November 28, 2007

The Sex Talk

It was time to give Drew the sex talk.  If you’ve been reading, you’ll remember that he’s been showing signs of readiness.  He snickers whenever he hears the word “sex,” which is often in today’s society.  He giggled when he saw that his hospital wristband contained the words “age/sex” as part of its identifying information.

We drained the pond at the Auburn house last week, and it’s been dredged and treated with chemicals to kill the existing fish so it can be restocked.  All three boys were wading through gloppy red mud, filling dead carp with BB holes, when Drew began taunting Finn.

“Porter and I came out of Mommy’s tummy, but you came out of her lady parts!” he yelled, then laughed so hard a snot bubble came out his nose, according to Finn, who reported the incident to me immediately after they returned to the house.

For Finn, the final straw came that night when the boys were upstairs getting ready for bed and Drew asked Finn, “Have you ever had sex?” with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Sex means if you’re a girl or a boy,” Porter said with a mouthful of toothpaste fuzz, and for once Finn was glad to have Porter’s input.

“Seriously, Mom, I think you’ve got to tell him something,” Finn told me.  “What if he starts asking my friends if they’re having sex?”

So the next morning, I called Drew in from outside where he’d been assiduously destroying cinder blocks with a hammer just because they were there.

“Hey honey, do you know what ’sex’ means?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, it means that a mom and a dad get naked in bed and kiss and make googly eyes to make a baby,” I said, deciding that premarital and recreational sex were off the table for the third-grade crowd.  So was sex on the pool table, the living room floor or in the handicapped bathroom.

Drew’s pale face grew red.

“Do you know how moms and dads make babies?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to know?”

“Not really.”

Damn.  I had polished up my speech and practiced my coital finger movements, but I was being asked not to perform.  I was a bit disappointed.

“Okay, but when you decide you want to know, don’t ask Finn or friends at school.  It’s important that you ask me or Daddy and we’ll tell you exactly how babies are made, because we’re really good at it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t go around asking Finn and other people if they’ve had sex, because what you’re asking them is ‘Have you gotten married and gotten naked in bed with your wife to make a baby?’”

“I thought it was just a joke,” Drew said.

“Sex is no joke, but it’s easy to get mixed-up about.  Is there anything else you want to ask me about?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then head back outside.”

He did, and I exhaled.  I hadn’t noticed until them how nervous I was. I’m guessing it won’t be the last time.

Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom (proof that IT NEVER STOPS): Can I Ask You A Question About Sex?

October 17, 2007

Looks Like I Won

Bill and I joke that when we got married he gave up big-titty women and I gave up long-haired men.  His girlfriend before me was a lacrosse playing, Cuban, large-breasted classical pianist, and hell if I know what order to put all those adjectives in to reflect their importance to Bill, but I bet the tits were near the top.

He didn’t get those when he married me.  I’ve even posted a picture of my pancake/Tootsie Roll breasts on this very site.

All marriages involve compromise, though, and I gladly live with a man who not only has short hair, but who also expresses his love for me by scraping his long toenails against my calf in bed at night, although he knows the maneuver skeeves me out.

Bill has long been meaning to make my long-haired dreams come true.

After an inspired stop at Party City, an Adonis entered my room.

I am truly the luckiest girl alive.

September 28, 2007

Triathlon Training: Family Endurance

Many of you were entranced with the story of Finn training for his first full-length triathlon, especially when an innocent whiff of sexuality reared its head: the presence of a girl, whose entry into the race prompted Finn to scoff at the idea of participating in the event as part of a relay team. If Allie was going to swim 600 yards, bike 16 miles and run 3 miles by herself, Finn wasn’t going to let the fact that she’d be ahead of him and he’d be staring at her rear the entire race deter him from doing the same. That may have been a motivating factor, actually.

You’ll remember that once Finn decided to compete, Bill decided to devote his spare time to coaching Finn through his training, sacrificing his own participation in the race.

At first the training was hardly noticeable. Bill and Finn would get up early to swim or run; on the weekends they’d take a long bike ride.

As the race drew nearer, their sessions grew longer. I was able to overlook the time they spent going over schedules and strategy as long as it didn’t interfere with my plans.

And then it did. One Sunday Bill and Finn set off on a brick (a bike-run combo) later than I thought healthy, given the temperature, or wise, given my impending weekly run to Publix and subsequent need for strong, energetic males to help unload a van full of groceries. When I pulled in the driveway I was greeted only by Porter and Drew, who are enthusiastic about unloading but less interested in the putting away. Plus, they are careless about egg and light bulb transport.

When Bill and Finn came home I got the usual excuses: a flat tire, extra-hot temperatures. While I knew that these things happen to triathletes in training, I also recognized that perhaps things were getting out of hand. Finn hadn’t started his summer reading or touched his drums in weeks.

We went on our annual beach trip the week before the race, and Bill tried to keep Finn on his training regime. But Finn hadn’t seen his friends all year, there was body surfing to do, a dance contest to organize, and Bill began to question Finn’s commitment to the project.

I didn’t realize how emotionally invested Bill was in Finn’s performance until halfway through beach week, when Bill called me from the other house where the ladies and I were knitting and chatting, to see if Finn needed to go to the hospital. They’d just returned from a brick and Finn was lying on the sofa.

“Honey, I think he needs to see a doctor, quick,” Bill said urgently. “We got off the bike and started the run and he complained he was dizzy and I about had to carry him back to the house. He was having trouble breathing. Maybe it’s a heart murmur, or he’s punctured his lung. Or wait, do you know the symptoms of a stroke?”

I looked at Finn. He was sprawled across the couch, sweaty, closing his eyes, and panting dramatically.

I looked from him to Bill, my soulmate, the man who took pain pills after his vasectomy only because I threatened to stomp his jewels if he didn’t. My lover, who believes hospitals are where you go only when you’re bleeding out or having major surgery.

“Let me check him out,” I said.

I turned to Finn.

“Hey, dude, how late did you stay up last night?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Pretty late.”

“What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”

“I didn’t exactly feel like having much breakfast,” Finn said.

“So exactly how much food went into your belly this morning?” I asked.

“None,” he said sheepishly.

“Did you use your inhaler before your ride?”

“I forgot,” Finn said.

“How about fluids? Did you drink any water or Propel this morning?”

“I drank a little during our ride.”

I tuned back to Bill.

“Honey, you’re being a dumbass,” I told him gently. “This is not a boy with a punctured lung or having a stroke. This is a tired boy who biked and ran on an empty stomach, without using his inhaler or drinking enough water. If you take him to the hospital I am staying here. You two know better than this.”

To his credit, later in the day Bill apologized for overreacting and promised to spend the afternoon NOT thinking about the race. Instead he spent it drinking gin and making googly eyes with me.

It wasn’t the last drama we’d experience before the race.

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Next up: The Race Is On (or, How Anne Saves The Day With Her Anal-Retentive First-Aid Kit)

A year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: My Special Club (perfect timing for this one)

August 24, 2007

Weekly Wrapup: Stings, Soccer, Supper, Sexy

It was our anniversary, but Bill and I didn’t see each other until 7:45 p.m. at Open House in Mrs. L’s Advanced Math class. At that point I had already met with both third-grade teachers and Bill had gone to Social Studies, English and Science, so we were worn out after a day of work and school. Our kisses were weary, though heartfelt.

Bill and I are hoping to go out of town this weekend for a little celebration, if the kids don’t prevent our getaway. Drew got stung by the World’s Most Venomous Yellowjacket while he and Porter were playing in the fort they made out of tree limbs. At first it didn’t look like much and we applied ice and Benadyl, but this morning his entire foot was swollen something wicked.

It isn’t streaky, though, so I’m assuming that this is not an injury that will put our vacation in danger, like stitches and lice have in the past.

Speaking of Wicked, I was astounded to discover that someone has created a dance-mix version of “Defying Gravity,” and we’re working out to it in Jazzercise. Honestly, will I walk in one day and warm up to Grizabella singing, “MMM-mem–mem-Memory, all alone in the mm-mmoon-mmoonlight, moonlight?” That seems to be where this exercise is headed.

Lots of you wrote in to rescue me from absolute cluelessness about soccer. Many confessed that although you’ve been on the sidelines for years, you’ve never figured out the rule, which made me feel better. Others advised renting “Bend It Like Beckham” where the rule is explained in one scene using condiments.

BusyMom provided the most helpful succinct comment: [The rule] “keeps people from lurking at the goal to receive a pass.” I can totally picture players lurking about, and see why that would be scary and thus illegal.

But the best explanation of all came from Christian, who put it into terms all women can understand, (with one small exception):

Sorry in advance for this, but the classic “offside explanation for women” runs like this:

“You’re in a shoe shop, second in the queue for the till. Behind the shop assistant on the till is a pair of shoes which you have seen and which you must have.

The female shopper in front of you has seen them also and is eyeing them with desire. Both of you have forgotten your purses.

It would be rude to push in front of the first woman if you had no money to pay for the shoes.

The shop assistant remains at the till waiting.

Your friend is trying on another pair of shoes at the back of the shop and sees your dilemma.

She prepares to throw her purse to you.

If she does so, you can catch the purse, then walk round the other shopper and buy the shoes!

At a pinch she could throw the purse ahead of the other shopper and “whilst it is in flight” you could nip around the other shopper, catch the purse and buy the shoes!

BUT, you must always remember that until the purse has “actually been thrown”, it would be plain wrong for you to be in front of the other shopper and you would be OFFSIDE!”

My only quarrel with this explanation is that it seems highly unlikely that any woman would forget her purse when going shoe shopping, but it’s still a hell of an example.

Finally, y’all are talking a big game about loving the weekly meal plan, but the true test will come in a week’s time when you write to review recipes, and share pictures of successful or unsuccessful dishes or children delightedly cleaning their plates.

Ack: Drew left for school complaining of a stomachache. I think he just needs to go #2 but we’re going to hit the road QUICK so that our romantic rendezvous becomes a reality!

August 21, 2007

Happy Anniversary: Your Son Is An Ass

Today is our anniversary.  Bill and I are going to celebrate sometime, but not tonight because we have Open House (2 parents, 3 classrooms to visit) and Finn’s soccer practice.  We’re trying to fit dinner, homework and baths in there, too.

This morning Bill left me a note on the counter that sent shivers up my spine.

Honey:

Happy anniversary!  The bathroom tub leaked all night.  It’s a big leak and filled up the whole tub.  I wasn’t able to fix it (I know that surprises you!)

Your Hunk Of Love,

Bill

I managed the morning routine with the boys.  With pre-teen Finn, I never know if I’m going to wake up to solicitous, shoulder-massaging Finn or a barbarian.  This morning it was the latter. 

I walked into the den to find Drew sobbing on the sofa.  I went to the kitchen where Porter was eating a stack of waffles.  He explained the reason for the weeping with anchorman-like precision.

Drew couldn’t read Bill’s note because it was in cursive. Finn refused to read it to him and snarled, “You need to learn to be a better reader if you’re going to survive third grade.” 

Next Finn held the tortillas hostage and wouldn’t allow Drew to eat one for breakfast, saying, “I might need these to cook something important.”   

I poured coffee for me and some for Porter, read Drew the note, handed him a tortilla, then called Finn in for a stern lecture on the value of brothers and not acting like a turd. 

I resigned myself to being late for work again, and called the plumber, making sure to tell the company to tell him to call for directions.  While I got dressed, the phone rang; the (male) plumber was lost.

As I was walking out the door, the tree service drove up to cut down some dead trees and limbs.

I made it to work and sent Bill an email in response:

Happy Anniversary, honey!

The leak is fixed.  Who knew a small metal washer cost $132? 

The tree men are going at it.

Your oldest son was an asshole this morning.  Can you please talk to him?  Call me for details.

I’ll handle the two 3rd grade teachers tonight at Open House and you do 6th grade.

Maybe I’ll see you there!

Love You Tons,

Anne

Who says life isn’t romantic after kids come along?