What a Concept

It's official:  motherhood bites.

Sure, there're those rare instances when the diaper's full and it's Dad's turn for KP duty, but eventually Lady Luck packs her bags and hightails it south where breezes carry the scent of tropical blooms, not Lysol spray.  Such is life.  I choose to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

So, here's the deal: Co-Def 1, in an unfortunate moment of unfiltered tween one-upsmanship, informed a group of classmates that he'd had sex.  Yep, you read that right.  Thankfully, it's not true, therefore he's still alive and I'm not sporting a jumpsuit of some ghastly shade of neon orange. 

Notified by phone, betwixt the curb-side convo with Co-Def 2's teacher regarding sorely lacking self-control and canine, indoor (on the carpet, of course) Montezuma's revenge, I barely restrained my Oh, shit! and opted instead for my quasi-Japanese AIYAA!

I love going to the Principal's office.  It feels so cozy, familiar...you know, like home.  And nothing, absolutely noth-ING, beats running into one of those kids' moms on the way inside.  After offering the sincerest of apologies to her, she asked What. Has. He. Been. Watching?

Back up the Blame Bandwagon, DramaMama.  What's he been watching?!?  Well, hmm, let's see, uh National Geographic because we had to cancel the Playboy Channel on account of the bad economy and all.  WHAT'S! HE! BEEN! WATCHING?!?

I've always been honest with my kids about all things body and sex related.  They ask and I'll give an age-appropriate answer.  At age 5, Babies come from God was sufficient.  Yesterday, I wasn't too certain where the little shits came from, but I bet dollars to donuts it's probably got a fairly hot climate. 

I'm also a stickler for proper names or terms.

• It's penis, not tallywacker.
• They're testicles, not tenders or nuggets.  Ten bucks says you snicker the next time you're in the Golden Arches drive-thru...and no, anabolic steroids don't shrink them until they disappear--this isn't vanishing deductible from Geico.
• Hasta la vista, hooha and coochie.  Hola, vagina.

As sex-crazed as American society is, you'd think parents would pull that stick out of their collective posterior and get down to brass tacks.  You think I'm joking about 13 year-olds giving birth or 15 year-olds with chlamydia?  Go ahead, call my bluff.

I firmly believe God created sex specifically for a married couple, couple in this instance meaning one man and one woman, to enjoy together until they drop dead of unbridled exhiliration or old age.  Fine, great.  But, you're not off the hook by simply saying It's sacred and special and we'll talk about it when you're older.  Wake the hell up, already!  You want to believe Sex, what's THAT? go ahead and knock yourself out.  I hope the view up your behind is divine.  But, fair warning here:  Christians get STDs and they can, oopsies, get pregnant, too.

Part of my parenting job is the privilege (no, I'm not joking) of making myself available to answer those questions that make me long for the day when the only thing coming from that kid's mouth was slobber.  At age 12, there's no glossing it over and if it's as special and sacred as God intends it to be, then my answers had better be just as thoughtful and thorough.  I just wonder why Dear Hubby's never around for these teachable moments.

My only regret, is that another parent's privilege to introduce their child to such a sensitive topic was preempted by my child's thoughtless comment.  Not okay.

So, what's he been watching?

RIO, that movie about a blue macaw on the loose in Brazil who, I'd like to point out, was sent there by his owner for the express purpose of procreating.  If you let your kids watch this movie, congratulations, you're a bad parent just like me.  Welcome to the dark side.

Where'd my son learn about sex?

At home.

From his PARENTS.

It's Been Nice Knowin' Ya!

I love the start of a new school year.  As a kid, it meant new boxes of wonderfully fragranced crayons.  The adult Me anxiously awaits the arrival of the Fall season when the leaves drop from the trees and the grass gets a bit brittle.  Kind of what we're experiencing right now in Texas, only with cooler temperatures.  Ah, Fall, I shall miss you for I am going away for a long, long time.  Let me start at the beginning.

This afternoon as I was pulling out of the school parking lot, my cell phone rang, displaying the mom's name of one of my daughter's classmates.  She cheerfully informed me that our two girls had decided over lunch that a playdate was in order and 'Is today good for you?'  Not having a reason to say no and with my daughter practically turning cartwheels in the backseat, I pulled over, hurriedly muttered something about minding her manners and sent them on their way.  As I watched their SUV disappear around the corner, it hit me:

WHAT THE HELL HAD I JUST DONE?

Granted, we'd all been acquainted since last school year, but how well do any of us really know one another?  Although, Play-Date Mom and I seem alot alike...you know, normal.  Not at all like that picture perfect, not a hair out of place type Mommy who bakes from scratch and doesn't spank.  Now that I think about it, though, Ted Bundy seemed normal, too.  Hmmm....

Did I pop a Xanax?  I think not!  Two hours later (yay, me!), there I was, standing in her living room, two girls running hither and yon when her daughter stops dead in her tracks and says:

IS IT TRUE A BAD MAN BROKE IN YOUR HOUSE AND YOU STABBED HIM IN THE HEART WITH A KNIFE?

I can picture all this in my head and it's almost as funny as the Baby Ruth candybar/turd in the pool scene from Caddyshack.  Almost.

Co-Defendant #2 smiled cherubically, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks tinged a becoming shade of pink as I hurriedly assured our host family that I was not, in fact, a knife-wielding wacko and got the hell outta Dodge.  I'd like to pause at this point to remind everyone that it was about this same time last year that #2 told her teachers her bad behavior could be blamed on the fact that her Daddy and I were getting ourselves a good old- fashioned dee-vorce. 

"I was just using my 'imagining', Mom".

Most kids make their parents something cool like an astronaut or spy.  Mine makes me a killer?!?!  Hey, Sugarbuns, if you're gonna make Mama bad, at least make her a HOT bad girl...think Pussy Galore of James Bond fame.

Sigh.

Perhaps It's Best They Don't Know

I've often wondered what my great-grandparents would think of our fast-paced, techno-overloaded, in your face society with its no-holds-barred attitude.

Take television, for instance.

Do ANY of us really care to hear former Dallas Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson discuss his, um, johnson and shill for an E.D. drug company?  If by some stretch you don't know what E.D. is, please Google it as the mere thought of him and it gives me the willies dry heaves.  Do moms want their sons to be regaled with horror stories of dryness/wetness/itch/odor south of the belt?  I haven't yet had THE TALK with my son, but thanks to House Hunters, I had the joy of explaining that yes, indeed, my son, those two men do sleep in the same bed and no, they aren't brothers.  I don't want to know you spent twelve hours in the Emergency Department because your little blue pill worked so well that you're now blind, deaf and mute from lack of oxygen to your brain; that your 'plumbing' leaks; or that it's now so much more comfortable for you to do number two.

I can just see them, these two simple country folks, spinning in the grave while the evening news anchor gushes like a pre-teen girl at a Justin Bieber concert, delivering his salacious bounty of all things related to cigars, stains that just won't come out and an Arkansas Willy that simply wouldn't be contained.

Really?

While I give a nod to the irony that, by blogging, I too, add my bit of poo to the pile, I'd like to think that even I have my limits and that some things are better left unsaid and unseen.

Which brings me to my next rant:  VISIBLE UNDERGARMENTS.

I am not talking about pantylines, as those are forgiveable, especially if you've chowed down a few too many donuts and lattes and have to squeeze yourself into your skinny jeans 'cause the others are at the dry cleaners.  I'm talking visible to my eyes, proudly displayed for all and sundry to enjoy, your Victoria's Secret unmentionables.  I have not a care for your choice (or lack thereof) of derriere covering:  bikini, granny-panty, thong, commando?  My policy is don't ask, don't tell.  And, no, Mr. President, I for one do not care if it's boxers or briefs.

However, I must tell you, and please have someone standing by to hold your hand and the smelling salts because the shock may be too much for you to bear all by your lonesome, visible butt-floss IS! NOT! A! FASHION! STATEMENT!  It is a flashing-neon, high-wattage, Vegas-style shout out to every human with a pulse in your immediate vicinity that you, my friend, are bona fide trash with a capital T. 

As the mother of a tween boy, my message for you is simple...

PULL UP YOUR FRIGGIN' PANTS, SLUT PUPPY!