Oh, Grow Up
I say this to myself as I read Julie's blog instead of diving head-first into the mountain of work I have to do this week. (Bossman gave me a raise Friday, and made it retroactive to the first of the year, so now I feel obligated to do my job. Damn him.) Ironically, Julie's blog topic today is about growing up. And dealing with helping our daughters accept their changing biology.
My first thought is Thank God I have a son, because I don't think there's any way in hell I could turn that whole "becoming a woman" business into a positive experience. I'd probably hand my daughter a tampon and a shot of Jim Beam in comemmorative comisseration. Then I remind myself that being the mother of a boy is not without its Sweet Jesus Just Let Me Dissolve Right Now moments.
Like the night a few weeks ago when Bob emerged from the tub with a raging boner and announced, "my weenie feels funny." My reaction? Wrap him in a towel with lightning speed and say, "think about baseball."
Or trying to explain to him that, yes, boobies are nice a soft and make excellent head rests, but he is not to talk about mine--period.
Or when he empties the bathroom trash and gags over how gross my lipstick-blotting tissues are, biting my tongue to keep from telling him, "you ought to just be damned glad that's all you find in there." (Thank you, Depo Provera.)
I've already told Ben that by the time Bob turns 11, we need to be in lodging that allows for sufficient distance between the bedrooms. Because the first time I hear that familiar "slap slap slap slap," I'm leaving. I don't even want to think about the first time I find The Sock.
Eeewwwwwwww.
Because I cannot, it seems, grow up. I cannot attain that level of maturity necessary to allow me to use the appropriate scientific terms for body parts. And I don't see that changing. My own mother's response to biology ranged from the puritan to the Fuck That's Too Much Information, so I don't really know where it's socially acceptable to draw the line. So I just draw it at the beginning. If Bob wants to learn about sex, he can look it up in the Encyclopedia Brittanica like we did. Because if he asks me where babies come from, I'll just give him a dumb look and say something like "if I knew that, I wouldn't have had one, would I?"
This is where it sucks to be an atheist. I don't have religious dogma to fall back on, and let's face it, religious dogma is a parent's best fucking friend. "But why can't I eat another cookie?" Obey your mother or you'll go to Hell. "Why can't I just take what I want from the store?" Because the Ten Commandments say "thou shalt not steal." "Where do babies come from?" Babies are a special gift from Jesus. "What is sex?" A mortal sin. Don't ask me that again.
What? It's not like I ever claimed to be a good mother.
In other news, I finally found my Fearless Lawyer this morning. Turns out he's still alive, just unable to return a phone call or an email. We're meeting Thursday, and he assures me a motion for a guardian ad litem will be on file with the court before then. It better be. He just sent me another bill and I'd hate to shred it before it got paid.
This weekend, I discovered the one benefit to retail people thinking spring arrives on January 2--when it's still two degrees outside, you can get some kick ass deals on winter shit. I scored a couple of space heaters for $13 each and a humidifier for $12. I'm not thrilled with the humidifier, but the space heaters work great. We can now use our office without dressing in layers, and Bob's room is nice and cozy. The only downside is I'm still ultra-paranoid about the things, so Bob only gets to be warm until we go to bed. But I brought one with me to my office today, and it's blowing its toasty goodness at me right now. And drying the shit out of my hair, skin and nasal passages.
Win some, lose some.
My first thought is Thank God I have a son, because I don't think there's any way in hell I could turn that whole "becoming a woman" business into a positive experience. I'd probably hand my daughter a tampon and a shot of Jim Beam in comemmorative comisseration. Then I remind myself that being the mother of a boy is not without its Sweet Jesus Just Let Me Dissolve Right Now moments.
Like the night a few weeks ago when Bob emerged from the tub with a raging boner and announced, "my weenie feels funny." My reaction? Wrap him in a towel with lightning speed and say, "think about baseball."
Or trying to explain to him that, yes, boobies are nice a soft and make excellent head rests, but he is not to talk about mine--period.
Or when he empties the bathroom trash and gags over how gross my lipstick-blotting tissues are, biting my tongue to keep from telling him, "you ought to just be damned glad that's all you find in there." (Thank you, Depo Provera.)
I've already told Ben that by the time Bob turns 11, we need to be in lodging that allows for sufficient distance between the bedrooms. Because the first time I hear that familiar "slap slap slap slap," I'm leaving. I don't even want to think about the first time I find The Sock.
Eeewwwwwwww.
Because I cannot, it seems, grow up. I cannot attain that level of maturity necessary to allow me to use the appropriate scientific terms for body parts. And I don't see that changing. My own mother's response to biology ranged from the puritan to the Fuck That's Too Much Information, so I don't really know where it's socially acceptable to draw the line. So I just draw it at the beginning. If Bob wants to learn about sex, he can look it up in the Encyclopedia Brittanica like we did. Because if he asks me where babies come from, I'll just give him a dumb look and say something like "if I knew that, I wouldn't have had one, would I?"
This is where it sucks to be an atheist. I don't have religious dogma to fall back on, and let's face it, religious dogma is a parent's best fucking friend. "But why can't I eat another cookie?" Obey your mother or you'll go to Hell. "Why can't I just take what I want from the store?" Because the Ten Commandments say "thou shalt not steal." "Where do babies come from?" Babies are a special gift from Jesus. "What is sex?" A mortal sin. Don't ask me that again.
What? It's not like I ever claimed to be a good mother.
In other news, I finally found my Fearless Lawyer this morning. Turns out he's still alive, just unable to return a phone call or an email. We're meeting Thursday, and he assures me a motion for a guardian ad litem will be on file with the court before then. It better be. He just sent me another bill and I'd hate to shred it before it got paid.
This weekend, I discovered the one benefit to retail people thinking spring arrives on January 2--when it's still two degrees outside, you can get some kick ass deals on winter shit. I scored a couple of space heaters for $13 each and a humidifier for $12. I'm not thrilled with the humidifier, but the space heaters work great. We can now use our office without dressing in layers, and Bob's room is nice and cozy. The only downside is I'm still ultra-paranoid about the things, so Bob only gets to be warm until we go to bed. But I brought one with me to my office today, and it's blowing its toasty goodness at me right now. And drying the shit out of my hair, skin and nasal passages.
Win some, lose some.
posted by Mitzi Green at 1:14 PM
3 Comments:
Penis, vagina and breasts. It's not hard. I'm very matter-of-factly (is that even a word?)with my kids. It's never bothered me.
You're an Atheist, too? Wow. I'm not alone. I still throw in some religious dogma in for good measure...it's fun. LOL
The Sock - bwahahahaha....
A friend of ours was telling us recently that he was met at the front door after a long day at work by his wife, who had caught their son - ahem - pleasuring himself. "You've GOT to talk to him!" she said...so what did he do but go upstairs and told his son the following:
1. Everyone does it or they lie about it;
2. Lock the door so your mother doesn't catch you again!
I am sooo not looking forward to these conversations....
i just can't do it. i can scream "penis!" in a crowded mall (it's a little game a friend and i used to play because we're so mature) but i can't say it to my 5 year old son. and i can't even say "vagina" to my own husband, who likes to say it just to make me squirm.
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