We're Talking Sex Kids

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The Trip from Febreeze to Self-Pleasure Is Quicker Than You Think

It started out as the most innocent conversation, but I was left with many questions.

A wad of rain-soaked clothes were left in my co-worker's car resulting in a musty smell. He was telling me about the vast amounts of Febreeze he had sprayed in his car and was complaining that he could still smell the odor.

When I was younger we had dogs. We always used Lysol to clean up after the puppies while they were being housebroken. The puppies in my life pre-dated my children, and therefore my tolerance of poop, so I would often gag when I was forced to pick up the poop. The smell, the consistency, the little remnants left on the floor; I still associate the smell of Lysol with it all.

It was this I was telling my co-worker--that if I smell Lysol now I would swear to you that it smells like puppy poop--when he made an unexpected connection to my story.

Him: "Oh yeah. That's just like when I smell someone who has on my jerk-off lotion."

Me: *blink. blink*

It takes a lot to leave me speechless, but I definitely didn't see that coming.*

*Heh, I said "coming".*

So I let this information sink in--about five seconds goes by--and then it begins to happen.

I have questions!

Me: "You have jerk-off lotion? Is this special lotion? Do you only use it for that purpose or do you just use whatever you happen to have around? Can't you just do it with a dry hand?"

And he actually began to answer them.

We work in a very small consulting firm, so this conversation is not as inappropriate or uncomfortable as it sounds. He's in his late-twenties. It's the 20-something boys I know who keep me hip to the whole single scene. Not that I don't respect them, but I do sort of look at them like animals in the zoo--observing their behavior and being grateful that I live on the other side of the bars.

It was a bunch of young, male, former co-workers who taught me years ago about the prevalence of manscaping and the expectation of Brazillians for the women they dated when I still thought all that grooming was reserved for the porn set. Seriously, you ever think you want to be single again? Just talk to a bunch of late-twenties males. You'll run home to your spouse at lightening speed.

Anyway, so he starts answering me.

Him: "Yeah. I haven't gone without it for like 10 years. It's nothing special, but I usually have two bottles, one in the bathroom for regular use and one in the bedroom."

Me: "What if your girlfriend develops a sudden case of dry skin and sees the bottle of lotion by the bed and just starts slathering it on? Do you run to stop her?"

Can you just see that all in slow motion? "Nooooo. Not THAT lotion."

Him: "Not at all."

Me: "But then she'll remind you of...um...jerking off?"

Him.: "Yeah! I know. That'd be awesome."

Um. I don't think she'd think so.

So now I have a challenge.

I have between now and our next holiday party in December to figure out a way to delicately suggest that she might want to bring her own lotion with her to her boyfriend's house.

And I swear the next poor guy I see in the lotion aisle at CVS is going to be so sad he met me.

"So how do you decide which brand?"

"Are you brand loyal?"

"What if there's something different on sale?"

"What features are you looking for?"

"Wouldn't lube work better?"

"Do you prefer scented or unscented?"

I just have so many questions...

*For the record, I'm not a prude. It wasn't that I was unfamilar with the concept, I just never thought that's where the conversation was going to take us.

My Medicated Mother's Day

It's 9:00 p.m. and I just heard a trumpet played from my son's room.

What part of getting ready for bed this is I'm not sure.

Today is Mother's Day, and I had a wonderful day.

There are a number of reasons why I would be just as likely to be sitting here reporting the exacty opposite, but I'm not.

The last few days my head has been so quiet and I've felt more at ease and able to just be than has been possible in...well honestly I can't remember.

Today I gardened in the rain. Today my ankle continued to hurt. Today my house was still messy. And today I still hadn't lost the weight I'd like to.

But today I was able to enjoy each minute for what it was and for that I'd personally like to french kiss my psychiatrist.

Modern medicine is an amazing thing!

A diagnosis of depression years and years ago was the jump start I needed to take back control of my ever-racing, self-insulting brain. Therapy and medication did wonders to lift the yoke I had been carrying--carrying for so long at that point that I felt positively weightless once it was removed.

Then marriage and children and life continued and I became convinced that I could handle it all and I didn't need to manage the depression anymore.

You can stop laughing now. Really. No, seriously it's getting annoying.

A brief stint back on the meds after giving birth, justified as the baby blues (read ridiculous PPD that I couldn't bring myself to name) and then heh heh heh I was fine. I would just wean myself right off that medication.

But darn if those years of therapy didn't actually come in handy.

I started to notice the signs. And much to my disbelief, I stood up for myself. I marched my ass right to the aforementioned doc and demanded something new. Okay it took me three years to do it, but I did.

A few dosage adjustments and a couple of months later and I freaking enjoyed a dreary Mother's Day because I was able to enjoy the single moments that made it up.

Now back to the bedtime, trumpet playing son.

We made the decision this year to treat his recently diagnosed ADHD with medication. My story should make it clear why I'm comfortable with this approach (along with close medical supervision, of course).

After just a few days, we had a son we could sit down and talk to. School came easier again and the sweet boy we had known had returned.

It was fairly miraculous. But I was familiar with this.

Now he's still very much a pre-teen boy, and I would have stopped the medicine immediately if he was anything but. But once again, I've been applying chapstick and hoarding the Binaca getting ready to maul his doc.

So why the trumpet playing?

Oh, because today he didn't take the wonder drug. And today, he spent most of the day picking at his brothers, talking back, not doing what was asked of him and bouncing off the walls--in other words, being reprimanded ALL day.

So tonight, this Mother's Day evening, I want to thank the mothers of the scientists who conducted the research and invented the drugs who make our lives better--not just those that improve our mental health, but our physical well-being too. Thank you for raising such brilliant people--and I promise I won't try to french kiss all of them.

Because of you, I enjoyed today and my son won't have to suffer many more days like he did today.

Thank you.

How He Became Our Son, Part III

So there we were with all of our outlets properly protected.

We were living in a two-bedroom townhouse and our itty bitty guest room was taken up mostly by a queen-sized bed. That first week I would stand in the doorway after our new roommate had fallen asleep and my heart would clench at the sight of that tiny little guy in that huge bed.

I had so many mixed emotions. He was so little and so beautiful and he looked so damn adorable sleeping so soundly surrounded by that big mattress, and yet my heart would break that he was having to sleep in a bed that wasn't his.

And boy was I pissed at my sister.

How the hell could she put this amazing little boy in this position--ripped from his routine, living far away from home and with people who weren't his parents?!

He came to live with us in the middle of the NCAA basketball tournament. How do I remember? Because we took him to the bar with us to watch the games.

What?? That was our life then.

It was a local joint. We didn't drag him along to a club. It even had a restaurant attached. We set the kid up at the bar with a plate of chicken tenders and french fries and some orange juice to wash it down as we sipped our Miller Lites with the rest of the gang.

Chicken nuggets and orange juice were the staple of his diet at that point. Along with hotdogs and ham, he ate very little else. He was allergic to milk so that ruled out a number of foods. As a baby, he had been a picky eater never wanting to eat baby food from a jar. We had to mix it in with his formula to get vegetables in him. That combined with my sister's eating habits, he hadn't developed a very broad palette.

It was probably a good thing too. Just getting used to the responsibilty of having to have dinner ready for someone was tough.

The thing about kids is that they can't take care of things by themselves, so we were forced to start building a routine. I mean somone had to cook for him, someone had to give him a bath, someone had to read him a story, someone had to help him get his pajamas on and someone had to tuck him in. Or at least he had us convinced of this.

A week after he arrived I turned 30. The hubs had planned a big party--probably to rub in the fact that I was turning 30 before him (thirty-three whole days before him). The night before my party (my actual birthday) I got a call from my parents. I assumed they were calling to wish me many happy returns.

But it was just my dad on the phone. He was calling because he had news.

Mom wasn't there with him because she had dropped everything and flown up to be with my aunt--her only sister and my second mother. It had fallen to him to tell me that my aunt had been diagnosed with liver cancer.

I took the news with some tears, assured my dad that I wasn't upset that he had to tell my on my birthday, hung up the phone and the three of us went out to meet some friends for dinner.

These friends--K & P--would figure prominently in our ability to manage our plunge into parenthood. I told them calmly about my aunt's illness. They listened, probably not understanding how devastated I was because on the outside I appeared fine. They talked and played with our little guy at the table and patiently endured the cheesy restaurant where we met because I thought it would be kid friendly.

I went home that night and sobbed.

Sure our three year-old nephew had just moved in. Okay, I had just started a new job doing something completely different. So what I was turning 30. But the news of my aunt's cancer?

It was just enough to push me over the edge.

I can say now that the following months would mostly be a blur, and the parts I do remember? Let's just say I wish I didn't.