The Birds & The Bees

It’s about that time that my daughter and I had a little talk.

Yep charity’s not the only thing that should begin at home. 

So does sex education.

I’ve learnt that the hard way.

Oh it was innocent enough- My Beloved decided we deserved a break from the constant bickering that had punctuated our Saturday morning up to that point, so he shut the bedroom door on the kids saying he wanted 5 minutes alone with mummy to give her a quiet cuddle. For a change that’s what he actually meant! 

Didn’t quite realize how it sounded to another’s ears until our 6 year old told a caller that “Mummy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s busy in the bedroom having a hug with daddy.”

Well, didn’t my friend give me grief when I got hold of the handset?!

I really don’t know who was more embarrassed or amused when Miss V knocked on the bedroom door to pass the telephone over and I was greeted with giggles from my friend, followed finally by an explanation of the mirth (also the background comments from said friend’s husband that Fathers’ Day was still weeks away and was he getting an early gift). It wasn’t like that at all. (Heaven knows we have learnt to schedule those sessions for when we’re least likely to get interrupted i.e. when kids aren’t home!)

But with our son now approaching the age where school sessions are scheduled to ensure the information is delivered in a factual and fun way (whatever that means), it means that the adults in the house are having “that” discussion about whether the children are really ready for it.

Here’s the thing. We’ve never used euphemisms or silly nicknames for body parts- we’re both big on calling a spade a spade (or whatever’s the relevant term for the item in question)- and have discovered real issues when our offspring bring home titles like “willy”, weener”, “doodle”, “family jewels”, and “front bottom”. (Front bottom? Seriously, what is up with that??)  And I’ve even had to have a quiet chat with my son at the request of another mother that terms like “balls” are really not appropriate to use in conversation with girls in the classroom.Unless it's in the context of sport.   

♫Awwk-waaard. ♫

I have to say though, that the very thought of having to sit down and have “The Talk” with my daughter immediately brings up memories of my mother attempting to do the same with me as a child. Being the youngest of three girls in an all-female household, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination (think nudie runs from bathroom to bedroom simply to keep the schedule of all those women in a one-bathroom house), and of course we were exposed to the schoolyard discussions of what’s under other’s clothes or the private stuff that goes on in two-parent families. Ours didn’t exactly fit the perfect model of mum-dad- and-the-kids, my sisters and I never had the opportunity to accidentally expose what really goes on in the marital bed (and both my therapist and I thank our lucky stars every day for that, just quietly) so mum had some explaining to do.

I distinctly remember the extreme embarrassment mum and I felt when she took me into her room, brought out the tried and trusty copy of the puberty book (you know, I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, only that it had a garish yellow cover– must have blocked that one out as a painful memory!) and sat me down and started to read. I still shudder at the thought of my mother nodding wisely at the advice that relations between a man and a woman are a special thing given by God, or words to that effect. I was so innocent and embarrassed that I couldn’t even come up with a clever comment like “So that’s why people call out His name?!” at the time.

But we both survived it relatively intact.  And now it’s my turn. With my little girl who has yet to embrace the fashion and makeup and all the bling things that others her age are well and truly into.

My turn to find the appropriate text to take into the bedroom and sit her down for that chat.

One can only hope that no one rings at the time or else my son might just tell them I’m unavailable because of something to do with sex!

Jx

©2010/11

Men oh Pause

All of us have heard the startling fact that men think about sex several times a day. Every 52 seconds, if you can believe this report.

We are all well aware that most women do not.

I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.

By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.

I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.

If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).

I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.

So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.

It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).

It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.

Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).

And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.

I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?

After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.

If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.

It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.

At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).

So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.

That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!

Jx
©2010

Ageing Disgracefully

I really shouldn’t read magazines.

Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).

Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.

For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.

But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.

27.

Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.

Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.

As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.

It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.

I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)

When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.

At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”

Consider the setting.

She had just left the toilets.

I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…

And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.

I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.

These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.

It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).

I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!

And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.

Well now, that’s something to look forward to.

There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).

Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?

Jx
©2009

The Not-So-Wicked Stepmother

It took me ten years to become a mum.

But less than one before I was launched into the alien world of adolescence.

Because, even before my first-born was born, I was thrust onto planet parenthood with the arrival in our household of my stepson, then aged 9.

If being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world, I can tell you a stepmother’s lot is a whole lot harder.

Aside from the obvious difference between a birth and a ‘blended’ parent, just look at the bad rap stepmothers have been given over the years. She’s invariably cast as the villain in the piece in all the classic fairytales and plays from writers like the Brothers Grimm, Shakespeare…even the ancient Greek playwright Euripides who lived way back in 480-406 BC is quoted as saying: "Better a serpent than a stepmother!" Boo, Hissssssss.

And I’m holding Disney personally responsible for a lot of it: just look at their adaptations of Cinderella, Snow White, even “Enchanted” features the classic ‘Wicked Stepmother’ character. She's usually ugly too, just to add insult to injury (although Susan Sarandon is still gorgeous at age 63, if you ask me)!

Kinda makes it tough on the rest of us in that role.

To make it even harder, my stepson was told he didn’t have to listen to me since I wasn’t his ‘real’ mother (no prizes for guessing who gave him that helpful little piece of advice). So I found myself resorting to the age-old trick of parenthood in any guise: reverse psychology. If I wanted him to do something, I simply said for him not to. You can’t argue with that (even if one does have O.D.D.).

But being a stepmother can also make it simpler to deal with certain conversations and situations that can make a biological parent cringe. Since we’re “the bad guy” anyway, we may as well blunder in where others dare to tread.

Like with the facts of life.

When my stepson came to live with us, he had no clue whatsoever about the differences between men and women, let alone where babies come from. And since I was pregnant at the time, a crash course in sex education was definitely on the cards.

Here I pause and reflect upon my Beloved’s insightful and informative approach. It went something like: girls don’t have the bits boys have and so girls have the babies. And left it at that. Naturally I had to step in and explain a few things, especially since he was in the delivery room with us barely minutes after my son was born. Yes, seeing me in all my glory (complete with Grumpy-the-Dwarf nightshirt and wearing a sick-bowl as a party hat) certainly brought him up to speed. And how.

Fast forward a few years and my 16 y.o. stepson has moved back to his mother. You can imagine my utter delight when he informs me that his also 16 y.o. girlfriend spends nearly every night with him in his caravan, so I straight up asked if they were practicing safe sex. He did the ‘Aw shutup’ thing and denied it, but I pressed ahead anyway: “Just make sure you use protection, because the last thing you need at your age is a baby, ok? Or a disease!” I got the distinct impression that no one else had been game enough to venture forth on the topic, so we chatted about it a bit. When I later related the conversation to my Beloved, he kinda blushed (god love him) and said “I’m glad he’ll talk to you about stuff like that.”

He also says he prefers me to take him for driving lessons over anyone else because apparently I don’t yell at him anywhere near as much as the others do. I told him I’m saving my breath lest I need it for screaming. (He thinks I’m kidding.) Mind you, it’s a little scary when he’s laughing so much he can’t keep the car going in a straight line. (I never realized just how handy those little straps above the window really are, until now.)

Yes it’s certainly a different kind of parenting when there’s a “step” involved. But if you’re lucky you can develop a special kind of relationship, in spite of the odds.

And so, back to my original point about stepmothers and the reputation we’ve been given over the centuries, maybe we’re really not so wicked in the traditional sense, more like “wikkid” in the way that perhaps only a teenager can appreciate.

I’m hanging out for the day Disney makes a movie with that kind of happy ending.

Let’s just hope it comes out well before I become a wicked stepgrandmother…

*cackles*

Jx
©2009