Spa Day

The kids have been helping me make Christmas cookies for our homeschool group.  They rolled all of the molasses cookie dough into balls and dipped into sugar.  Once finished, JT announced, "Wow!  My hands feel so clean and moisturized...whatever that means."

Poking the Sleeping Dog

The book I so painstakingly chose to introduce JT to the world of sex, bodies and babies has been gathering dust on the bookshelf for about four months now.  He claimed to have no interest in the book.  I decided it was time for him to read the book because I like to torment myself, think I know what's best for everyone have heard some things from JT that let me know it was time.  I sent Mo out to play with friends and casually tossed the Where Did I Come From book to JT, with a casual "got something for you" (very, very, very casual. I'm so casual), and walked away to continue with my housework. Shutup.Yes, I was doing housework.  Sort of. I did break out a bottle of Windex and go to town busily spraying any glass surfaces with in 10 feet of JT.  He sat in the armchair and didn't move for about 20 minutes while he read the book cover to cover. I cleaned all around him like I wasn't the least bit interested in what he was doing. If I got too close, he'd close the book to where only he could see the page - as if I had no idea what he was reading. I was watching his little face like a hawk, of course. Accidentally sprayed myself with Windex a couple of times because I was paying so little attention to my "work." When he finished the book our conversation went something like this:

me: Do you have any questions?

JT: NO, I AM NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT THIS. I WILL NEVER TALK ABOUT THIS. I WILL NEVER HAVE ANY QUESTIONS.

[He was not yelling, as the all-caps indicate, but he was quite adamant. His tone suggested finality.]

me: Okay, that's fine. By the way, there is nothing in this book that is "bad" in any way. God created our bodies and decided how we'd make babies. This is all very natural and normal.

JT: OKAY, MOM, BUT THERE WERE SOME VERY, VERY INAPPROPRIATE PICTURES IN THAT BOOK. I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

me: Will you at least tell me if you learned something new from reading this book?

JT: YES, OKAY? I LEARNED SOMETHING. BUT I WILL NEVER TALK ABOUT IT.

me: You don't have to talk to me. You can talk to Daddy. He knows all about this stuff, too. It's normal to have questions. You can't just know this stuff. If you ever want to talk, you can talk to me or Daddy.

JT: I. WILL. NEVER. TALK. ABOUT. THIS.

Could the kid have been any more clear? Why couldn't I just drop it? My poor kid is going to be telling his therapist about how his mom chased him around the room with a bottle of Windex while begging him to talk to her about where babies come from.

Wonder if this means he'll grow up to have perpetually dirty windows due to an aversion to Windex? I'm thinking that's a big, fat YES.

The Talk

After striking out on finding a book that would give me a complete script guideline of what to say to my baby child about sex I knew I had to bite the bullet and just do it. A couple of weeks later, I was finally alone with JT in the car. I asked him if he had anything he’d like to talk with me about since MO was not around.

JT: Oh, yes, Mom, I have a couple of things.

Me: (Okay. Deep breath. I’m braced and as ready as I’ll ever be with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.) Go ahead and ask, Honey.

JT: Is the Tooth Fairy real?

Me: (oh, bother!) No, JT, she is not real. (*exasperated tone*) It’s me and Daddy just like Santa and the Easter Bunny. Anything else you want to talk about?

JT: Well, in a way Santa is real since Saint Nicholas was a real man who helped people, right? Was there a real person who took kids’ teeth and gave them money?

Me: No, JT. (growing frantic.  Is there some way to slow the car's progress since we're getting close to home and I may never have the gumption to tackle this topic again? Should I fake a flat tire?) Why don’t we talk about sex? Do you remember asking me about that and I told you we’d discuss it when MO was not around? Now is a pretty good time.

JT: Uh. Well. Uh. No, not really. I don’t want to talk about that. It’s too – ooooohh – just too gross.

Me: (Well, shit. Must come up with new approach.) Hmm, well, it seems that you already have some idea what sex is. Why don’t you tell me what you know about it so that I can correct any misunderstandings? Sometimes when your friends tell you things they are not sure about, they get some details wrong.

JT: No! It’s just too gross. I don’t want to think about it or talk about it!

Me: (Well, double-shit and damn. What has this kid heard?) JT, actually sex is not bad or gross. It is how babies are made and God created sex for men and women who are married. (Approach #3 - I’m working on the fly here).

JT: (completely horrified) WHAT?! God made that? What was HE thinking?

Me: (not going to answer that one in this conversation) Do you have an idea about what sex is?

JT: Yes and it’s too disgusting to say. It involves bad, bad, bad parts.

Me: (WHAT?! Since when is ‘private’ a synonym for ‘bad’? Why is my kid so screwed up here? This cannot be my fault, can it? Yes, it's always the mother's fault.) What do you mean by bad, JT?

JT: Well, mom, I’m only going to say this once, so make sure you’re listening.

Me: Well, say it loud, then ‘cause Mama’s hearing ain’t what it used to be.

JT: You rub your private parts together. It-it-it-it’s just too gross.

Me: (Yay! It's gross!  So glad to hear that it's gross!) Yes, JT that is pretty much right. There is more to it than that and I’ll be happy to tell you about it whenever you are ready to hear it. I also have a book for you all about sex and babies. You can have it whenever you want it. It’s okay that you think sex is gross right now. Several years from now (God willing) you will not think that sex is gross and you may have more questions about it. Daddy and I will be here to answer them.

JT: I will never want that book. Never. I want sex out of my head.  I want it out of my mind. And I want it out this world!

Wholesome Summertime Fun

The next day (yes, it got worse), MO and JT came in all dirty and muddy from playing outside. I made them take their clothes off in the laundry room and sent them upstairs to clean up. MO came back down declaring, “JT wants to do sex with me.” Uh huh. You read it right. JT looked sheepish (in the kid’s defense, he has no clue what sex is at this point. He now had an inkling that it’s probably not something he should’ve mentioned to his sister). MO was – as I always knew she would be – put out and irritated that someone would say such a thing to her (even though she, also, doesn’t know what it means). I explained to JT that “doing sex” was not something that was okay. His reply? “Well, everyone else does it.” Uh huh. I smell tweenishness on the horizon. I told him that no, everyone does not do it. Of course he needed to know what IT actually IS. At this point, I wasn't sure how much he really wanted to know, but he did need an explanation. How is it that an afternoon of playing outside can so quickly go from wholesome summertime fun to, well, incest?!?!?!

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....

A Tale

MO was reading aloud a fanciful story about a group of animals. The main character, Pig, is homesick and begins telling a tale about his hometown. The other animals were awed at Pig's outrageous tale of a land filled with colors. Comprehension questions went something like this:

Me: Are the other animals surprised by Pig's tale?

MO: Yes.

Me: Why were the other animals surprised?

MO: Because a pig was talking to his tail. Duh.

A Barrel Of Chicken

Overheard around my dinner table last night:


Jacob: Wow! This is the best chicken I’ve ever had in my life!


Me: (stunned…then exhilarated) Thank you, honey! That is so nice of you to say! I’m thrilled that you are enjoying your dinner.


Jacob: Well, at this house. It’s the best chicken I’ve had at this house. I’ve had better chicken at Steak and Shake.



Me: (rapidly deflating)


Morgan: And that Chinese place that Daddy takes us to has better chicken than this.



Me: (Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...grrrr!)


Jacob: Well, for this house this is good. I could eat a whole barrel of this chicken.


Morgan: Yeah, me too. A whole barrel. Or I could eat a whole barrel of Steak and Shake chicken.


Jacob: Yeah, Steak and Shake….



I simply cannot wait to cook dinner tonight. Can you feel the sarcasm oozing through the keyboard? Maybe we'll just go to Steak and Shake and order a barrel of the best chicken ever.

Broken

But, Mooooom, it's barely broken!

Really??? This means it is okay to use your sister's necklace as a slingshot? The fact that it is barely broken? What if it were completely broken? Then the ADHD brain would think, "Oops. I broke it. Now what?" While it is in the barely-broken stage, all systems are go and we can continue to slingshot the necklace across the room. Gotta love the mind of a 9 year old boy.

To Underline or Not To Underline

I had SUCH a conversation with JT in the car the other day. He was doing a writing practice sheet where he was asked to write about a play he has seen. Why were we doing school in the car you might ask? Well, I had a doctor's appointment, so I loaded up the kids and their schoolwork and took them to Hubby's office to hang out and get their work done. When I retrieved the kiddos 2-1/2 hours later, they spilled the beans that Daddy let them play their DS's the entire time. What a great Daddy. But I digress. My conversation went something like this:


Me: You must underline the name of the play.

Jacob: Why would I do that?

Me: So that people will know it's a play.

Jacob: Mo-o-om, they have to already know that. I'm writing about a play. It says so in the directions.

Me: But when you write the name of the play you must underline it.

Jacob: What's underline mean?

Me: (gritted teeth) Draw a line under it.

Jacob: But there's already a line under it. (He's writing on lined paper.)

Me: (Do I feel those gritted teeth starting to crack?) Add another line so that there are two lines.

Jacob: Do I write it on top of the first line or below it? Either way it will mess up the words I've written.

Me: (Where is that screeching sound coming from?) Just draw it on the line that's already there.

Jacob: But then it will just look like one line again.

Me: Who's on first?

Broken-Hearted

JT could not find his beloved stuffed lion, Poquito (full name Poquito Tito for those of you who are Skippyjon Jones fans), last night before bed. I was exhausted and told him to just go to bed and that we'd search for Poquito in the morning. JT wailed, "But how can I sleep when my heart is breaking?" Poor, little buddy. Of course one cannot sleep when one's heart is breaking. This is why I was crawling around on all fours in a sleepy fog last night calling out to a stuffed animal.

Poquito didn't answer, in case you were wondering. But he was found, safe and sound, so JT's world could continue to turn. And I could succumb to the fog and get some sleep.