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Let’s not talk about sex and pretend we did
Caution: The following entry is graphic in nature in that it deals with (whisper) s-e-x and bathroom-related bodily functions. If you find frank discussions of such things unappealing or morally unsound, you’re not alone, but you should click to somewhere else just in case.
Last weekend, Margaret, my darling, innocent, ever-polite, 7-year-old barged in on me while I was in the bathroom.
She does this quite often, plus she finds no problem with starting to disrobe on her way to the bathroom, finding no reason to actually wait until she is in the bathroom to pull down her pants.
This is irritating, to say the least, and we’ve talked to her about it more than once.
On this oh-so-horrifying day, she barged in on me and then started commenting on what she saw in the toilet:
“Why is there blood in the toilet? Are you OK? Should I call Daddy?”
It is precisely at these moments that I want to say anything other than the truth. But being that she is a moderately mature child and I want her to always feel comfortable with talking to me about anything that I decided to tell her the truth. I was having my period.
That just inspired more questions.
Gah! Why do I have to be the one who explains these things?
I explained the process of the monthly menstrual cycle about which she mistakenly understood to mean that I was pregnant.
Gah! Why can’t she just understand perfectly without the charts and diagrams already?
More explanation on my part about my period meaning that I was, indeed, not pregnant.
Of course, that was not good enough and I was forced into an awkward, albeit thankfully brief, conversation about sex.
To which Margaret replied, “Right and you haven’t had sex in a long time.”
Yep, good enough for me.
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Channeling My Inner Indiana Jones
It was starting to turn dark and the sky threatened rain. I only had one Clif Bar in my backpack and I searched for it as vultures circled overhead.
“How much further do you think we have to go?” I asked Dan, trying really hard to keep the quivery sound out of my voice.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been on this trail before and it looked a lot shorter on Google Earth.”
Great. My life depends on some fuzzy satellite image probably several decades old by now.
It all started on the Road of Wreckage which leads out of Glade Park and across the top of someplace, which ends up at the trailhead where our journey was to begin. The plan was to hike down into Rattlesnake Canyon, aka Canyon of Doom, out to the Colorado River and then meet up with Dan’s son on the raft for a two day and night trip on the river.
Road continues in the middle of the photo and off to far right.
Dan was driving my CR-V over some pretty large boulders, barely missing the tree trunks and branches hanging over the “road”. We bumped, jostled, jerked and turned for miles and miles and just before I was ready to lose the lunch I didn’t have time to eat, we finally arrived at Rattlesnake Arches trailhead.
I’ll skip the part where Dan thought there was a way down to the river that didn’t involve following any actual marked trail, and we hiked two or three miles looking for it before he finally agreed it didn’t exist. We had a pleasant enough hike back to the actual marked trail and for the next mile or so, we thoroughly enjoyed being outdoors surrounded by wildflowers of every color that were truly stunning.
“I know that trail is around here somewhere.”
We never did see the actual arches because we turned off the main trail onto the Trail Of Death (TOD) where we began our descent into the Canyon of Doom. The TOD was supposed to be about two or three miles, according to Google Earth, so I was looking forward to it and ready to go, even after putting in my 3.5 mile run earlier that day.
Suffice it to say, that the TOD was the scariest damn trail I’ve ever been on. All scree, and one of those deals where you looked out ahead and saw a cairn and figured you were the victim of some practical joke. I inched my way sideways down the scree while my knees screamed at me in pain and just kept repeating to myself, “Don’t get hurt, just don’t get hurt. If you get hurt, it’s really gonna hurt. Oh god, what if Dan gets hurt? Then I’m really screwed.”
I had my ever-present pedometer strapped on me and when I reached a point where I could stop and check, I saw we had gone about five miles, (not counting the two or three we spent looking for the trail that wasn’t there) and the Canyon of Doom was nowhere in sight.
Do you see anything that looks like a trail?
Flash back —- “How much further do you think we have to go?” I asked Dan, trying really hard to keep the quivery sound out of my voice.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been on this trail before and it looked a lot shorter on Google Earth.”
I sat on a rock and burst into tears. I was tired, I was scared, I was hungry, and I would have been pissed except that Dan really felt bad. I blew my nose into a Kleenex (hey - who goes hiking without Kleenex?) and started to dig a hole in the dirt to bury it, thinking it’s just one Kleenex and it was so full of snot it was already disintegrating.
“Don’t throw that on the ground!” Dan admonished. “Give it to me.” I handed it over and he stuffed it in his pocket. Now that’s true love.
After another half-hour on the TOD we finally reached the bottom and entered Rattlesnake Canyon, aka the Canyon of Doom (COD). I’m sure if I had stopped to look up, I would have realized that this is a beautiful canyon. I was focused on the fact that some parts were narrow enough that I could reach both sides when I stretched out my arms. I thought if it started to rain, we would drown since there was no way back up. To make it even creepier, the tree frogs and crickets or some kind of creatures started chirping and making weird noises and I felt like Harry Potter at Hogwarts.
Dan, on the other hand was having a great time. He obviously has never seen a Harry Potter movie. As I struggled over large rocks, waded through the mucky stream, and endured a gajillion scratches on my legs from the brush he said to me, ”Baby, I love doing this so much and the fact that you’re here with me makes it even more special.”
“You know what? Don’t talk to me right now. I’m not mad at you but just for the record, if you ever think I’d enjoy something like this, you should know I won’t. The only reason I’m not mad is because I believe if you knew it was like this, you never would have suggested it. So just please don’t talk to me right now,” I lovingly replied.
We hiked on, in silence, and finally made it through the last twist in the canyon and Dan yodeled out towards the river. Eureka! He got a yodel back and I burst into tears knowing that an ice cold dirty martini was waiting for me in the cooler on the back of the raft!
Finally, light and booze at the end of the tunnel!
After a torrential downpour that same evening (I was snug in my tent when it started and never felt a drop) we actually had a great time the next two days on the river. Which, by the way, is flowing really fast. The final float from Black Rocks to Westwater is about eight miles or so and only took one beer.
But the story doesn’t end there. I still had to get my car back from the top of wherever it was we left it. And since Dan had to drive us back there to get it, that meant I had to drive on the Road of Wreckage by myself. Hell! If you recall, I can’t even drive out of my subdivision without crashing!
To be continued … .
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Lotsa Pasta!
Two things my son likes for sure: eating and pasta. He also likes to cook, just not at home.
So when Il Bistro Italiano offered another cooking class, this one all about making pasta, I jumped at signing us up.
Alex and I, along with a half dozen or so other folks, donned our aprons in Brunella’s kitchen and got ready to mix, knead and eat. After a brief introduction from Brunella about what pasta is, and isn’t, considered to be in Italy, she let us loose with a pile of flour and eggs.
Alex had much better success than I did with mixing his eggs into the flour. My eggs kept leaking out all over the table.
“Mom, it’s like making a dam in your mashed potatoes and pouring in the gravy.”
“How would you know? You hate mashed potatoes and gravy!”
“I know, but it’s the same concept.”
After the mixing and kneading came the sheeting and cutting. Alex ran his glob of dough through the sheeting machine like a pro.
Brunella showed us multiple other techniques, shapes, sizes and how to flavor the pasta with spinach or beet puree. You can also roll it, cut it and stuff it with cheese, meat or whatever. Alex loved it all, especially one variation that was rolled with ham, cheese and a spicy tomato sauce.
“The only thing that would make this better would be some mushrooms in the sauce,” he proclaimed.
“How would you know? You hate mushrooms!” I said.
“Not anymore.”
Live and learn. Maybe next week he’ll like mashed potatoes.
Then again, maybe not.
Permalink | Comments (5) | Post your comment | Categories: Lynn
Celebrating everyday
When you’ve got a kid like mine, every day is Mother’s Day. But that doesn’t mean that my little nut didn’t shower me with gifts Sunday morning.
Margaret made me so many wonderful things and was beside herself with giddiness about giving them to me — that alone made the day special. I laid in bed Sunday morning trying to catch a few more Zzzs, but every few minutes I’d open my eyes to see her little sunshiny face hoping that I’d get out of bed, so I did.
After I savored each handmade gift, we threw on some clothes and biked downtown for some Sunday brunch. Biking around town is one of my most favorite things to do.
There was an hour wait for a table. I didn’t care that much about having a special Mother’s Day brunch, so we decided to walk around Main Street for a bit then buy some donuts on the way home.
My rare adult behavior must’ve sparked a mini Mother’s Day miracle, for not 15 minutes later, our table was ready. I was getting some yummy Mother’s Day brunch drenched in maple syrup — everything is better with syrup.
My favorite part about this past weekend was the quiet time I spent with my husband and daughter — they make every day a happy mother’s day for me.
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Ignore this …
I’m just getting us set up for Technorati
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Harrison Ford’s Got Nuthin On Me!
I spent the last 48 hours in one death-defying adventure after the other. My comfort zone is so stretched it may never return to normal. All I need now is my own bull whip and I can star right next to Indiana Jones in his next adventure.
It all started with the back pack that was on sale at REI. Dan thought the color would look good on me, the size seemed right, so he bought it for me.
“Ummmm, thanks honey. What is it?”
“It’s a back pack.”
“I know, but what am I supposed to do with it?”
I should know after hanging out with a lawyer for several years to never ask a question I don’t know the answer to.
“You put stuff in it and then you strap it on your back and go off into the wilderness where you survive for days with whatever it is you thought to put in there.”
Hmmm, didn’t look big enough to fit a microwave, ice maker, flush toilet and shower. But, whatever.
So that’s how I ended up driving 23 miles on the Road of Wreckage to hike on the Trail of Death, which took us to the Canyon of Doom and ultimately on to the River of No Return.
I forgot to bring in my camera to download the photos so details to follow. Suffice it to say that “two or three miles” on the Trail of Death turned into roughly eight, emphasis on the rough.
It was starting to turn dark and the sky threatened rain. I only had one Clif Bar in my backpack and I searched for it as vultures circled overhead.
To be continued …
Permalink | Comments (7) | Post your comment | Categories: Lynn
Jalepeno Poppers (If You Must)
It’s Mother’s Day weekend so I’m going to suggest that you try not to cook anything this weekend. I’d suggest attending any barbecue you’re invited to, then kick back with a cold one and talk about your kids. But, if you feel you must be a gracious guest, put some of these together before you go. It’s easy, quick, and a great appetizer for any meal.
Jalepeno Poppers
8-10 large jalepenos 1 pkg. cream cheese 1 pkg. bacon toothpicks.
Cut peppers lenthwise. Remove seeds and vein. (If you don’t do this these babies will be hot hot hot! DON’T RUB YOUR EYES!!!!!) Fill hollow of pepper with cream cheese. Cut bacon in half. Wrap one piece around each pepper. Secure with a toothpick.
Bake in oven for 30 minutes or so at 400 degrees or so. When the bacon is cooked and the pepper softened they are done.
Have a great weekend all you mamas out there!!!
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A Peg-Legged Crawl Video!
The way Jonas has learned to crawl makes me laugh. He uses one foot to push himself along while he drags the other leg. That leg has carpet burn top to bottom. I guess the method is works for him though because he’s starting to get pretty fast at it.
Don’t make fun of the baby talkin I’m doin either, you know you do it too!
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Evil and Forgiveness
I’m not even gonna go off on how a mother delivers a baby in a neighbor’s bathtub, wraps it in a plastic bag, stufffs it in a closet, and then stays in the same house with her baby’s dead body for a month. Nope, not even going there. I can’t. It’s too evil. I can’t wrap my mind around it and I don’t want to.
I can’t imagine a life which would lead someone to that point. Can’t imagine it, and I don’t want to. I’m not going to question her parents and why they didn’t look a little further, ask more questions, pay attention. I am not going to judge. Not this time.
What that mother did was horrific, it was evil and she needs to pay the price for it. Is that judging? Or just stating the facts? Her baby is dead. She killed it. That’s pretty clear. What led her to such a point is what I’m curious about.
Did she have bad parents? How bad would a parent have to be to have a daughter who would kill her baby like that? Were they good parents who did everything they could to raise their daughter in a loving way and their daughter ultimately chose to do evil? Did they not look a little further because they couldn’t wrap their minds around it either? What kind of nightmare did those parents face when they discovered their grandchild wrapped in a plastic bag, dead in their home for two months? What kind of nightmare are they living now knowing their daughter will likely spend a long time in prison?
More important, at least to me, is how do you keep yourself from judging and how do you start on the path to forgiveness? How do you forgive a mother who kills her baby? How do you forgive your daughter for killing your grandchild? How do you forgive yourself for having a child who would commit such an act of evil?
I can’t begin to imagine, I hope I never have to, but I hope there is a way. Forgiveness is hard. Not judging is hard. Loving your kids can be hard, and sometimes loving them all you can, as much as you can, is all you can do.
Permalink | Comments (4) | Post your comment | Categories: Lynn
Are we exploiting our children?
And the debate continues …
Super mommy blogger, Heather Armstrong from Salt Lake City, talks about her Web site, dooce.com, on the Today Show:
What exactly is Kathie Lee’s point (or should I ask what is the point of Kathie Lee)?
Permalink | Comments (7) | Post your comment | Categories: Robin
This is Just the Beginning…
This last nine months has been fairly uneventful in the relationship between Soren and Jonas. Soren seemed uninterested in his new brother. He’d give him a little pat on the back or a kiss just for mommy’s sake every once in a while, but other than that, he just left him alone.
Two weeks ago Jonas learned to crawl. He grins ear to ear as he crawls around the house. He’s discovered our bathroom, the hallway, the kitchen … but screamed in glee when he discovered Soren’s room and the toybox of kidly treasures.
He crawls as fast as he can when he hears the kids playing in another room. Unfortunately, they usually exit just about the time he’s getting there. Lots of times he’s nearly trampled by 3 and 2-year-old feet as they chase each other to another location.
As soon as Jonas learned to crawl, Soren found out he didn’t really like him anymore because he can touch his stuff. He has to share.
The fighting has just begun.
“Joji’s got my bee,” he tattles, then rips it out of the poor baby’s hands.
Yesterday he smacked Joji upside the head for touching his special bear.
Today, he easily loosened Jonas’ grip on the chair and sent him tumbling to the floor.
Of course, all of this leaves the baby in huge tears. He wants so badly to play with his brother.
As a mom, this kind of fighting rips me in two directions. Instinct tells me to protect Joji from head smackin but it also tells me that Soren is a perfectly normal two-year-old and I shouldn’t reprimand him too hard.
I want them to get along. I want them to be friends. And I feel like I should somehow lay down the ground rules right now.
But what are they?
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A difference between boys and girls
I was smacked with some sort of hideous stomach thing that sent me home from work early Friday and kept me down for most of the weekend. Some friends had been sick with e.Coli earlier in the week. It felt like I had f.Coli. Just awful.
At one point Saturday, Margaret set up her doll house (actually, it’s a bunny house in that the family is not people, but bunnies, which goes along with her love of all things animal). She intended on coming back to the doll house so she left it set up in the living room.
Later that day, our neighbors’ little guy came over to play with Margaret which was the bright spot in my otherwise dim weekend.
Margaret loves playing with 2-1/2-year-old Jordan and the two get along famously. They giggle so much together … it’s definitely the best medicine.
He carefully picked up each piece and moved the bunny dolls around in the house. With his dad was right there, Jordan never needed to be reminded to be careful with the pieces as he played sweetly with the toys.
Then he started to rearrange the furniture.
After about 20 minutes, he had rearranged the furniture to a configuration more to his liking. Boy, was he proud of himself. Look at how convenient it all is:
Permalink | Comments (11) | Post your comment | Categories: Robin
Don’t forget Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day (you know that day invented by the greeting card companies to celebrate our mamas) is this Sunday, May 11.
So you still have some time to stimulate the economy and get your mom a little something to thank her for all the love and sacrifice.
I recommend something handmade from the kids and something hand-crafted from the adults, like lovely things from any of these awesome sites:
I ran into Cari, from Wired Originals, over the weekend and she was wearing a necklace like this one and it was STUNNING. Her stuff is so great.
Richie is still using her bag most everyday and it’s still the cutest bag in the office.
This site is for those selling only handmade items. Awesome.
And if you need more direction, check out the Mighty Goods Mother’s Day Gift Guide.
And really, made-up holiday or not, mother’s always need to be reminded of their awesomeness.
Permalink | Comments (0) | Post your comment | Categories: Robin
Jesus was an All American Coffee Drinker
We spent the weekend at great-grandma’s house. She has a lot of religious knick-knicks and icons. When I was a kid I liked to play with them. Grandma didn’t like that. Now Soren likes to play with them and it doesn’t seem to bother her so much.
All of these religious things made Soren start thinking a little.
“Mom,” he said, “Why does Jesus holdin dat football and dat offeepot?”
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Roasted Chicken
I roasted a chicken this week.
It was a mistake because it takes longer than a working mom has to roast a chicken on a work night. Dinner was late. I’m not sure if the chicken was cooked thoroughly but we were getting ready to eat each other so I served it. It actually turned out really good but I’d strongly suggest to roast a chicken on a Saturday night and not a Tuesday.
I stuffed my chicken with a lemon and a generous bundle of rosemary. I spread butter under the breast skin. I seasoned with salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning. Then I cooked that baby at 425 degrees for almost two hours. Every half hour I basted it with some canned chicken broth.
Of course the leftovers have come in handy all week.
For inspiration, watch this video.
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TalkTalkTalkTalkTalk - Not
As I’ve traveled down the road of Motherhood, I’ve noticed there are some great dichotomies in terms of childhood milestones. The establishment of verbal contact is certainly at the top of the list.
I distinctly remember the day I glanced in the rear view mirror at my infant son strapped into his car seat and said to him, “I can’t wait until you learn how to talk!” His dad and I kept a list of all the word he first began to say. By his first birthday, there were several dozen entries.
Then I remember those early elementary school days when I would say to him almost daily, “Alex, your voice carries great distances. Maybe you could tone it down a little.”
In middle school it was, “Alex, I really don’t want to hear from any of your teachers this week that you’re spending too much time talking and not enough time listening and working.”
Now in his sophomore year it’s, “Alex, I need to talk to you. Perhaps you could schedule me in sometime between your incessant text messaging and graduation.”
Honestly. Can the boy manage anything beyond a litany of reasons of how I’ve ruined his life and inquiries to the whereabouts of his next meal?
I’m kind of exaggerating, but not really. Most of our conversations take place between 6:31 and 6:37 a.m. while I’m driving him to the school bus stop downtown. Then in reverse between 3:31 and 3:40 on the way back. He is captive in the back seat (yes, for some reason he refuses to sit in the front) and unless he is plugged into his Zune, I actually have a chance at what must pass for conversation.
So I cover the salient points quickly.
“Did anybody get busted for drugs at school today? Any bomb threats or weapons violations?”
“Mom, you’re so retarded.”
OK, so know I know his physical safety is not at risk and we move on to intellectual areas.
“Any homework?”
“Yeah. My teachers are gay.”
Note: That’s teenspeak for not in a sexual preference way, but in a they-dared-to-give-us-homework-way.
OK, I’m getting my tax payer money’s worth. Now let’s tackle the finer points of life.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I don’t know. Can you quit asking me so many questions?”
With a sigh of relief, I glance at my almost-man son in the rear view mirror and know that we have safely arrived at yet another milestone.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Post your comment | Categories: Lynn
Mother Nature’s gone off her meds
Hello May 1st! How ‘bout a little snow for ya?
Alrighty then, here you go!
Wait! What? You said, it’s May and there shouldn’t be any snow, especially since Robin just planted a bunch of annuals and a vegetable garden last weekend?
Oh, yeah, sorry about that.
Stupid winter … just when you think we’re free of it, it’s rears its stupid snowy head. Let’s hope this is the last of it.
Oh and to all the farmers and fruit growers I’m saying a little prayer for your crops. The idea of a summer without peaches, or pears, or fresh green beans, makes me want to form a lynchin’ posse for that Mother Nature person.
Permalink | Comments (4) | Post your comment | Categories: Robin
The More They Stay The Same
Soren: “I no want dat. It’s yuckeeeeee!”
Mom: “You know, there are people in Haiti eating dirt cookies. They’d be happy for that yuckeee food right there. Now sit down and eat.”
Followed by stunned silence of all.
Unfortunately, it’s timeless.
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No Time to Get Sick
Dan and I were driving back from Crawford Saturday afternoon, after a wonderful lunch with you know, Joe and Pam Cocker at their Mad Dog Ranch mansion.
Anyway, I started to notice my throat was getting sore and I was getting the “sniffles”. Dang, I thought. I can’t get sick now. I’m running in my first ever Wondergirl 5K this Saturday! Well, get sick I could, and I did.
I spent all of Sunday wrapped in jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt and my fleece robe, shivering from a fever. I felt like crap. My body ached, my nose was like the spring run-off and I had no energy whatsoever.
It bummed me out because this past week I broke the three mile mark and ran a couple four mile runs! Woo-hoo! Mostly because my sister was here visiting and she’s a runner from way back. I asked if she would go running with me a few times and she was happy to oblige. Oh yeah, and her husband ran too but we didn’t see much of him.
I’ve been drinking tea, popping vitamin C and have mostly quarantined myself to my office today. I called my friend Mary, who knows all that natural remedy stuff and asked her what I needed to get.
“Liquid Echinacea with goldenseal, and zinc lozenges. And take twice what it says. Next time take them when you first start to get sick and not after.”
Yes ma’am! The Echinacea doesn’t taste too bad but the zinc pretty much tastes like dirt. Literally. I also picked up some Puffs tissues with lotion. Oh, and a small butterscotch sundae from Dairy Queen.
I only have a day or two to get better. After four weeks of training, I want to be able to do this run and feel good about it. Luckily Sunday was my rest day, but I really want to do a short little run tonight. If anybody has any sure-fire get well remedies, please send them along.
I fully intend to run on Saturday and be all better. I’m a Wondergirl!
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Facing the cliche facts
I took this picture of Margaret last week when we went out for dinner:
She couldn’t have been less interested in her dad and I. She was too busy reading. But Bill and I carried on our boring adult conversation without her.
We feel very lucky that our kid is a reader. I have loved reading with Margaret, but now that she’s an independent reader, she doesn’t need me to help her anymore.
Oh, she might ask as occasional question about a word or phrase, but mostly she’ll just recap a story for me and that’s it. And oh man, do I ever enjoy the 20-minute long retelling of the Captain Underpants book she just finished … now that’s a fun way to spend a Friday night.
I realize I have nothing to complain about, but it’s still a bit sad. Everything that she masters means that she’s just one more step away from being my little kid.
I know it’s cliche for moms to whine about how fast their kids grow up, but that’s where I am these days, right in the middle of clicheville.
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Katie’s King Ranch Casserole
I go to bed at night and read cookbooks. There I said it. Now you know what a HUGE dork I really am.
And, few fellow foodies will admit this, but I rarely cook most of what I read. I just like to read it.
The best recipes are those I’ve gathered not from books but from my friends and family. When I had Jonas, my friend Katie brought me a really yummy Mexican-flavored casserole. Food tastes so good when you’ve just pushed out a baby and your stomach is finally free from kicking feet and cramped space. This casserole was delicious to me.
I’ve since made a few myself, even given a few as gifts. The great thing about it is you can easily double the recipe and make two.
King Ranch Chicken Casserole
Ingredients: 1 deboned rotisserie chicken 1 can cream of mushroom soup 1 can cream of celery soup 1 can diced tomatoes 1 can diced green chili 1 cup chopped bell pepper and onion 1 can chicken broth 1 pkg flour tortillas 1 pkg grated Mexican cheese Mexican spices, (garlic, cumin, onion/chili powder)
Assembly:
Mix soups and spice to taste in a bowl. Mix chicken, veggies, tomatoes, green chili in bowl. Pour chicken broth in bowl.
Tear tortillas into pieces, soften in broth, cover bottom of casserole dish. Layer chicken mixture, layer soup, layer cheese. Repeat, ending with a layer of tortillas topped with cheese.
Bake at 350 for 1 hour or until heated through. Let cool five minutes before serving.
Try this one! It’s seriously good!!!
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Latest comments
What? Bad grades? Spit wads in their hair? ;-)
... read the full comment by Mark | Comment on Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did Read Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did
Tough but necessary! Try explaining it all to a boy! Then you have to tell both sides, periods and ummm, you know, those things boys get in math class.
... read the full comment by Lynn | Comment on Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did Read Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did
Generally, when they’re old enough to be aware enough to ask, they’re old enough for a forthright answer. I’ll never forget my 10-year-old “wait a minute …” moment when my dad’s single secretary had a baby. So much
... read the full comment by Laurena | Comment on Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did Read Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did
KUDOS to you for telling her the truth even if it was hard. I believe when we lie to our kids about important things like sex & their bodily functions, we set them up for disaster and poor self images. And Margaret is lucky to have a mom who is willing
... read the full comment by Zarah | Comment on Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did Read Let's not talk about sex and pretend we did