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Sex, Lies, and Parenthood

May 24, 2013 by 8 Comments
Sex & the evolution of Forever.

Sex & the evolution of Forever.

Is sex dirty? Only if you do it right.” ~ Woody Allen

Have you had the big sex talk with your kids yet?

I’m not talking the kind of clinical talk (man puts penis in woman’s vagina, an egg is fertilized by a sperm, baby comes out, yadda yadda), since the kids get that info way early on at school.

I’m talking about the rest of it — what all those hormones do to a person, when it starts happening (hint: even a little younger than you think or remember), and what makes sense when. And truthfully, that schoolbook explanation doesn’t cover the half of it and may not ever apply to them.

I am going to be totally honest here and say I haven’t had the full-on talk just yet. I have a 12 year-old girl and a 13-year old boy, so I don’t think I’ve dropped the ball (pun intended). We have, however, done the “where do babies come from” bit several times over the years, and I even put in the kid’s bathroom my old dog-eared copy of the Peter Mayle/Arthur Robins classic, Where Did I Come From, where adorable and yet anatomically correct people illustrate the facts of life, with neither a bird nor a bee in sight. (And if ANYONE could explain what a bird or a bee has to do with sex, I’d appreciate it. I can visualize dogs doing it, but not so much winged creatures. Although maybe a hummingbird is a good example of what sex is like when you’re trying to squeeze it in between the cracks of our busy, modern, adult life. Not for me, of course — but maybe for you?)

But just as the sexy time drum beats are quickening in my world, one of my Best Bitches Forever (BBF) who is just a pinch ahead of me with a couple of gorgeous teenage daughters just recently got shoved into the sex talk swamp and found it wasn’t so simple to keep her head above water. When hit with the personal questions — When did you lose your virginity? When did you have your first drink? (Coincidentally these things usually come in pairs) — she did what any other parent would do.

She lied.

Not about the important, emotional core stuff, and not by a lot, but she instinctively pushed her age of discovery up by a couple of years. And later at lunch with her BBFs, she shared her war story and found her friends were all in the same place. Together they commiserated, nervously laughing as they ordered more drinks to ease their underlying fears.

That she used the word “fears” was very telling. Parents are hardwired to see every situation from all angles — especially how our children can possibly be hurt engaging in a particular activity.

Does sex hurt? Only if you do it right… which includes throwing some deeply heartfelt emotional states into the mix, like love, self-esteem, innocence, etc.

As I read my friend’s email describing the scene, I could totally relate. I had actually felt that same thunderbolt of fear when I dropped my son off at a recent high school orientation and took a good look the beautiful, sexy girls in the shortest shorts ever that were greeting him and escorting him off to not just a campus tour, but also to a place middleschoolers only dream of.

Seeing your child as a sexual being is tough. Maybe even a little tougher than looking at your parents as sexual beings.

There is a lot of pressure in today’s world for moms and pops to be hip, cool, and enormously approachable. So this is one more thing that we think we have to field like a pro. Part of this comes from the idea that our parents’ generation was more proper, but also more repressed.

As my BBF so aptly put it, “Just when you think ‘phew glad that is over with,’ you’re also telling yourself, I’m a current mom, I can handle this, I’m going to be open and honest with my kids, cause Lord knows my mother could not have skimmed over this crap any faster and any more superficial than she did.”

But then again, I wonder this: If my mom or dad — your mom or dad — could’ve gone into great detail and tried to hammer over and over all the graphic physical aspects of sex, would I — you — have wanted to hear it from either of them?

If you just mentally said to yourself, “Of course!” then you are lying like a rug.

Everything I ever wanted to know about sex (and wasn’t afraid to ask), I learned from my friends. Actually, I learned them specifically at camp. One half hour sail in a sunfish, and I knew exactly how to give the perfect blow job (as illustrated on a lollipop — get your mind out of the gutter, people!) The first eight minute and three second “Stairway to Heaven” slow dance with a cute boy from our brother camp, and I suddenly realized that funny feeling in my stomach wasn’t butterflies, but something much more powerful. And then there was my first kiss. My first grope….

OK, I gotta stop there because my mother reads this blog. And despite evidence to the contrary (two kids and more than two decades of being fully legal to do pretty much anything I want), she still believes I am her sweet, innocent baby. I don’t want to crush the lady…

And neither do your kids!

So while we’re all thinking that we want to be able to discuss everything with our children, we also have to realize that we don’t want them knowing our gory and personal details, and frankly, we don’t want to know theirs. Or shouldn’t at least.

Sex itself isn’t hard (not if you do it right), but all the pieces that go with it are. So what’s worth being truthful and clear about are things like birth control, sexually transmitted diseases, having self-esteem, honoring your body and your feelings, and all the rest of the bits that make not just our kids, but all of us truly vulnerable.

I’m not saying there won’t be nervous giggling (yours mainly), but be the parent. You don’t have to share your personal history, and moreover, your kids don’t necessarily want you to (even if they ask). They do want to know that like any other situation, you help set the boundaries, but if they get into trouble they can come to you.

That’s the sex talk you want to have, my bitches.

And afterwards, if you want to blow off a little steam, come and find me after lights out, and I’ll be happy to read you the dirty parts of our favorite sex bible, Judy Blume’s Forever. Just don’t forget to tell your kids that your Bitch’in Suburbia and her old pal Woody Allen says sex without love is an empty experience, but as far as empty experiences go, it’s one of the best.

Filed Under: Parenting, A Verb Tagged With: , , , ,

When Superheroes Panic

May 17, 2013 by 15 Comments
Back off, Wonder Woman!

Back off, Wonder Woman!

If you haven’t caught the summer’s first big popcorn movie, Iron Man 3, you’re missing a mind-blowing event.

I’m not talking about the ass kicking Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) delivers to every bad guy in sight, nor the impressively real CG destruction of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater, Stark’s mod mansion, and chunks of civilization in general.

I’m talking about the conceit of the script: Tony Stark has panic attacks.

I particularly loved this, as I’ve navigated a panic disorder myself, and like Stark, have learned to use it as a sort of internal guidance system. When I panic, I realize I’ve gone down some badass wormhole, and it’s time to make some adjustments.

Iron Man 3 was my big Mother’s Day gift. (I know, it seems a little juvenile BUT if you consider a cool movie on a scorching hot day AND the whole family loves it, it’s kind of fantastic.)

The next morning, I started my day as usual: doing laundry.

As I alluded to, we’d been experiencing an early heat wave, with record highs over 100-degrees. At 7:00 a.m. I was already sweating as I threw my son’s baseball uniform into the washing machine so it’d be done for his 5:00 p.m. game, where he was due to catch — perhaps for the whole time.

Of course it’s always been my theory that the more protective gear you have, the safer you are. (If I were Tony Stark’s mom, I’d be thrilled about his head-to-toe metal suit.) That’s why I picked catcher as my favorite softball position, and later goalie for my high school field hockey team. I don’t know about you, but when a hard ball is being flung my way at 70, 80 or more miles per hour, I take all the help I can get. I have transferred this fully irrational logic to my children, who now suffocate in overly padded positions, playing a summertime sport in the desert that is now our hometown.

So I emailed my son’s coach and asked if he could throw a few other kids behind the dish for a few innings. Then I signed it, “My son’s (overprotective) mom,” hit send, and immediately felt even guiltier than ever before.

A wave of panic crashed over me as I realized a few things:

A#1) I had just revealed that underneath the catcher’s gear, and in spite of any heroic plays at the plate, lurks a mama’s boy. An easy target for both coach and teammates to exact their punishment for the pussification I’d thrust upon him.

B#2) I was sending my kid to play in unhealthy conditions, and he was looking at (G-d forbid), heat stroke, heat exhaustion, or both.

C#3) It was a lose-lose situation. No matter what I did in this case, I was selling my kid out. I didn’t want him playing in extreme heat, but then again, he wouldn’t play baseball at all if he didn’t have to bat through a few heat waves.

D#4) Next year he’s in high school, and mommy and daddy ball is all done. If he hasn’t done so already, it’s on him to figure out what he wants and what’s right for him.

Now that the wormhole was opened, I dove in headfirst. Here’s some of what was spinning around my brain as my son’s baseball uniform whirled around in the washing machine:

The choices I make on behalf of my family are for shit. Either I’m not doing enough, am hopelessly out of the loop and perpetually a few minutes late OR I’m a hovering, smothering, overprotective hot mess.

Is it possible to be overwhelmed and underwhelming at the same time? I can’t breathe.

What am I doing with my daughter this summer? Responsible working parents signed their kids up for camp months ago. I had a good excuse for a while — I was waiting to hear about her softball team — but now I’ve known the schedule for days and haven’t done one damn thing. I suck.

There is nothing I crave more than help, and yet, I am loath to ask for it. I’ve got it, is my mantra, even if it’s clear I don’t got it and further, I’m losing it.

I love my kids more than anything I can articulate or have ever imagined, and yet I yell at them sometimes until my cheeks are red and my throat hurts. What kind of a monster am I?

These thoughts all led to a slow sink down the side of the washing machine, into a physical ball and a mental fetal position.

And then there’s this confession: For Mother’s Day I wrote a heartfelt post about the power of unstoppable mothers. But if I were being completely honest, I long to throw a banana peel under the feet and minivans of the overachieving moms who make superheroes look like wussies.

You know the type: they manage every minute detail of their children’s lives — like when the big test is (so they can help with time management and assure an A), what art supplies are needed for a project (and of course they have a closet full of options, no last-minute 9:00 p.m. dash to CVS to see if they have any poster board), and when are the early bird sign ups for camps, youth sports, and test prep classes. And forget the little things; they’ve got the big picture stuff down cold, including double secret surefire ways to get their kids into the “best” schools (from preschool through college) and generally how to work the system to the benefit of their familial empires.

Just like Gotham’s downfall begins with a hood snatching an old lady’s purse and ends with Planet Earth on the edge of destruction, when I compare myself to the League of Supermoms, I feel like I’m one screw-up away from destroying my kids’ future.

That may sound like an exaggeration, but then again, I’m comparing parenting in the modern age to being a superhero.

And although Iron Man can save the Earth from aliens and foil a maniacal terrorist’s plot for world domination, I dare him to get through one heat wave day with two kids flying in opposite directions.

OK, that’s the conceit of parenthood.

So if you catch a look of panic on my face, just recognize it for what it is: the nemesis of all parents. And the best way to beat panic is with the knowledge that we all do the best we can, and in the end, we’re all just human.

 

 

 

Filed Under: Parenting, A Verb, Pop Culture Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Mommentary for Mother’s Day

May 10, 2013 by 5 Comments
And now a word from our Mother's Days sponsors...

And now a word from our Mother’s Days sponsors…

As a “popular mom blogger,” I am uniquely qualified to shoot some mommentary your way on what this whole motherhood shebang means nowadays, particularly around our “official “holiday, Mother’s Day.

I’m actually kinda filled to the gills lately, having just attended the Mom 2.0 Summit — a business conference where approximately 450 breeders and people who wanted to reach those procreators gathered to network, interact with brands/corporations/media companies, and absorb a ton of amazing information from those whose businesses are for parents and by parents.

What made this conference particularly intriguing was that the Wall Street Journal had just published an article called, “The Mommy Business Trip.” A  “moms gone wild” puff piece about the big biz of mom blog conferences, the author made her case about how women left to our own devices go insane: we Tweet pics of ourselves having fun (vs. making meatloaf, I suppose), raid the minibar, and run amok with the television remote. (No cartoons for a day – that’s right, we’re so cray-cray!) Yup, big perks for slacker moms looking for an “easy” way to ditch the family for a few days.

Note to the WSJ: We, the epicenter of the billion-dollar baby business, are grown-ups who are fully capable of mixing business with pleasure, as that is the American way. And if you’re not interested in having momversations with momtrepreneurs, then you’re missing the boat. Moms make 85% of all consumer purchasing decisions and account for $7 trillion in consumer and business spending.

Nanny nanny poo poo, stick your Journal in doo-doo!

That the sponsors were makers of minivans (Honda — and although I loved my Pilot, NO I do not want to fondle your minivan), mops (Bissell, Bona), laundry solutions (Lowe’s/Whirpool, Arm & Hammer), kid juice (Tree Top), mommy fuel (Starbucks), family pharma (CVS), and life lube (spray on Vaseline lotion — as excessive as you might think), spoke volumes.

But then again, I am a housework addict, so who am I to complain?

I was particularly taken with Dove, who launched their new ad campaign at the Summit. The ladies love Dove, and not just for their delicious Blue Fig and Orange Blossom body wash. We were thrilled when they celebrated, across all media, the many sizes and shapes of women, and now they are focusing on bolstering girls’ self-esteem.

So while I love that Dove builds their marketing plans around real life stuff, and I also totally appreciated my free manicure in their oasis at the Summit (Moms gone wild again! Free manicures –better and more addictive than crack!), I also was turned off by the name of their new campaign.

“Let’s Make Girls Unstoppable.”

See, this is where the essence of motherhood feels cheapened by a slick slogan.

There’s no making girls unstoppable — we just are.

We were born to be creators, whether we procreate or not.

We face inequity, a view that somehow we are “the weaker sex,” when in reality we have the stamina and the fortitude to be the world’s caretakers and most compassionate caregivers. Not to mention supreme multi-taskers.

We are on the front lines of all stage of our children’s development, and the fate of the world literally rests in our hands. One of the most interesting things I heard at the Mom 2.0 Summit was from an HLN Raising America exec that said that we are raising a generation of heroes — that our children will be the ones who solve the crises of our world.

When I see my children and their friends running lemonade stands to raise money for victims of hurricanes, volunteering at food banks, or beautifying their school, I believe that they are heroes. And our addled world can count on them now and in the future.

This generation of women are unstoppable in the quest to build perfect lives — for our families, and, if you listen carefully at conferences like Mom 2.0, also for ourselves. Our world is complicated, competitive, and caustic. And the burden of cutting through that crap and paving the way for a bright future for our families requires laser beam focus, consistency in all engagement, and a totally hands on approach to all we do.

A couple of years ago, just before Mother’s Day my BBF and I hiked the South Rim of the Grand Canyon (what I lovingly refer to as “G-d’s Vagina”), 17 miles in and out in a day. I’m not bragging — at the time I was a new hiker, and it was overly ambitious, grueling, and physically the hardest thing I’d ever done. The only possible way to get it done was one step at a time, without stopping. Had I rested more than briefly, I would’ve never finished.

Unstoppable gets the job done. Unstoppable is pushing our way through anything that could derail us: being bullied, low self-esteem, inequity in our world, and other modern pressures.

My mother was always unstoppable, in the very best ways. She was parenting in the 60′s – 80′s, a time when women were burning bras, going back to work, and changing the face of traditional motherhood… for good.

She had a million great ideas, and believed every one of them deserved to be sitting on a shelf somewhere. Out of our basement she created novelty items for places like my favorite store, Spencer Gifts (the “executive pacifier”), sold personalized pillowcases to a ton of huge catalogs and also at crafts fairs, and invented and sold Kosher for Passover cereal nationwide.

She worked around the clock, often seven days a week, but broke for an hour weekday afternoons with Oprah, and took excellent care of my dad, brother, lame and talking cat (seriously, I’m not kidding here), Buddie, and me.

My mom was the original momtrepreneur. She showed me how if you are unstoppable — if NO is a reason to double down and push even harder — then you can build a life that you want.

A life that laughs at the idea of that unicorn called balance, and embraces motherhood while at the same time celebrates womanhood.

Un-fucking-stoppable.

So if you see me slathering on some Dove Visibly Smooth Wild Rose deodorant, just know I’m gearing up for another day of being unstoppable in the freshest way possible — it’s a woman’s job, and someone’s gotta do it!

Now enjoy the anthem of all anthems, “I Am Woman,” by the unstoppable Helen Reddy — a mom, grandma, and all-around kick ass woman.

And Happy Mother’s Day, my bitches!

Filed Under: Bitch Quest - Find Yourself, Parenting, A Verb Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Pink Guns & The Morning After

May 6, 2013 by 14 Comments
Bitch'in on CNN

Bitch’in on CNN

There’s been a lot of commotion and discussion over the horrible story of the 5-year- old Kentucky boy who accidentally shot and killed his 2-year-old sister last week with his own “My Little Rifle” miniature gun.

Yesterday I joined the fray and debated fellow mommy blogger, Trisha Haas (www.momdot.com), on CNN. If you missed it, check it out: http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/bestoftv/2013/05/05/exp-guns-and-kids.cnn

My position, if you couldn’t exactly tell, was that the marketer of this gun, Keystone Sporting Arms, was not to blame for this horrific tragedy. The original guest, my friend and popular blogger, Jessica Gottlieb, would’ve argued this point brilliantly: she owns a gun, is a parent, and is also one of the brightest people I know. She is not buying pink guns for her daughter, but she is also not buying that the marketer is to blame in this horrific incident.

Neither do I, by the way. But I came from a different perspective: I don’t own a gun, but I am a marketing professional. And in my day I’ve had to market some pretty horrific products myself — like the time I had to put together a video box set of A&E programming for their #1 viewed Biography programs.

Serial Killers.

The set was to include fan favorites like John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, and Jeffrey Dahmer. I know, that sounds more like a Lifetime “Television for Women” round-up, right? (And isn’t it weird that it does? Why is violent and tragic storytelling so appealing to women? Now that’s a question and a blog post for another day, my bitches.)

At the time I was putting together the marketing plan for this video set, I was pregnant. As I watched the shows, I felt my baby kick, and I worried about who the hell was buying this product. What kind of parent would purchase it, watch it, and display it proudly in their entertainment collection?

I was troubled, but I wasn’t the decider here. A gigantic wholesale club was standing by to order the stuff in bulk, and money talks. Plus the programming was on the air for free, and plenty of people were watching those shows in the privacy of their own homes.

That wasn’t my business anyway: selling product was.

Lucky for me, my conscious, and all of us frankly, the product never came to fruition. The execs at A&E pulled the plug, and the retailer had lost interest anyways.

If you haven’t see how “My Little Rifle” was marketed, you can check it out here on Mother Jones. They were one of the only media outlets smart enough to do screen grabs of the product that killed the little girl in Kentucky. (Note to journalists: don’t use live links to make your story: smart marketers will take down websites that showcase products that are under fire. Pun intended!)

I personally had no idea that there were companies out there that make and market guns for children. But you know what? I’m not their target audience.

But I am an American who values all of my constitutionally ensured freedoms, like Freedom of Speech (that’s the marketer’s lil’ darlin’), and amendments I’m less comfortable with — like the Right to Bear Arms — as these are all the law of the land.

So I say, let the marketers market. Lady Karma, the ultimate bitch, will always be there for the M.O.D. Squad (“Merchants of Death” — those who market cigarettes, booze, and firearms — a coin termed in the brilliant Christopher Buckley in his novel, Thank You For Smoking, and the movie by the same name).

And you, parents, BE THE PARENT! You brought your children into the world, now take good care that the future generation actually has a future.

If I could bottle and sell intelligence, I would. I’m imagining I’d make a fortune, but then again, maybe not everyone wants it. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

Lord knows if intelligence were a bill, it would die in Congress.

In the same week the tragedy took place in Kentucky, there were many other incidents in this country where a child shot another child. They didn’t make national news because they didn’t have such a catchy hook as involving a gun marketed specifically to children.

But these incidents had one thing in common: they were all accidents. Preventable accidents.

And the aftermaths have everything in common. Devastated families, traumatized surviving children, and all around heartsick compassion for such unnecessary loss.

Plus lots and lots of media ruminations on the subject across all channels, from CNN to mommy blogs. I want to thank you all for indulging me for mine, and I hope that my point came through loud and clear.

For my new Bitch’in Suburbia readers, thanks for joining! Normally this is a once a week post, published on Fridays, for your reading pleasure and hopefully thoughtful digestion. Please read my earlier thoughts on guns, moms debating moms, marketers who should be shot (pun intended), and youth sports (which in my family doesn’t involve shooting guns). And much, much more!

See you back here on Friday!

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Parenting, A Verb, Pop Culture Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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