How Do You Talk To YOUR Kids About SEX?

For months I’ve been attending workshops at Babeland, the women-friendly, sex-positive shop in New York City. In addition to the very popular workshop “Art of the Blow-Job” the store has an on-going “Sexy Moms Series” which I recommend to all parents.

Wednesday night’s free workshop was about “Raising Sex-Positive Kids”. Personally, I could hardly wait for this one and with good reason. Though I’ve put a great deal of effort into teaching my children about the mechanics of menstruation and birth, I still falter on the topic of sex in general. Part of me wants to keep my girls innocent and unaware of such realities and perhaps another part does not want them to experience that hideous moment when you realize your very own parents had to perform this task in order to create YOU.

But I have to brush those reservations aside, as that is my repressed upbringing instilling such prudishness. The cold fact is that if you do not speak to your children about sex they WILL learn about it in other ways outside of your control or approval.

Last week’s workshop was led by Amy Levine, a certified sexuality educator and sexologist (I love that title) who counsels adults on all matters of sexuality. For this workshop Amy, an articulate and adorably petite powerhouse, commanded the room, asking us to define what it is that we hoped to impart to OUR children about sex and to consider what we would have liked someone to have told US about sexuality.

This got the wheels turning and many adults confessed to having issues on both sides of the spectrum. Some came from households where sex was perhaps too openly encouraged and many came from families where the topic was verboten.

One of the points Amy made clear was that discussing sexual issues should be an on-going positive dialogue with our kids; not “the talk” kind of monologue. She pointed out that there are plenty of “teachable moments” in our lives that give opportunity for meaningful discussions. For example, what children see on TV, in movies or at school in addition to their questions about commitment, relationships, and body-image are all moments for exploration. All of those topics tie into the concept of “sexuality” in a broad and encompassing way. If you hear your child using the word “gay” as a derogatory adjective you can take that moment to discuss what the word means in our vernacular and how you feel about using demeaning terms. I remember the day my daughter asked, “Why does Hannah have TWO moms??” which caused me to launch into an explanation about gender roles and the notion of same-sex relationships being a part of our society.

This leads to another important point Amy made which is identifying your own values and beliefs then practicing the messages you want to share. This takes some time and thought to consider what you feel needs to be explained and what tone you will take. How will you actually address the definition of a “blow-job” when it’s posed to you by a curious sixth-grader who heard it at recess? What message do you want to deliver about homosexuality? Are you prepared to explain not only the mechanics of sex or masturbation but the notion that those activities evoke pleasurable feelings?

You can’t expect to have all the answers and it is perfectly acceptable to say to your child: “You know, I’m not sure how to answer that,” or “That topic is kind of uncomfortable for me; let me think about and we’ll talk later.” There are plenty of great age-appropriate books available to help guide you and your child through many of these topics. Certainly what a six-year-old should know is far different from a twelve-year-old. However, that a six-year-old should even know anything about sexuality was a bit of a revelation for me. I realized that keeping open communication, on ALL topics, is absolutely necessary for fostering a healthy relationship with my girls; and that communication has to include sex.

When I tested the waters the following day, my older daughter took the invitation to discuss questions about sex with a solemn nod. My seven-year-old child, however, looked at me with a curled lip and simply said, “Ewww.” She found it somewhat distasteful to discuss the topic with her own mother; however cool and fun she may find me (by her own admission). “Though”, she reasoned, “My friends' parents don’t know anything about sex and relationships because they’re all MARRIED.” Eureka! A teaching opportunity right there in front of me. And in the cozy comfort of their loft bed I stepped into the realm of imparting sexuality wisdom and acceptance one small moment at a time.

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/index.html

Recommended reading:

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/youngpeople.shtml

The Sexy Mom Series is jointly sponsored by New Space for Women’s Health and Park Slope Parents.

Men-ar-kee in the U.S.A. (yes, that's a Sex Pistols reference)

Menarche, pronounced "men-ar-kee" is the technical word for a girl's first period.

Though my daughters are only six and eight I have never kept the issue of "menstruation" out of their sight or minds. Maybe it's because we're an all-girl house - or perhaps it's just me and my "no holds barred" attitude. In fact, I'm often surprised when my friends' girls don't know anything about periods. "How come your daughter doesn't know what this is," I asked, holding up a tampon that clearly confused the heck out of my friend's eight-year-old daughter. “YOU know why," she said, looking at me expectantly. "Remember…I don't get my period."

Ahhh, the amenorrhea (absence of menstruation) that sometimes occurs with low body fat and prolonged breast-feeding. Yes, this friend in fact did not have her period for the two years she nursed her baby, and then again for another two years with the second one. However, the other day I said something to a mom like, "Well, doesn't your daughter see you take out a tampon once in a while? Or see bloody underwear? I mean, what do you say about that?" She looked a little confused, “Um...no. She's never seen any of that." I detected a note of concern in her answer that seemed to say, "I'm not sure your girls should know that either."

All of which made me wonder: Do I have no boundaries with my girls? Or is this one boundary for which I find the line indistinct? I like that my girls will say to me, "Mommy, did you get your moon yet?" They have heard me talk about the fluctuating moods and effects of my cycle. They understand that you "bleed" because there is no baby there and that if egg met with seed a baby would grow in the womb. So, it's all rather poetic and sometimes clinical; and that seems to suit our style.

Hormonal effects and subsequent moods have a huge impact on me. Recently, I had a rather difficult task ahead of me as I was called to be a character witness in a lengthy trial. As a witness I knew that MY character was bound to be attacked, as that is a defense tactic. So each time I was called for this task (there were two false alarms) I was truly concerned about where this obligation would fall within my lunar cycle. It didn't occur to me that this was even remotely "kooky" or strange and I spoke of it openly with friends. For a moment, it reminded me of a friend who would not sign a contract while "mercury was in retrograde". And while I had patience for her astrological observance I felt my concern was far more concrete and plausible.

I know my psyche and my cycle very well; and I knew that if I had to testify just before my period began I would be in a more vulnerable state than if it occurred at the turn of the cycle. Sure enough, the fateful day approached and it was to be exactly three days before my period started. Then somehow, rather miraculously, my clockwork cycle interrupted itself so that I bled three days early. I took the stand the morning after my moon commenced and I went up there with a raging self-confidence; I was eloquent and brave and shot down every single opposing mud-slinger the other attorney threw at me. And I did so with the power of being at the start of my cycle; when the inner voice of doubt had taken a backseat for a few weeks.

So, the other day I received a package from my new friend, Madeleine Shaw, founder of LunaPads. Her company is dedicated to creating environmentally-safe alternatives to disposable period accessories. Let’s face it, we get quite up-in-arms about millions of diapers clogging our landfills, but did you ever think about the used pads and tampons doing the same? And if you consider that one woman gets her period about 400 times in her life…well, that’s a lot of buried “biohazard” (anything with blood is considered biohazard). In this care-package was a whole bunch of reusable cloth menstrual pads, an insertible cup to catch menses, and a pair of cute black undies to hold the reusable pads. But most interesting was a beautiful booklet geared toward girls who were about to have their first periods, "menarche".

Sure having your period can sometimes be inconvenient, but we encourage you to keep a positive attitude about it. Better yet, learn to honor and understand your monthly cycle now, as it can have a big effect on how you feel about yourself now as well as later in life. Use language that reflects respect for your body. When you talk about your period consider phrases like "moon time" and avoid negative phrases like "I'm on the rag". In many cultures menarche is cause for a big celebration - a way to mark and celebrate our "official" transition from being a girl to being a woman. It's something that a lot of us wish that we had done!

I love this approach. And though the words in this booklet are directed at the girls themselves it's really the mother's job to initiate such a celebration. I thought about how I might do that for my girls when the time is right. We frequently worry about what's called "precocious puberty" as girls are experiencing menarche earlier and earlier. What used to be average has moved down a year and what used to be the normal range has gone down to 7 & 8-year-olds depending on culture (African-American and Latina girls leading the curve). My daughter, at eight-and-a-half, is probably just a few years, at minimum, away from moving into this realm. And I want her experience to be full of wonder, respect and knowledge...unlike the one most women from our generation had.

http://www.lunapads.com/default.aspx?

On Buying Your Parents Diapers

Today I was in our local consignment shop, Duck Duck Goose, shopping for a shower gift when I remembered I had to also pick up a baby monitor....for my dad.

When my brother asked me if I could find one so he could keep an ear on our father I didn't really consider how it would feel to hold the package in my hands. Staring at the image of a doting mother and a cheery baby in its crib, I stood frozen by the unlikely dichotomy.

"This is for my dad," I said to the woman who runs the shop. "Talk about the sandwich generation," I added, catching the eye of a customer who nodded as though she understood.

"The Sandwich Generation" isn't a very glamorous or well-known term. Even last year's film, "The Savages" starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, didn't exactly bring the issue of "coping with elderly parents" into the mainstream any more than the notion of aging in reverse has.

Yet, millions of us are dealing with it every day and the reason we are "sandwiched" has to do with our children pulling our attention in the other direction at the same time.

I watched "The Savages" with great interest, leaning forward on the couch so as not to miss a single word. The brother and sister characters were not so different from me and my brother; they had a certain familiar annoyance with one another in the face of this unpleasant turn of events. Their father is no longer able to care for himself and needs to be moved into a nursing home. The siblings battle it out - each one bringing their own demons into the arena: how they feel about dad, their guilt, their frustration with their own lives and direction. There is a moment where the sister is on an airplane bringing their dad back home and he insists on making his way to the bathroom. Somehow, in the narrow airplane aisle, his baggy trousers fall to ground - leaving his daughter to gape at his over-sized white diapers. This illuminating moment is witnessed by a captive audience of strangers, as though the incident was not hugely uncomfortable on its own.

My parents wear diapers. I'm not exaggerating when I say that as soon as my children were out of diapers my parents were in them. Kid diapers come with images of princesses and superheroes on them. My friend joked, "Couldn't your dad's diapers come with say, a photo of Ed McMahon on them?" Though this made me laugh, I could not get the image of those giant-sized white adult diapers out of my head; nor how awful it is to see your parents wearing them as they toddle – always too late—to the toilet.

Both my parents became dysfunctional old people before our eyes. My father used to drive into Manhattan and watch my daughter when she was small. They'd eat at Joe Junior's diner together then hang around in the playground with all the nannies. From that level of independence my father quickly became a menace behind the wheel, lost most of his common sense, and suddenly developed a mean, argumentative streak.

On the heels of these changes my brother and I discovered that he was spending thousands of dollars a month on worthless coins from the infamously fraudulent Franklin Mint. I cried to him, "Dad…I could use that money to pay for preschool! For a college fund! For gymnastics – anything! What are you thinking?" But he truly believed that the coins were an excellent investment – perfect for hoarding until the kiddies were older.

However, this was not the case, we learned. Some coins worth only $75 were never going to be valued at the $1,500 my disillusioned father had paid for them. Eventually, we managed to wrestle control away from him with his coin craze. As he grew more confused and forgetful we were able to take his credit cards away. I took Power of Attorney and my brother and I created living wills complete with a "Do Not Resuscitate" order. Talk about cheery dinner conversation.

And so, for years now, my sick and elderly folks have been just a ventilator's breath away from being holed-up in a nursing home – yet they persist in this nearly vegetative state, still at home, under my brother's somewhat negligent care.

This label "Sandwich Generation" describes me, and not so much my brother, because I have my own kids to contend with while my parents regress into" babydom" at an alarming rate. I'm not surprised that in reference to this term Wikipedia states: "There are very few or no other articles that link to this one." So, not only do people not really know about this phenomenon, but they don't seem to care that much about it either. Can you really blame anyone? I'm surprised you even got this far in my blog.

On the other end of the "sandwich" are my young daughters. They make no bones about hating to go their grandparents' house; and I cannot fault them for that. Sometimes we pull into the driveway of my folks' house and I pause to prepare them: "Girls…I know this isn't easy. I know you don't like coming here and frankly, neither do I. But they're my parents and that's what children do. But - promise me - if I get ever this bad please smother me with a pillow, okay?"

They nod and look at me blankly. "What's 'smother' mean again?" the younger one asks. Ah, I say, it's just propping me up with a pillow to make me comfy....

Status: SINGLE (deconstructing Match.com)

There is something about "the single mom" that either strikes fear or longing in the hearts of men. To some she may be "the hot, fun MILF" and to others she is merely "laden with baggage and unsightly stretch marks." But what does the term "single mom" strike in me? The notion of being older, having marriage and childbearing out of the way; the freedom and strength that come with being a consummate provider and nose-wiper. Those qualities can dangerously bleed over into the lives of men who may not wish to be spoon-fed or have their noses expertly wiped….and how do we balance those imperatives? It's our nature to nurture and to love sometimes with too much selflessness because that is, after all, what we do best.

I am waxing poetic on what it means to truly be a single mom, in all her unbridled glory. I choose to take the road that is about steel-willed determination; the path that allows us to fight the cyborgs while we do chin-ups on the pipes of our prison cells [that's a "Terminator 2" reference for those who asked me]. It's a force that propels us into the reserves of power and confidence that got us over all those obstacle course walls to begin with. Being on your own, with kids, is an exhilarating and exhausting place. Being "single by choice" is a step that women from prior generations would only have considered under the most extreme circumstances. Ultimately, we are all about our kids and should we choose to have a man in our life he might be the cherry pie on the side or may be a loving partner; but never should he broach the territory of becoming our ultimate source of joy.

Shifting focus from what single means, to what the alternative means says much about the woman in question's needs and desires. It's my wish that all single women would unite against looking for their validation and answers in that xy chromosome-holder. Currently, I am approaching my well-earned title not with trepidation but with a fierceness that refuses to back down or wallow in self-recriminations. "Why not embrace my singleness?" I thought. "Let's put it to the test and see where it takes me…"

And so, one part social experiment, one part required ego-stroking, I put myself up on the infamous Match.com. Dr. Phil endorsed, (and that ought to give one pause from the get-go) Match.com is the largest online dating site in the world. Apparently, more than 42 million singles globally have registered with Match.com since its launch in 1995. Not long ago, Match.com entered into a strategic partnership with Dr. Phil, who provides tips and advice to subscribers willing to pay a premium.

My first task was to write a profile description so subversive and snarky that I'd immediately weed out any prospect too stupid or humorless to be of even passing interest. I began by presenting myself as a falconer and asserted that for fun "I enjoy digging in my children's ears with a q-tip". I put up a rather fetching photo of myself (perhaps too fetching) and left the prey to enter my lair at their own risk.

Though my profile received over 1,800 perusals to date, only a few dozen guys were willing to venture a tentative email query:

I don't know if I'm really scared or terribly excited but the fact that you make snarky remarks - I am in.

Uh, that's right, send your prey's head into a spin and then devour at your leisure.

You write like the poster-child for natural amphetamines.

WOW! Funny and cute too!!!!!!

Great ad - most creative I've read - will you marry me?

DO you have any imaginary friends? Do things taste salty to you?

You may be crazier than me, I thought that was impossible!

-----------
Just who are these guys, I wondered, glancing over my burgeoning inbox. Many were divorced; some had children; some were successful or just struggling. Most liked to travel and do things that we ALL like to do, yet itemizing those activities can't help but sound completely banal. Entering this world was a bit like frequenting the largest, most generic bar you'd never want to visit. I'm all about the sparks between two people and the online format does not allow for such nuances. Another single mom said it so well: "I could never find a guy online! I have to be able to smell him first."

I heartily agree; though I dutifully answered every email with a kind, but clever turn of phrase, the chemistry was never there. Shopping for a mate on the internet goes against our primal need to read a person's physical cues. We are blind to the physical in this arena, yet fixated on mini digital replications of a prospect's visage. How many men in my life have I been smitten with not based upon their physicality, but on their chemical cocktail of personality, humor, and yes, their smell. You can mask it with cologne or Axe or Irish Spring soap, but I will smell beneath the layers to your essence, to the musky pheromone that speaks to an ancient part of my female viscera and will tell me whether or not I might want to pro-create with you.

Try doing that in an email.

In any case, I am not totally giving up this experiment and still do enjoy the occasional witty repartee that is part and parcel of the dating ritual. After all, if you follow the Cyrano model you could certainly fall in love with the poetry and literary prowess of a potential match. But even with a love for his words and turn of phrase you could get face to face and find he's just another guy in Gap chinos and a weak chin. All the brilliant emails in the world might not overcome the simple fact that attraction is an intricate alignment of qualities.

I prefer to get out and meet people in person; where I can smell them at close range.

And so, I leave you, dear reader, with the sound knowledge that online dating might be for the birds, but not the falconers. I'm happy doing my thing the old-fashioned way and am surprisingly in-demand all of a sudden.

Incidentally, I may have some inevitable baggage, but you won't find a single stretch mark on this bod.

Signing off for now, RaptorBabe....

Call 911 or "every parent's nightmare"

My girls, as I've said before, are exceptionally "rough and tumble" tough chickies who take their knocks on the playground in stride. When they fall off their bikes they jump back up with a startled, "I'm fine! I'm fine, it didn't hurt!" as though they were convincing themselves and me in one swoop.

One evening we were playing at our favorite playground right in the middle of Soho, New York. This newly renovated park has a swimming pool, just for kids, and brand new play equipment. The girls and their friend had been swimming, sunning and playing for a few hours and were busy on the swings, twisting themselves up into whirling dervishy twirls.

Then, in one ill-timed moment, I watched as Bebe lunged toward an empty swing, just as a little boy began the backward arc of his speeding swing. In a split second the swing and her face collided and she was thrown backward several feet.

I froze for a second knowing that the impact was hard, but I watched her response before I made a single move. This is a child who never cries when she gets hurt and suddenly she was screaming a cry that I knew spelled trouble.

"Oh Jesus," I heard myself say, as I dropped my bags and ran to her. Blood was spilling from her mouth and I felt myself fighting back the wave of panic. The words of comfort I said to her were as much on my behalf as hers. She could barely catch her breath as I shouted for someone to fetch my water bottle from the bench. She continued to spit blood, and when she said she couldn't close her mouth I thought, "Okay....she has dislocated or broken her jaw."

I felt time grinding to a different, drawn-out pace as I worked through the possible scenarios. "Just breathe," I said quietly to her as I followed my own advice. I heard someone say, "Call 911!" and another mom who happened to witness the collision asked if I'd like to bring her to the hospital. There was no way I was taking that road until I was certain that Bebe's jaw was truly injured.

Finally, she caught her breath and stopped sobbing. Taking inventory, I could see that she had a few nasty bruises on her body from being thrown onto the ground; I was able to look in her mouth and see that the blood was, in fact, coming from a bite to her tongue.

There I saw the most startling hematoma I've ever had the opportunity to view: It was a giant purple welt, the size of a grape, on the side of her tongue that had apparently absorbed the colission's impact between her teeth. Tentatively, she allowed me to examine her jaw and we determined that the inability to close her mouth was simply because that blood blister was so huge it was literally in her way.

Once the crowd cleared and more water had been spat out, then drunk, Bebe went back to playing on the swings - nearly good as new. She had no further complaints and was happy to receive ice cream as a remedy and relief. Another mom who I had been chatting with said, "Wow, that was impressive. I would have been freaking out and screaming for help."

"Nah," I said. "You wouldn't do that because you realize that your child is taking her cue from you. The calmer you stay, the swifter the crisis will pass."

Panic is one of the worst things to teach a child and I should know as that was my mother's default reaction to everything from a bee sting to gaping head wound. My resultant reaction was to lose consciousness in an attempt to remove myself from the situation. From childhood onward my default coping mechanism to pain or medical stress was to faint.

As parents, we often try to undo the wrongs that were inflicted upon us. We never will achieve this goal completely - and we'll unwittingly pass along other psychic traumas, no doubt. But my personal mission was to react exactly in the opposite fashion as my high-anxiety mother.

Thankfully, purple hematomas withstanding, I think I might actually achieve this goal.