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.
Getting Back Six Hours
Today I arrived at my orthopaedic surgeon's office with a folder full of grading to complete. I finished all but three speeches. That's how long he typically makes me wait. Usually I am accompanied by Lil C who puts on quite a concert in the exam room, but today Mr. BBM kept her at home while he worked. He read my blog post of yesterday and I'm pretty sure he knew I needed some "me" time. Funny that the only "me" time I get right now is waiting to be poked and prodded by a doctor, huh?
My surgeon came in and examined my leg as usual. He took a bunch of notes, and then asked me what I want to be able to do, activity-wise.
"I want to be able to go back to karate," I said. And then, because my PT told me it's a possibility, "I'd also like to be able to play tennis again."
He nodded, talked to me about my braces, and told me to get to a track and start running three times a week. Sure, I'll do that. In all my spare my time. He told me two weeks of running, followed by two weeks of agility stuff can get me back to tennis in four weeks. I'm thinking I'd be totally cool with being able to play tennis next summer.
Then he told me I can stop going to PT and just get to the gym three times a week instead. I was hoping to be released from PT, but not fully expecting it. Yesterday I was able to get my heel stretched to my butt again for the first time in a long time. Tomorrow will be my last day there.
Yesterday I had no time to do a thing; today I was given back about six hours a week. Those six hours happen to be when Lil C is in school. Coincidence? A sign not to give it up?
When I came home from campus today, Mr. BBM was dealing with me with kid gloves. I didn't know he had read my blog post. So we started talking about it and I got upset. This is what it boils down to. . . I am a super competitive person. I like to be the best at everything I do. Ask anyone who has ever played me in a simple game of beer pong. I don't like to lose and I don't like to hang out in the middle. I either do it right, or I do it right. There are no other options.
That's why this whole knee business has been so mentally trying for me. It's why being on the board of directors at the club has frustrated me so much. I've been held back and limited physically and by other people, and I don't like it one bit. Sometimes, although those of you know who know me may find this difficult to believe, I just get tired of fighting all the time. It's exhausting.
One of my friends said something on my Facebook page today that made me really sit up and take notice. I've lost so many of the things that define who I am: karate, tennis, being that girl who can jump in and play any sport she chooses. Right now I'm nothing more than a stressed out Mom and a teacher with too much stuff to grade and too many lessons to plan. With my writing though, it doesn't matter if my knee is banged up. It is the one thing I have that is all mine, and hasn't been taken away from me. So why am I not happy with it? Why would I consider stopping it when I haven't reached where I want to go with it yet?
I'm not happy because I want to write more. I'm not happy because I want to find an agent and a publisher and do amazing things. I'm not happy because I sent a book proposal over a year ago and haven't heard anything back yet. I'm not happy because I simply don't know what to do about any of these things I'm not happy about. I have no clue how to get an agent or how to get my blog syndicated more than it is right now. I don't know how to grow it and get my writing out there. I really don't even know where to start.
It feels like standing on the edge of a giant trash heap and being told to find that one lonely paper clip. I don't have time to be misguided. I don't have the energy or the time to send out query after query to the wrong people. And it's not like people who are published are telling people like me their secrets. There is a giant brick wall and on one side are those who have made it to the publishing world; I'm on the other side with the ones who are dying to be published, but we simply can't figure out how to get over that wall.
I have had a post from this blog published and I was paid nicely for it at the time. But that editor found my post when she was out searching for writing on a certain topic. I didn't approach her. I've been syndicated and published in other places. An entire page of my resume has my publishing credits on it, but the gaps between them are spreading out and I need and want more. Every once in a while, I'll buy myself the new Writer's Market book, send out a bunch of queries, articles and manuscripts and then I wait months at a time as I watch rejection letters roll in, and that is if they even bother to tell me they're not interested. There has got to be a better way. Someone has to know someone. Someone has to be able to point me in the right direction.
If my readers keep coming back for more of my drivel, there has to be some agent out there who would like it too right? I've been told that if you don't have an agent, there is no point in even trying to contact a publisher. There has to be a way to break into that world; and today I was handed back two mornings of my week to try to find it. I can't give up; I just have to find a way to make this happen more efficiently. I have to, because that's just what I do.
Throwing in the Towel?
This may come as a giant surprise to many of you, but today I actually comtemplated throwing in the towel and taking a break from blogging for a while. I am so ridiculously busy with running the girls to all of their activities and running myself to physical therapy, that I just haven't found much inspiration to write lately.
I used to savor even 15 minutes of time so I could quickly write something and put it out there. Lately, when I have 15 minutes, I grade something or clean something or start preparing a meal that we'll barely have time to eat before running to the evening's activities.
My original audience is long gone. So are the posts about all things martial arts related. If I do eventually get cleared to head back to karate, right now, I don't even know how I'd find the time to get to class. My girls have something every night of the week. Soon, the competitive swimming season will begin and it will only get worse. My student's papers will only get longer. I'm already sleep deprived. When will I find the time?
I spent time and money on going to a blogging conference this summer and it was a lot of fun to meet so many interesting people. It was also a bit frustrating to me. I've been blogging for almost five years now. I love this writing space, but I've also wanted to turn it into something else. I've wanted to be "discovered" and published. I wanted to use this as a launching pad; but it seems my rockets are fizzling out.
Maybe I'm stagnant because of all the negativity from the past months: the loss of our long-time pet Colby, my Grammom's repeated hospital admissions and death, a third knee surgery and recovery, and many frustrating days trying to turn a country club around when the old-timers don't want to see it turned around. The list goes on. . .
Right now I am frustrated with my writing and I'm frustrated with my life. Would anyone even notice if I packed up and left right now? Would anyone care? Would I? I just don't know.
Unfinished
This morning, the phone rang at 6:11 a.m. I was in a deep sleep and the ringing jarred me awake and scared the living daylights out of me. I told Mr. BBM to grab the phone and he handed it to me. On the other line was a recorded message from the superintendent. The high school and one elementary school had a power grid failure. School was cancelled for those two schools only. I listened to the message and tried to calm my pounding heart. This wasn't anything awful. I could relax.
But I didn't.
The last time I got a call that early in the morning, it was on April 26, 2010. It was my Mom on the line, telling me the hospital had just called her. The time was now. My Grammom, after being put on hospice care and spending eight days in the hospital after a severe and catastrophic stroke, was dying. It was a phone call that set in motion the very early beginning to a horrible day. It was followed by a frantic drive to the hospital, only to find that I was the first to arrive, and I was too late. That was all I could think of this morning as I tried to go back to sleep.
The memories of that day are everywhere and time, so far, hasn't made it much better. The void that she has left is massive. It's like a crater in my chest and it is always there. It's the wind-knocked-out-of-you feeling after someone has sucker punched you in the gut. It's there when I'm in the car and the song comes on the radio that accompanied me on my drive to the hospital that horrible morning. It's there when I look at the two bags of inherited things I have from her, the ones that I can't bring myself to go through yet. It's there in the purse she gave my girls, full of coins she thought the girls would find interesting. It's there every time I drive by the hospital (which I almost always avoid), and every time I pass the cemetery on my way to somewhere else.
Yesterday I was at physical therapy and one of the PTs was talking about how all five his daughter's grandparents showed up at her school for Grandparent's Day. I smiled as I overheard him talking, and then it hit me that I have no grandmothers anymore.
Not one.
I have one grandfather left and I barely see him. Since my Grammom died, he's too busy to come see us. He spends his days running unnecessary errands, letting the food we bring him rot in the refrigerator, and discussing his life with the bartenders he sees daily. It makes it even harder, because if the situation were reversed and he was gone, she would be with us all the time. Family was everything to her.
Last night, after having a miserable day, I sat down to start crocheting some baby things for a friend. I learned how to crochet from my Grammom. She taught me how to chain stitch and I would create chains of 100s of stitches in a row that never turned into anything. After teaching myself all over again how to do it, because it has been years since I've crocheted anything, I got busy working on a little hat and by the fourth row my fingers were hurting. I thought about how she used to complain that her fingers hurt so badly from her arthritis, and about how her house contains a hamper full of unfinished blanket projects she never got around to finishing.
I've decided that there is no finishing of the grieving process when you love and miss someone as much as I miss her. With things as crazy as they've been, I could really use my biggest cheerleader. I miss her so much at times, that it is physically painful. And I just don't see that ever getting better.
Not Ready for This
Filed under: Growing Pains, Mental Strain for Mama
Friday was Lil C's Preschool Open House. She got to bring her favorite person with her (me) and it only lasted for an hour. Even then, she was a bit tentative and nervous. When we came home, I asked her why she wanted to sit with me and eat her snack instead of with the other kids. She said, "Because I just love you Mommy."
At dinner on Friday night, she told Mr. BBM that Preschool was fun, but that she wasn't digging the clean up song her teacher sang when it was time to put the Play-Dough away. "It freaked me out," she told Mr. BBM. For a second, I thought Mr. BBM would blow his dinner right out his nose. He composed himself and asked her, "Why?"
"That's really a baby song," she said, "and I am NOT a baby." The look she gave the teacher when she started singing that song said all of that and more.
To be honest, Lil C did seem a bit more grown up than some of the other kids. After all, she has an October birthday. One little girl in her class just turned four this past weekend. Lil C turns five in just a few weeks. As they were sitting around the table eating their snacks, some of the kids were making silly faces at each other and acting goofy. She sat there and gave them the evil eye, the same one I used to give my 6th grade teacher according to my report card.
Lil C has always been more comfortable around adults than she is with other kids. She getsme and I get her. She talks to my physical therapists as if she's their best friend. She communicates with my surgeon with more frankness than I do. At the few larger play dates we've attended, she chose to sit with the moms instead of going off to play with the kids. This year, she decided she doesn't want to have a big birthday party like she did last year. She said she wants us to take her to the zoo instead. "Last year was crazy," she said, "there were just too many people."
All weekend long, she said she didn't want to go to school. She said she was scared and she just wanted to stay home with me. This morning, it was even worse. We got her dressed and fed and ready to go and she just stood at the door. "I really don't want to go," she said.
The entire drive there she complained too, and when I opened up the car door for her to get out, she stayed glued to her seat. Eventually, she came out, but she clung to me like saran wrap as we walked through the doors. Her steps slowed and her feet shuffled as we got closer to her classroom. It felt like she added 20 more pounds to her little self as she leaned away from the door.
The other kids sat around a carpet and played but she stood near me and continued to chant like a mantra, "I don't want to stay here." The teachers told us to come across the hall and pick out a toy to play with. I saw play cupcakes and cookies and knew she would love that. We carried the toys back to the room and set them down. Instantly, they were gone. Some little girl with the same name as my junior high arch nemesis scooped them up and was off. Another little girl grabbed most of the cupcakes. They were like toy vultures, and it certainly didn't help things.
I told her to take that spatula and go get some of those cookies, and thought in my head that those kids are going to be in for it in a couple weeks when she's being herself. Then I leaned down and hugged and kissed her, and told her I was going to go wait in the lobby for her. That's when the tears started. I told the teacher I didn't know what to do and she said gently, "Just go. It's ok." Lil C reached out for my arm and started to execute a full out sprint towards me that was intercepted by her teacher. I told her I loved her and walked out of the room. She wasn't the only one crying.
If there is one thing I know this morning, it's that my kids have grown up way too fast. Lil C wasn't ready this morning, and I can't blame her. I'm not ready either.
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