to understand the urges they will feel. (AAAAHHHHHH) Because, I want them to be responsible and yes, I want them to wait until they are married or in a committed relationship. Sue me.
I mean, not everyone can be as sexually smart as I was and “figure it out without any education on the issue whatsoever.” Ha! Ha!
As my son gets older, I find it much more difficult to talk about these things with him. The other night, Tony and I were talking about this and I blurted out “OH MY GOD! WET DREAMS! WEETTTTTTDRRRRREEEEEAMMMMMSSSSS” How will I EVER be able to talk about that with my son?
I was like “Tony, does EVERY BOY GET THEM? Like, is it inevitable? Like, is it really going to happen?” (because, remember, I NEVER SAW THE VIDEOS)
I was hoping he’d say no! It doesn’t happen to all boys! But, that’s not what he said.
I could never be like that mother that was on the Dr.Phil show who LOVES to talk about sex (in very explicit, clinical terms) with her family.
“And in that position, the penis rubs against the clitoris, causing the woman to climax faster” She said at the dinner table, TO HER SON IN LAW.
I could never be “that lady.” Infact, what the hell is wrong with that lady? Talking about the clitoris with her son in law. NASTY WHORE.
If you’re a parent, what kind of approach do you use when it comes to discussing “The Sex” with your children? Are you honest and open about it? Are you more reserved like me and take the “just tell them what they need to know” approach? Do you use charts? Graphs? Videos? Books? Do you giggle when you talk about it? Do you make eye contact as your saying things like “The penis enters the vagina…” Do you feel like dying a little inside when your kid asks you questions?
I look forward to hearing how other parents have dealt with “The Talk.”
Warning: Do not read this while, before or just after eating.
Today I will sit in The Dentists Chair for the first time in three years.
Three years.
I used to go twice a year, every year for check ups and cleanings. Then, we had to switch to a crappy insurance in which we had to pick from a list of crappy dentists and since I was no longer able to see the dentist I had grown to love because she was gentle and never hurt me, I boycotted dentists all together.
I’ve thought everything was fine and that I’d get away with this behavior. Until about a week ago, when my tooth started aching and OH MY GOD I saw a cavity.
To say that I am terrified would be putting it mildly. I can not stand the dentist that we’ve “picked” from the List of Crappy Dentists. I’ve taken the boys for x-rays and he’s unfriendly and has perfect hair that doesn’t move when he walks because good GOD, the hairspray.
I don’t trust people with hair that perfect. They scare me.
I’m scared to death that he’s going to say “Sorry, you waited too long and we’re going to have to pull it.”
I DO NOT WANT GAPING HOLES IN MY MOUTH.
I’ve had a lot of bad experiences with dental work. (Like, the one time, the tooth that I had a root canal on become infected and the entire roof of my mouth was ONE BIG SACK OF PUS and had to be sliced with a blade and SUCTIONED OUT.) The combination of bad genetics (my mom had dentures by the time she was in her twenties) and the lack of dental work until I was 18 (My parents didn’t have insurance, so I didn’t have work done on my teeth until after I got my first real job with dental insurance.) is to blame for all the work I’ve had to have done on my teeth in my adult life.
I have Teeth Issues.
I secretly hate people with perfect teeth. I live in fear everyday that my teeth are just going to start falling out. Especially since I had work done on the top, front teeth, which are now “vaneers”. I won’t eat corn on the cob, and just recently gave up almonds because, you know, I don’t want to crack a tooth and lose it.
(Which reminds me of the time we were at a “Country” bar and we were eating chips and salsa and my tooth BROKE IN HALF when I bit into a corn chip and I freaked the hell out and ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror and HAHAHA! In my panic, I had accidently ran into the men’s bathroom and man, dude with His Thang out didn’t think it was very funny.)
I’m also freaking out about the fact that this dentist is a man. I’m not sure I want Man Hands all up in my mouth. You know what I’m sayin’?
I could go on and on and on about how scared I am right now and how OMG! What if I come home missing a tooth?
Freaking, over here.
Seriously
Gum Massacre Update
Dr.Ken Doll DDS (Thank you for that, Nat.) is more evil than I had imagined in my mind. You see, I went in to get the tooth that is hurting me fixed, but he decided that I needed to have my GUMS SCRAPED TO SHREDS instead, because, you know, I’ve been a bad girl and not had my teeth cleaned in over three years.
I almost passed out when he put his hand down for a second and his gloves were DRIPPING WITH BLOOD. At one point, I seriously considered grabbing his head and messing his hair up just to MAKE HIM STOP. But, instead, I closed my eyes and cried a little on the inside
My gums are currently throbbing, But! The good news is that there will be no removing of any teeth. I do need three crowns, (which, the horribly bitchy receptionist informed me will cost $300 a piece and “we don’t do payment plans, bitches”. so, um, that’s not going to happen) But, hey! There are no gaping holes in my mouth!
I hope yours was as Cheesy as mine.
I’m not a big fan of Valentines Day.
Allow me to explain.
I was only 19 years old the year of our First Valentines as husband and wife.
You know how when you’re newly married (and still a TEENAGER) you believe in romance and crap?
So, I had this incredible fantasy of how my *sigh*husband*sigh* was going to spoil me rotten and make all of my Valentines Dreams come true.
Ha! HA! HA! HAAAAAAAAA!
This is how it went down.
“You’re gift is in the fridge, babe.”
“Ummmm…ok?”
So, I run to the fridge and see this little ass box of candy.
“THIS IS MY PRESENT?!”
“Yes!”
“This is candy from where your sister works! Did you even have to pay for it?”
“I got it for 50% off!”
“AND! YOU KNOW I’M ON A DIET! Why in the hell would you buy me chocolate when you know I’m on a diet?”
“Well, babe, that’s why I got you a little box.”
I THREW the candy across the room, stormed off to the bathroom and cried for a very long time.
And it was on that day I realized that my husband who had led me to believe he was the most romantic man on the face of the earth (This one time? When we were talking on the phone? I told him I was cold because the heater in our house only kept the front of the house warm? He totally bought me a heater to put in my room and surprised me with it at church the following sunday and said “I don’t want my sweetie to be cold at night”. Romantic.) wasn’t really romantic at all, but, rather, just trying to get a piece of Pastors Kid Ass.
Having children has made me not hate the day as much as I used to. I have a great deal of fun buying them little gifts and writing them cheesy love notes.
Today, whilst walking back to the car after Ethan’s Valentines day party at school, he said “Man, Valentines day must feel people with a lot of joy because everyone is so sweet today.”
How can I hate a day that brings out The Lovah in my son?
Last year was my first Valentines with The Daughter I Never Thought I’d have.
I remember asking my son to take a couple pictures of the two of us together, in our pink and red shirts, so that I could always remember “my First Valentine” with my daughter.
My daughter who was still very much into The Bobs.
Today, I had hoped for the same kind of valentines day picture taking experiece. Kind of like how I had hoped for a really romantic first valentines day with my husband experience, but just as my fantasy wass shattered that day back in 1991, so was the dream of beautiful pictures of my daughter in her VERY CUTE pink outfit.
THE GIRL HAS REBELLED AGAINST THE CAMERA.
Full on rebelled.
When she sees the camera?
She runs away!
Or she sits down and TURNS HER BACK TO ME!
Or, she FLAT OUT REFUSES TO LOOK AT ME!
Or! She gives me dirty looks.
But, mostly? She just…
Throws
Tantrums.
Another Valentines Day Fantasy down The Crapper.
The fantasy of taking some really awesome pictures of my daughter in her really awesome “pink” outfit with her really awesome red purse, that is, because it’s not as if the entire day was one of suckage.
Infact, it was one of those days were I just loved my children every minute of the day and where everytime I would look at them, I’d want to cry because my God, they are beautiful human beings.
