The Birds and The Bees...and The Ostrich

This summer the birds and the bees reared their pesky little heads in our household. You know the ones I'm talking about....those birds and those bees. We're still dealing with the fallout from my oh-so-botched initial conversation with JT. It was just a normal summer day. We'd been to the beach earlier that day and I was hot, sandy, sticky and starving. All I wanted to do was cook supper and go take a shower. As I'm cooking, I suddenly I hear JT screech:

“Mooooooooom! MO’s having sex with the dog!”

I stood there for a moment thinking about the ignorant bliss of a few seconds gone by before turning around and sweetly saying, “What did you say, Honey?”

JT continued, “MO’s having sex with the dog! Look, she’s letting the dog lick her face!”

Whew. Okay. “Honey, MO is not having sex with the dog. She cannot have sex with the dog. (At this point MO is returning the dog’s kisses, minus the tongue). Your sister is kissing the dog. Kissing and sex are not the same thing. Please don’t say sex when you mean kissing.”

My turn to screech: "MO! STOP KISSING THE DOG THIS INSTANT!"

I turn back to my cooking, knowing that I will not get away with this. But foolishly hoping nonetheless.

“Well then, Mom, what is sex?”

Crap! And what does this totally unprepared mom say? “Well, JT, sex isn’t kissing.” Now I’m wracking my brain to try to remember exactly what sex is because suddenly I’ve forgotten. There is just a roaring train sound in my head. Nothing else. No synapses firing. Nada. Maybe a few crickets chirping, but that's it.

JT says, in a knowing tone, “Oh, thaaaaaat’s right, I know what sex is. It’s when a man and a woman take off their clothes and, you know, do stuff.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. This cannot be derailed. So, of course, I do the only obvious thing and tell JT that Daddy will talk to him as soon as he gets home. Then I call Hubs and tell him to get himself home asap.

Hubs works late in order to cower and hide from the discussion awaiting him at home. I don't blame him a bit.

I began to search Amazon and Barnes & Noble for the perfect sex-for-kids-who-are-too-young-to-know-about-sex book. I know he’s 9 years old. I learned about sex when I was 9. I was utterly disgusted by it all at the age of nine. I was determined to ‘do this right’ so I began with research. JT does not even weigh 50 pounds yet – he’s close at 48 – but somehow a 48-pounder is simply not ready to know about sex. Yes, I know how ridiculously mommy-headed that sounds. It’s my ostrich logic on this topic. I have no defense for it.

Just wait until you hear about my trip to the bookstore....

Nothing Funny About It

I took MO for her 7 year well visit this week and flu shots all around. I THOUGHT I heard the nurse coming back into the room with the shots and decided to let the kids know what was coming - they'd both been asking and I was feeling bad about lying to them, er I mean, distracting them. They are getting too old for the distractions. They looked me in the eye and asked what was up and I caved. Yes, you are getting poked today I say with all the shame in the world masked as cheerful tranquility. I feel like the executioner or, more accurately, like the poor guy who had to drag the doomed to the executioner's ax. They both immediately went completely ape shit. Whining, Crying, Screaming, Wailing, Hand-Wringing...and what do I, their loving mother, do? I start to laugh. I cannot make myself stop laughing. I am so broken - what kind of a mother does something like that? It was as if someone added batteries and flipped a switch and they were ON. I've never seen anything quite like it. The nurse took another lifetime - okay, it was 5-10 minutes - before coming back. I volunteered to go first so they could see that it was no big deal. Except that during my flu shot they were both rolling on the floor with their hands covering their faces while wailing loudly (the kids were wailing, not their hands). I'm too tired and stressed from the whole emotionally taxing day to correct my grammar. Besides, my arm hurts. Karma, maybe?

Heartsore Homeschooling

Most days I love homeschooling, but (y’all knew there was a BUT coming, right?), you know, some days I wish I were one of the moms who ships her kids off to school and has time to herself during the day. I wonder what that must feel like. I had snippets of freedom when the kids were both in preschool for 3 hours a day, twice per week. I’d love to know what it feels like to have 7ish hours a day, 5 days per week. Just for a little while.

I get so tired of good-intentioned gushes of, “I just don’t know how you do it. I’d go crazy if I homeschooled and was home all day with my kids all the time. You’re a better person than I am.” I suppose that those are supposed to be compliments (?), but all I hear are recriminations of my own idiocy, misguided priorities and loss of touch with reality – my perception of their perceptions, I’ll admit. Sometimes I think of how it would be so much easier if I didn't mention homeschooling to Some People. I should just answer their questions with "I teach" rather than "I homeschool." But I'm kind of twisted and like the uncomfortable looks on Some People's faces. It's almost like I've said that I have 24 cats or communicate with space aliens. The looks people give are about the same for all three statements. Some People are so wrapped up in WHAT they do that they've lost WHO they are. It's sad to be so wrapped up in the what and not the who, but I digress.

Most days I really do enjoy homeschooling. I LOVE being home with my kids. I LOVE the schooling part. Watching them learn. Seeing their excitement. Building memories. Introducing them to new things. The freedom, ah yes, the freedom. I could go on for hours about the positives. But, let’s focus on the negatives for a bit, people. Sometimes I feel like I’m more about quantity than quality. I don’t like the hours after school is done and before bedtime on days when I cannot summon the mood to do all the Good Mommy things, such as crafts (*shudder*), visiting the park, baking cookies, etc. Y’all know the drill. Those afternoons are filled with pesky, witching hours around here. I wish I had a neighborhood full of kids so I could kick the kids out of the house to play until I called them at dinnertime, but I do not. Some days I feel the need to “get some things done around here.” The kids know this means Mom needs to be left alone to salvage what is left of her sanity.

Anyone else?

Mom of the Year

Last night I took a glass of wine upstairs to sip while watching TV with the kids. I finished about half of it and left it upstairs when I went to bed. This morning while tidying up, I grabbed the wine glass and headed downstairs. I opened the front door to say something to the kids (who are playing outside on this GORGEOUS day rather than doing school) and there's my neighbor. I'm standing there in my comfy, stay-at-home clothes holding half a glass of wine at 11:30 in the morning, bellowing at my kids not to ride their bikes in the street. The smile literally slid off the face of my neighbor.

HOMESCHOOL MOM OF THE YEAR, right here! Where's my trophy?