Let’s Talk About Sex Baby. . . Or Not
For the past six weeks, Big I has been participating in a club swimming conditioning program to get her ready for the winter swimming program at her school. There are rampant rumors that the girls locker room is haunted. Each night, there are stories about toilets mysteriously flushing and screams echoing through the locker room when no one else is in there. There's also something written on the shower wall that creeps me out way more than the possible haunts.
"I love sex."
It's not the fact that someone loves sex, because clearly people do. What creeps me out is that it has brought up some questions from my daughter that are insanely difficult to answer. And I thought that the whole, "What are tampons for?" question was a tough one!
So it was in the car on the ride to swimming that Big I began talking about it. She told me about the screams and the phantom flushes. And then she told me about the writing on the wall.
"It says, "I love the 's' word," she said.
"What? Why would someone write I love s%!#?" I asked her. "How weird is that?"
"No, mommy, it's not that word. It's S E X," she said, spelling it out slowly and deliberately.
"Ohhhhh," I said, tempted to turn the radio up and maybe even stick my fingers in my ears, screaming hysterically, "I can't hear you. I can't hear you."
"What IS that mommy?"
I played dumb. "What is what?" I asked her back.
"You know, that S E X word?" she questioned softly, still spelling it, and with me so grateful that those combined three letters didn't leave her mouth in one parenting nightmare of a word.
I hesitated and thought for a minute. As a parent, there is no preparation for this conversation. You don't know when it's going to come up and you certainly don't know how to answer. I thought about telling her, "it's how grown-ups make babies" but then I knew that would only lead to more questions. This kid has got a scientific mind. That wasn't going to solve anything and answering that way was going to dig me my own little personal hole to hell.
I thought about my one student today, whose topic for her persuasive speech is that sex education should start as early as the 6th grade. My daughter is just TWO YEARS away from that age. As she explained her topic, she talked about girls, as young as age nine, getting pregnant. My daughter IS nine years old.
I thought about how her friend who happens to be a boy, innocently gave her a peck on the cheek this summer. I thought about the note a different boy put in her desk this week that says, "You are cute."
And the only possible answer I could come up with was, "I'll tell you when you're a little bit older." I instantly felt a pang of guilt for not having a better response.
Then she said, "Can you just tell me this. . . is that S E X word a thing or something people do?"
"Um, well, it's something people do," I said, incredibly grateful that we were only two blocks from the pool.
And then I heard her whisper to herself from the back seat, "Wow. . . it must be something REALLY bad."
I couldn't help myself. I cracked up laughing. The truth is that I wanted to say, "You're damn right it's something bad! It's horrible and don't you EVER DREAM of doing it!!!" Not wanting to scar the kid for her adult life, I just said, "It's not really bad. You're just a little too young to know all about it right now." I then went on to explain that when pregnant ladies go to get ultrasounds, the doctor can determine the "sex" of the baby by looking at its body parts. I gave her the clinical, "It's whether you're a male or a female" business. It made me think about looking for answers in my Mom's medical books when I was a kid, a much older kid than my daughter right now.
That seemed to satisfy her, and she spent the next hour swimming.
On the drive home, she asked me what age one has to be in order to have an alcoholic drink. She also asked me why some people like to drink so much, and she went on to name a family member. This conversation was much easier. I talked to her about waiting until you're older to drink alcohol and told her that alcohol and drugs can do a growing body a lot of harm. I also talked about how it's ok to have a drink here and there. We then talked about how some people get addicted to drugs and alcohol. I told her that some of her friends may experiment by sipping an alcoholic drink or even sneaking something they shouldn't and that she should avoid doing those types of things because it can only lead to trouble.
And then she said, "One of my friends experiments with things. . . "
My breath caught in the back of my throat. She sounded so serious. Which friend and what is this friend experimenting with? My God! Already??? Already, I have to deal with this???? Was she two seconds away from telling me she's started drinking vodka?
"What are you talking about?" I asked her, as calmly as I could.
"Yeah," she said, speaking as if she was delivering a colossal secret, "she experiments by mixing root beer with apple cider with milk. I'm not going to ever do that," she said.
And I breathed the biggest sigh of relief ever. EVER.
Superstar
If you ask Sassy what she wants to be when she grows up, there is absolutely no hesitation. "I'm going to be a superstar!" she says. She lives for her "singin'" lessons each week and would much rather sing Lady Gaga than anything else. This past week, she taught herself "the swim meet song," also known as our National Anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner."
The song went through several transformations before it entered its current form. First, we had a version that went, "the ram ports we watched were so gallantly steaming." Then we added to it, "and the home of the PARADE" which had her voice teacher in a giggle fit.
After many car ride renditions, I think we finally got her to realize that nothing is steaming and that we're talking about the home of the brave, not the parade. But you can see for yourself. . .
If you'd like something a bit more contemporary, you might enjoy this rendition of Lady Gaga, complete with gutteral-like growling. . .
And finally, if you're more into Ke$ha, you might enjoy this rendition of "Tik Tok."
Have a great weekend! Something tells me mine will be full of music. . .
My Annual Love Letters
It's that time of year, the time of year when fantasy football is in full swing and I start realizing that my draft strategy was similar to throwing darts while blindfolded, facing the wrong way and possibly after being spun around 20 times as if I was about to play "pin the tale on the donkey." Except this time of year, I am the donkey, because I made some sad and sorry choices.
Before I can write my letters to my players, I should show you my line-ups in both of my leagues. In the first league, my team is called "Team BBM" (because I am lacking originality genes); and I have the following players (if you can call some of them that). . .
Drew Brees, LeSean McCoy, Peyton Hillis (a recent and highly intelligent pick-up), Steven Jackson, Greg Jennings, Marques "Disappointment" Colston, Antonio Gates, Packers D/ST, and Jeff Reed. Currently warming my bench either due to bye weeks or absolutely suckiness: Jeremy Maclin, Mike Wallace, Ben "I used to like you a whole lot better before you started treating girls like crap" Roethlisberger, Dez Bryant, Darren Sproles, Cadillac Williams and Dustin Keller.
In this league, I am currently 2-2. Last week I won by two points and I owe that entirely to Gates who is my favorite person in the world right now. And here, are my letters to Team BBM. . .
Dear Drew Brees,
You're doing fine and all, but if you could return to the Drew Brees of last year that scored my opponents 50+ points every time they played me, that would be fantastic. Oh, and I don't know what kind of lovers quarrel you are having with Colston right now, but fix it. Fix it now. For the love of all things football, and for my sanity, FIX IT. Get some couples counseling, have some coffee and work it out, or just go out and have a couple drinks together and make-up while listening to the sweet sounds of Trey Songz. Whatever you do, it's important you do. . . something. . . NOW!
Dear LeSean McCoy,
If you could just pretend that you didn't get a crushed rib, that would be cool. Losing you this week is going to feel like that time when I cut all my hair off and then mourned it for the three years it took to grow it back. Don't be long sweetheart, m'kay?
Dear Peyton Hillis,
Normally when I make a pick-up, it means that one's performance will drop off to complete toilet levels. You, however, proved me wrong. You made me a believer. And you're freaking cute. . . in a creepy overpowering jock kind of way. I like it and I like you. Keep it up and you can keep your starting spot in my line-up. How were you still available on the waivers I will never know (but I am glad).
Dear Steven Jackson,
Can you do me a favor and like stretch out or something before practice and games? I swear you are wrecking your groin every other day, every single year. Stop that man. You're too valuable to be spending my playing time on the sidelines with a sore nether region. 'Nuff said.
Dear Greg Jennings,
You seem like a super nice guy. However, it would be to your advantage (and mine) if Finley and Driver could get a nasty case of food poisoning this weekend and every weekend thereafter. Can you invite them over for some bad scallops or something?
Dear Marques "Huge Let Down" Colston,
You can also read my letter to Jennings and heed that advice. And also, are you seriously going to go out like this? You're getting targeted less than a deer during hunting season buddy! Are you cool with that? Because I'm not! Why don't you do something drastic to get noticed. Put some fluorescent stripes on your helmet or attach a megaphone to your headgear so you can be like "Yo Breesy, over here buddy!" Colston, I'm seriously about to plant your heiney on the bench. Step up buddy. The time is now!
Dear Antonio Gates,
I want to make you a nice dinner, pour you a glass of wine, and rub your feet. And if you knew how very badly I despise feet, you would know how very much I am loving you right now. Love you SO much.
Dear Jeff Reed,
I picked you up because I used to live in Pittsburgh and because I cheer for you bumble-bees when you're not playing my team, the Eagles. Don't make me drop your butt. Don't make me do it!!!! Because I will DO IT!
Dear Darren Sproles,
Remember those couple times when you were giving LT a run for his money? What was he, your muse or something? Why the fumble? Why the lack of point-getting? Why? Why? Why?
Deep breath. . .
On my other team, where my team name is Super Sucktastic (the league I won last year), I have the following players currently starting: Kevin Kolb (although I played Vick last week which just sucked), Michael Turner, DeAngelo Williams, Steve Smith, Marques "You're letting me down twice" Colston, Nate Washington, Tony Gonzalez, Steelers D/ST and Rob Bironas. On my bench, I have (and you should prepare for the awesomeness that is not): Michael Bush, Brett Favre, Dez Bryant, Laurence Maroney, Mercedes Lewis, Michael Vick and Jason Snelling. I am also 2-2 in this league, although my loss was so catastrophic this week that if point totals have anything to do with deciding the season end winners, I am way behind the eight ball right now.
Sigh. . .
Dear Kevin Kolb,
I feel like we have a bad relationship. I picked you up and had faith and then dropped you like a hot potato when it was clear that Vick was the man. Now you're the man and I'm confused. I'm so very confused. Can you make it less confusing for me, please?
Dear Michael Turner:
Like Katy Perry says, "you're hot and you're cold; you're yes and you're no; you're in and you're out; you're up and you're down." Can you decide what you're gonna be? Because a love triangle with you and Jason Snelling is not what I'm looking for right now. I need stability. Show me some.
Dear DeAngelo Williams,
I like your name because you remind me of that R & B guy; and I like your playing because you're improving and getting me some points. Let's make it clear though. I am in no way, shape or form ready or willing to rub your feet. You've got some ground to cover and some serious work to do DeAngelo.
Dear Steve Smith,
Get better soon. I liked you a lot better in weeks 1 & 2.
Dear Marques "Do Nothing Right Now" Colston,
See the above letter to you. You don't deserve two letters from me.
Dear Nate Washington,
So I pick you up and your point totals for the past three weeks add up to your point total in the first week. Is this how you treat people who put their trust in you? Shame on you. Shame on YOU!
Dear Dez Bryant,
I had so much faith in you, despite the fact that you are indeed a Cowboy, that I drafted you in both of my leagues. And in both of my leagues, I am crying buckets over how craptastic you have been lately. I expect more from you. Your Mom expects more from you. We all expect more from you. Now go eat some Chunky soup or something and replenish yourself post-bye week. I need to see some good action baby!
Dear Bench Warmers,
I swear that last week you got me a total of about three points. . . total. Um, what am I supposed to do on bye weeks? I'd almost rather leave spots empty than place you there right now. I know I picked you up late in the draft and I know that your teams sort of stink and all, but if you could show some effort, maybe score a touchdown, or resort to tripping those who are getting more air time and run time than you, I would surely appreciate it.
Are you experiencing fantasy football related anxiety? Tell me about it, and for the love of God, tell me who I can pick up off the waiver wires that's scoring more than 1 point a week!
Hey, if you're on Facebook, throw a thumbs up at the "Black Belt Mama" page. You can find it by clicking here!
Happy Birthday to Mini Me
When I was pregnant with Lil C, I was ecstatic but I also wanted her out as soon as possible. I was a gestational diabetic and I felt that every day that she was inside of me was pushing me closer to becoming a Type 1 Diabetic, which is exactly what happened to my Mom when she was pregnant with my sister.
I wondered how I'd ever love a second baby as much as I already loved my first. I thought about how my little sister used to knock down my blocks and drive me insane and I worried for Big I. I worried for myself. Did I have the capacity to love another child the way I already loved my first, especially after all she put me through during the pregnancy?
But I shouldn't have worried for a second. Lil C came into this world and I fell in love, head over heels in love. She was born looking like neither of us, but she was cute. So ridiculously cute. I remember taking her home the day I had her and walking around my bedroom with her. I caught a glimpse of myself in my bathroom mirror, Lil C curled up on my shoulder. It seemed like she fit into an eight inch space as she cuddled into me. I remember thinking, "Freeze this moment. Don't ever forget this. . . " and I haven't.
I can't believe it's been five years since that day now. My daughter, who looked like no one, turned into a little clone of me in no time. What's funny is that she looks like me now, not like what I looked like as a child. And she's like me in more ways than just appearance. She has grown into a smart and feisty little girl who doesn't take crap from anyone. She loves to sing and dance and that girl can totally bust a move (just like her mama). She'd rather sing "Bad Romance," "Alejandro," or "Like a G6" any day of the week over those silly preschool songs.
Any adult who meets her remarks that she has quite the personality for someone so young. She practically oozes it and that's not always a good thing. She'll tell you your hair looks messy in a heartbeat and if you need to take a shower, she'll also be happy to point that out as well. She's told men with long hair in shopping lines that they look like girls, and she's reassured her mommy "Your butt is not big like hers mommy. You have a nice butt" in public and loudly.
And this kid is affectionate like no other I have ever met. She "queezes" you and tells you she loves you 100 times a day and she means it. This fall, it was challenging for me to give her up to preschool three mornings a week, because until now I've had her all to myself and I have enjoyed that immensely. She's the only one in the family who volunteers to help me fold laundry. She thinks making beds is fun and she is completely ticked off if she doesn't get to help make dinner.
She is, in a word, amazing. . . she is now five years old.
Happy Birthday to my Lil C. I'm soon going to have to do something about the "Lil" part of her name, because she is getting SO big. In fact, in honor of her 5th birthday, Lil C is getting a new blog name. We'll call her "Sassy."
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