Wanda Says…On the subject of Margaret, Playboy & Spin the Bottle.

December 3, 2014 / Wanda / 5 Comments

One of my favorite books from childhood is Are You There God? It’s me, Margaret by Judy Blume.

It’s a pre-teen, coming of age book about an eleven year old girl trying to handle a series of changes in her life. Margaret is growing up, and she has a hard time talking about puberty with her friends, or her fear that she may not be like other girls her age. So Margaret confides in God. Margaret talks to God about everything from her anxiety about fitting in at a new school, to her concern that her breasts aren’t growing fast enough. It’s charming, innocent and funny.

I recently bought this book for my daughter, Bryn. She loves to read and since this was a favorite book for me when I was her age, we have been reading it together. We sit on Bryn’s bed at night and take turns reading chapters to each other.

I remember reading this book as a ten year old girl and being fascinated because the characters openly talk about puberty and periods and their budding interest in boys. As a mother of a ten year old daughter, reading this book again gave me a completely different perspective. Keep in mind that I haven’t read this book in 30 years, and aside from the main storyline, I had forgotten quite a few important details.

There were multiple pop-culture references in the book that were appropriate for the time period and seemed to be no big deal when I was a kid. But having to explain those references to Bryn was not something I was prepared for. For example, in the book, Margaret and her friends swipe a copy of her dad’s Playboy Magazine so they can see the centerfold and speculate how their own breasts and bodies may look one day. As Bryn and I are reading this chapter, and Margaret and her friends are staring with wonder at the eighteen year-old centerfold, I’m thinking, “Oh dear God, what can of worms have I just opened?” And of course, Bryn looks at me with wide, startled eyes and says, “What is Playboy Magazine, and do eighteen year-olds really take their clothes off for pictures?!” Shit.

Oh wait, there’s more…

In that same chapter, Margaret’s friend sneaks a copy of her dad’s medical anatomy book, and the girls giggle and laugh as they look up pictures of the male genitalia. There are also scenes in the book where Margaret stuffs her training bra with cotton balls, and she and her friends attend their first co-ed party, where they have to play spin the bottle and go into the bathroom with a boy for two minutes and receive their first kiss. In another scene, the girls do arm and chest exercises that they believe will help their boobs to grow. And while they do these exercises, they chant “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!”

Bryn vacillates between laughing uncontrollably and hiding under the covers with embarrassment as we read together. I vacillate between sweating, stammering out my answers to her questions, and taking deep, calming breaths so I don’t shout, “You will never play spin the bottle! Do you hear me? Never!”

At one point, I had a moment of terror when I imagined her going to school and telling her friends about the juicier details of the book. I let her know that because we were reading this book together, and I felt she was mature enough to handle it, I was willing to answer her questions and be honest with her. But I couldn’t make that decision for her friend’s parents, so she had to agree to keep these discussions between us. I said, “No going to school and telling your friends about this crazy game called Spin the Bottle.” Yeah, I know, fat chance of that happening, but I had to try.

Despite the embarrassment and discomfort we both felt, it’s still a great book, and an age-appropriate way to start some important discussions. The mom in me rebels at the idea of her growing up, but the woman in me understands that it needs to happen. I want her to learn about puberty and periods from me, not her friends. I want her to always trust that she can come to me for anything, and it’s up to me to help her develop that trust through my willingness to be honest and have these tough conversations with her.

On a lighter note, Bryce must have been listening in on our reading, because the other day he was marching around the house chanting, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” 🙂

Wanda Says…When did dentistry become sexy?

November 25, 2014 / Wanda / 7 Comments

I had a dentist appointment today. I hate going to the dentist.

I suffer from a life-long fear and anxiety of all things dentistry. It began when I was a child. Our dentist did not particularly like working on children, and back then the attitude toward having dental work was very much a suck-it-up-buttercup mentality.

At my childhood dentist’s office, there was no room for sissies in the chair. Just a hygienist who was willing to hold you down while some sadistic fuck of a man who called himself a doctor would drill into your teeth without novocaine, or gag you until you threw up all over yourself, and then ridicule you for being upset about it. I could go into more detail, but I’m sure you get my point.

So I developed a deep and lasting fear of all things dentistry. So much so that in my early twenties, I just said to hell with it. Why pay someone to torture me with small instruments of pain? No, thank you. So I just stopped going to the dentist….for fifteen years.

Now let me say this…I have been blessed genetically with good teeth. And thank God for that, because I don’t think I would have survived if I’d ever needed braces. And I’m vain enough that if my teeth were jacked up or in pain, I would want to have them fixed. But thankfully I have nice, straight, even teeth.

Last year my wisdom teeth (which no one ever bothered to tell me should come out when I was a teenager) began to ram their way through my gum line. My top ones came in ten years ago, but I had room for them so figured I was fine just leaving them in. If I survived the pain of cutting teeth at 30, I was keeping them! But last year when one of the bottom molars started to present itself, it was impacted and there was just no way to put it off any longer. I was devastated and terrified, to say the least.

After a weekend spent laying on the couch in severe mouth pain, my husband dragged me to his dentist. He had been trying to get me to go for years, and finally, my pain and suffering was the last straw. Dan even scheduled the appointment, took time off of work and went with me. He’s awesome like that.

What shocked me is how much dentistry, and the image of dentistry has changed over the years. My husband’s dental office (and now mine as well) is lovely. Remember how dentists offices always had a certain smell to them? I hate that smell. This office doesn’t smell. The staff and hygienists are kind and considerate. Oh, and all the dentists who work there are hot as hell.

Seriously?

Yes, seriously. Like, doctor McDreamy hot.

When you look at the office’s website which has a page dedicated to each of the dentists in the practice, they read like celebrity bios from Men’s Magazine. They are all highly educated, certified and accredited from the best schools, and they are all easy on the eyes. Their photos are glossy, professional and highlight the athleticism of the doctor featured. Their bios read like, “aside from the charity work doctor so and so does for homeless children’s dentistry, in his free time he enjoys surfing, beach volleyball and working out.”

Is this a California thing? When did dentistry become the cool, hot guy profession?

And what’s even crazier is that my dentist is the most considerate, compassionate, do-anything-to-ease-your-fears-and-make-you-comfortable kind of doctor. He is amazing, and he won me over with his easy-going demeanor, sense of humor and understanding of my fears. He is patient and gentle, always.

And the truth is that I could give two-shits about how adorable he is. Good for him. What I truly care about is what a great dentist he is, and how he’s working successfully to change a stereotype simply by being the awesome doctor he is.

Now, despite doctor Dreamy’s awesome demeanor and my profoundly improved experiences with dental care, that didn’t stop me from wanting to cancel my appointment to avoid having my teeth cleaned today. I almost did. Last night, as I lay in bed dreading the next morning and having nightmares about needles and dental drills, I really wanted to fake-sick so I could cancel my appointment. My husband talked me out of it, and I didn’t want to disappoint him by acting like a candy-ass.

I did find it funny though that the dentists office called me, emailed me and texted me like, ten different times to confirm my appointment. When I mentioned the excessive confirmation process to my girlfriend, who also goes to the same dentist, she said, “Well it makes sense. They know you’re a runner.”

LOL! That I am!

Wanda Says…I’ve touched poop with my bare hands.

November 24, 2014 / Wanda / 16 Comments

I’ve done a lot of disgusting, undesirable things since becoming a mom.

For example, at various times and for various reasons I’ve caught both of my kid’s pee, poop, and vomit with my bare hands. This was usually in an attempt to redirect the flow or minimize the splash zone.

I’ve sniffed butts, armpits, underwear, diapers, and feet to determine the source of offensive odors. You know you’re a parent when you have no qualms, whatsoever, about picking up your small child and smelling their ass in public to determine if he or she has a poopy diaper.

When Bryn was three years old, she crawled into bed with me, woke me up and told me she had an upset stomach. I laid her down with me and began to rub her tummy while questioning her about her symptoms. Before I knew what was coming, she sat up and threw up all over both of us in the middle of my bed. It was everywhere. She was hysterical and we were both covered in vomit.

What? It’s just a little pee!

When my son was an infant he shot a stream of his pee into my open mouth when I was changing his diaper. With baby boys you can never let your guard down while changing diapers. You have to be focused and quick to avoid disaster. He was laying on his back on the changing table and I was talking to my husband. His timing was perfect. I was distracted while doing two things at once, and his pee shot straight up into my face as I turned my head and opened my mouth to talk. Believe me when I say that was a startling, gag-worthy experience, and one I hope never to repeat, ever.

Another time while at Disneyland with the kids, I was holding Bryce on my hip while waiting in line to meet Mickey Mouse. He was two and not yet potty trained. He peed and pooped in his pull-up at the same time, and the two substances mixed to form a watery concoction that leaked all over my clothes from my waist down to my thighs. I had extra clothes for him and was able to buy a new shirt for myself at the gift shop, but was at a loss to replace my jeans. I smelled like I had the Hershey squirts for the rest of the day, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

When my daughter was five we were in the bathroom at Midway Airport in Chicago, Illinois. Midway is a pretty nice airport, and their bathrooms are actually nicer than most, but when you have hundreds of people moving through them everyday they just can’t be that clean. Well, after using the facilities, my daughter accidentally dropped her favorite stuffed animal, a little orange cat named Spooky, into the airport bathroom toilet. We both froze. And then, without thinking, I did what any self-respecting, child loving woman with a Mom Card would do…I reached my hand into that Godforsaken pee-germ bowl of bacteria and I saved Spooky. I rinsed him in the sink of the bathroom, wrapped him in a roll of paper towels, and then asked the cleaning woman in the restroom to pour straight bleach on my hands. When we arrived at our hotel, I soaked Spooky in hot water and shampoo (it was the only soap I had). Bryn was sad that I wouldn’t allow her to snuggle Spooky after his traumatic nearly-flushed down the toilet ordeal, but she understood that he needed to be thoroughly decontaminated first. After arriving home at the end of our vacation, I put Spooky through a hot water cycle in the washing machine and high heat dryer before he found his way back into Bryn’s arms.

What I find noteworthy about these foul experiences with my children is how becoming a parent changes your reaction to them. Instead of becoming physically ill myself after being thrown up on, or grossed out by the ordeal, my first thought is of my child’s comfort, fear and how to make it better for them. Instinctually, my own needs become secondary to theirs. I will walk around Disneyland with my son’s poop on my jeans, and not make a federal case of it so he doesn’t feel shame. I will bathe and wash my daughter’s hair before I wash her vomit out of my own hair so she will know her health and comfort are more important to me than a little (a lot) of throw up. I will stick my hand in a disgusting airport bathroom toilet to save a beloved stuffed animal before I will allow my daughter to suffer that loss.

I have earned my Mom Card, and God only knows what their pre-teen and teen years will require of me.

Now I would love to know…What is the most disgusting thing you’ve ever done for your kids? 🙂

Wanda Says…Silliness, Shenanigans and Air Guitar.

November 9, 2014January 11, 2026 / Wanda / 11 Comments

I have very little sympathy for my kids when I embarrass them, especially when the embarrassment takes place in the privacy of our own home over silliness and varied shenanigans. I also feel that occasionally embarrassing my children is a necessary action of parenting. It’s a public service really, because I am preparing them to deal with the insanity of the real world.

Last night, my husband and I had a date, and I was in my room getting ready. I was listening to the Journey station on Pandora and Bryce was laying on my bed talking to me. And then it happened.

Pandora began to play one of my favorite jams…Jukebox Hero by Foreigner.

I am not physically capable of restraining myself during that song. Every Midwestern, rock star wannabe cell in my body rises to the occasion and becomes the music. I ran to the remote and cranked up the volume. I did not care that Bryce had a slightly alarmed look on his face.

I sang. Loudly. I danced. I threw my hair around. (I grew up on 70’s and 80’s rock music, so my hair banging skills are exceptional). I rocked the air guitar and I embraced the moment. My guitar solo was totally badass. Or, I imagined it was as I rocked that shit all over my bedroom.

At one point I saw that Bryce had his hands over his ears with his face scrunched up and he seemed to be shouting something to me. His eyes were wide and his face was red with the tell-tale signs of mortification and agitation over my less than mature behavior.

I kept singing to him and playing my air guitar.

Then I heard Bryce shout to me, “Mommy, what are you doing? Stop it!”

He was embarrassed of his mother. It’s more likely that he was embarrassed for me, but regardless, he was clearly not appreciative of my sweet dance moves, less than perfect rocker voice, or my expert hair thrashing.

So I turned up the music and sang louder. 🙂

Wanda Says…On the importance of wagons.

November 5, 2014 / Wanda / 8 Comments

I fell off the wagon.

Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I jumped off the wagon. Except my wagon isn’t just a workout wagon. My wagon is a high maintenance, high protein, sweaty, fruit and vegetable cart.

After three months of living in my workout clothes and having very little to show for it, I took a break. I stopped working out for about two weeks. I drank wine. I ate pizza, burritos and Halloween candy.

It was a little scary at first. I had become so routine with my workouts and I was following a very structured whole foods diet for about a month, purging my house of so many unhealthy processed foods. So the first time I allowed myself to eat a slice of pizza, I did so with trepidation. Isn’t that ridiculous? As if the cheese on my pizza or the pizza crust would cause my body to instantly self-destruct the moment I swallowed it. That’s how I felt. When you educate yourself and understand what you’re really putting into your body when you eat processed, preservative and chemical laced foods, it really can be a bit scary when you knowingly choose to ignore that knowledge and eat it anyway.

But eat it, I did. And it was sooooooo good! I wish I could tell you I didn’t miss it. I wish I could tell you that eating healthier whole foods for a period of time had erased my love of sugar and complex carbohydrates, but that would be a lie of ginormous proportions.

I didn’t completely lose my mind. I followed the general outlines of my diet for the most part, still eating a lot of protein and high fiber carbs. But if I wanted some chocolate after dinner, or an extra glass of wine with my meal during my little hiatus, I indulged. One morning I ate toast with white, fluffy, delicious bread and Jif Peanut Butter. Another night I had pizza because I was sick to death of cooking. For me, that’s the hardest part of trying to eat clean. You have to prepare everything yourself from all fresh, natural, organic ingredients. The meals I cook taste great, but that’s a lot of meal preparation when you eat five times a day and still have a thousand other things that have to get done between the kids, work, housework, homework, etc… There is no convenient opening a package and putting it in the microwave. No take out. No delivery. No restaurants. I miss restaurants.

Surprisingly, I didn’t gain any weight. To date, I’m down six pounds, still averaging about a half pound a week. Trying to eat healthy all the time, workout every day, and still not see more noticeable physical results for weeks and weeks is very defeating. Some days it makes me question why I deprive myself at all. Why put myself through this hard work and abstain from all the delicious foods, convenience and restaurants I enjoy for a measly six pounds?

And the answer is that because losing six pounds is better than gaining six pounds. Being less tired and having more energy is worth it. Showing my kids that no matter how slow and frustrating the process can be, that mommy isn’t going to give up, makes it worth it. Knowing I’m slowly improving my health and the overall health of my family through being more conscientious of our physical activity and eating habits makes it worth it. It’s not a sexy answer, or a fun one. But it’s the truth.

After two weeks of lazy self-indulgence, I don’t feel any better for it. Oh sure, I enjoyed my Halloween candy, but not to the point where I can give up all the hard work I’ve done thus far. So today, I chased down my wagon. I’ve realized that I need the foundation of that metaphorical wagon to build on for my continued success. The wagon helps me with focus and temperance. It’s a symbol, or a reminder of what I am trying to accomplish. There might be some gaps in the boards of that wagon, where occasionally chocolate and cheese can creep through, or a bottle of wine, but as long as the foundation is solid, I can live with that.

Here’s to the next six pounds! 🙂

Wanda Says…On my daughter’s opinion of wine and other nefarious substances.

October 31, 2014October 31, 2014 / Wanda / 11 Comments

This week is Red Ribbon Week at my daughter’s elementary school. You know, the whole ‘Just Say No to Drugs’ campaign. Yesterday was ‘Put Drugs To Sleep Pajama Day.’ Bryn wore her favorite pajamas to school and they had an assembly in the cafeteria. Great. No big deal.

I’m all for educating kids about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, until you (insert name of elementary school here) try and fuck with my wine.

My husband and I are causal drinkers. We enjoy a glass of wine or beer in the evening. We especially love wine. It’s relaxing, it tastes good, and one glass at the end of a rough day is just enough to smooth out the edges of my stay-home-mommy-madness.

Bryn came home from school yesterday and this was the conversation she initiated with me:

Bryn: Mom, we learned about drugs at school again this year, and guess what my teacher said. Did you know that alcohol is the same as drugs? Beer and wine is alcohol, and that’s the same as drugs. My teacher said so. So when you and daddy drink wine, you’re eating drugs. When daddy drinks his Blue Moon Beer, he is eating drugs! (She looks scandalized because now she thinks we’re drug addicts).

Me: No, that’s not true.

Bryn: Yes it is. My teacher said so.

Me: Bryn, alcohol is similar to drugs because if you consume too much of it, it can be harmful. It can impair your senses and make you sick. But if an adult drinks one or two glasses of beer or wine, it’s not the same as taking drugs. Alcohol is not illegal like the drugs you’ve learned about. It’s not the same. It’s important for kids to learn about the dangers of drug use when you’re young so that when you are older you can make good choices and recognize unhealthy behavior, like taking drugs or drinking to much alcohol and acting irresponsibly. Of course kids shouldn’t drink alcohol any more than they should do drugs, but an adult of legal age having a glass of wine is not the same as taking illegal drugs.

Bryn: Yes it is. My teacher said so.

Me: Bryn, it isn’t the same.

Bryn: Yes it is.

(At this point I’m trying not to raise my voice.)

Bryn: I’m telling daddy that he eats drugs when he drinks his wine.

Me: You go ahead and tell daddy that, and let me know how that works out for you.

After dinner, my husband poured himself a glass of wine. I watched as Bryn eyed the wine with a practiced stink eye. And then she said, “Daddy, guess what I learned at school today.”

I think I speak for both my husband and I, as well as many other parents of school age children when I say this…

Dear (Insert name of elementary school here), thank you for teaching my child that her parents, and most of her friends parents, are potential drug addicts. Thank you for trying to deprive parents of the liquid life-support that we need in order for us to get through a school year.

How am I, and all the other parents, supposed to endure the endless hours of homework, common core bullshit, and instrument practice you send home each day?

Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit for 15 minutes every night and listen to my child attempt to play the flute for the fifth grade band? That shit is excruciating, and I can listen and be supportive and give her a thumbs up for her attempts to blow air into that God forsaken metal tube, and tolerate the horrific noise that sounds like dying birds only because of my dear friend, Chardonnay.

Chardonnay understands that I need to stay calm and composed when I am unable to help my daughter with her fifth grade math. Pinot Grigio understands when my daughter has three to four hours of homework every night. Sauvignon Blanc is prepared to help me comfort and calm my child when she is overwhelmed and exhausted over the ridiculous responsibilities and pressures put on elementary school kids.

Additionally, let’s consider the extensive volunteer responsibilities you demand of parents. For example, the only way I am even willing to volunteer at the school Halloween carnival in the food booth line, standing on my feet for two hours asking a thousand people if they want cheese on their hamburger, is because I know I get to go home and enjoy a glass of wine after my shift! You cannot ruin wine for me, so stop trying.

So, (insert name of elementary school here), take a moment to consider the impossible position you just put two hundred parents in tonight, trying to reassure their kids that we don’t do drugs. Better yet, why don’t you just calm down, and have a glass of wine. 🙂

Wanda Says…Gourd-geous Halloween Pumpkins!

October 27, 2014 / Wanda / 23 Comments

I love Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. On a good year, I will go crazy and decorate the house with all kinds of cool stuff. However, the past few years I’ve been less enthusiastic about putting the effort into it. It just seems like so much work, and that stupid bastard we call Depression has done its best to ensure that I have no energy or desire for the project.

Halloween pumpkins are a different story, though. I never slack on the pumpkins, and my family and I take our pumpkin decorating seriously. It’s become an annual tradition that we enjoy so much for the creativity, as well as the time spent being together as a family.

We set up the back yard as our work area. Sometimes we do themes, or coordinate our pumpkins. Here are a few examples of our work.

This first picture is Halloween 2012.

Halloween 2013…as you can see, we chose a Peanuts theme.

We put so much effort into our pumpkins, but typically within two days our pumpkins look like this….

Last year it took exactly 48 hours for our pumpkins to disintegrate and turn into pumpkin mold soup on my front porch. It’s disgusting.

I remember our pumpkins lasting forever when we were kids. We would carve them two weeks before Halloween and they would just be starting to form the dots of mold a few days before the holiday. But living in a cooler climate was responsible for that extended preservation. When the temps drop to 40 degrees at night, the pumpkins are basically refrigerated. That is not the case here in southern California.

So this year we decided to do something a little different. This year, we painted our pumpkins instead of carving them. We went to Michael’s and bought props, acrylic paint, googly eyes, fake mustaches and eye brows. We didn’t follow a theme, but I think they turned out pretty good.

Here is our 2014 completed collection…

Individually, I would like to introduce you to Bryn’s creation, Ms. Pumpkin 2014.

Bryce’s creation (with Daddy’s help), Mr. Mario Cart.

My husbands creation, The Clown. I told my husband his clown looked worried, like he may have just accidentally shit himself.

And lastly, there was my pumpkin. I don’t have a name for it, but I think it looks pretty badass.

Happy Halloween! 🙂

PS…Bryn wants to know which pumpkin you like the best. I kept insisting that this was not a contest, just a fun family activity. But she would still like you to vote, so if you don’t mind please cast your vote in the comments section. Thanks!

Wanda Says…Jumping rope is hard.

October 22, 2014 / Wanda / 6 Comments

In my never-ending quest to bring sexy back, I’ve been trying to incorporate some oldies but goodies in my workout routine. I still haven’t mastered the jumping jack, but to be honest, after my last humiliating attempt and fail at that childhood standard, I haven’t put much effort into it.

And recently, my fellow blogger, Elizabetcetera at da Vinci Total Hysterectomy 2014, encouraged me to try jumping rope. She assured me the experience would not be at all similar to my experiences using the jump rope as a child. And she was absolutely correct.

After attempting to jump rope during my workout today, all I can say is that gravity is an asshole.

I was able to jump rope, but half the time I couldn’t get both feet up off the ground fast enough and I ended up tripping on the rope with one foot while the other cleared it. And forget the continuous jump-bouncing of the past. Now I remember why teenage girls typically lose interest in jumping rope after going through puberty. Even with a sports bra on, my boobs kept trying to spring up and slap me in the face. Not cool, girls. Not cool at all.

I’d like to be all ‘I’m not a quitter,’ and tell you that I won’t stop until I master the beast, but the truth is that I am totally quitting this. I have no interest in doing that again, ever.

Wanda Says…Have you checked your spam folder lately?

October 17, 2014October 17, 2014 / Wanda / 9 Comments

Have you ever really examined the contents of your spam folder? I have Yahoo as my personal email provider, and I’ve heard they’re the worst for spam. It’s probably true, given the high quantity of suggestive advertisements sent to me on a regular basis. I never open the emails, but I do get some entertainment from reading the email titles.

My favorite and most reoccurring spam is from the Local Sluts. I’m always getting emails from the Local Sluts, asking me to join. This is a real thing, people. I’m not making it up.

What makes me laugh about this is that I had no idea the local sluts were so organized. I also had no idea they were recruiting publicly. I always assumed that trade to be more of a back alley sort of thing. But no more! The sluts have gone public and they want your membership!

I am curious what they do at their meetings, though. Do they meet at the library? Do they have membership tiers, discuss recruitment and offer incentives for bringing in new members? Like, if you sign up four new sluts, do you get a bonus or a prize? And what does it mean to be a Local Slut? I have so many questions, but I have a feeling they make you actually show up to the meeting before they dish about the details. Just like those assholes who sell timeshares. They make you sit through two hours of property sales pitches before they give you your two free movie tickets.

And I’m the most non-slutty person there is. I’d never pass the slut test. I don’t even know how to flirt properly anymore. My idea of flirting is to waggle my eyebrows at my husband and smack him on the ass as I walk by. Also, I don’t look good in short skirts and stilettos. I’m more of a Capri pants and cardigan twin set kind of girl. I can rock a pony tail and sweat pants all day long, but a skin tight mini-dress…not so much.

I just realized I’m being very unfair to the Local Sluts. I’m making assumptions about what they wear based on the name of their group, and that’s wrong. Maybe sluts don’t even dress slutty anymore. Maybe they wear mom clothes! Oh my God! That’s why they’ve been trying to contact me so aggressively! They’ve seen me out in my yoga pants and baggy t-shirts, and I had no idea this was the new hot! I’ve been flaunting myself all over Target, and the grocery store, and the neighborhood, giving the impression that my mommy hotness was somehow up for a membership grab, and those sluts have been going crazy trying to recruit me!

Fortunately for me, I’m not looking to make any major career moves right now. Some time ago, when I was contemplating what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, I asked my daughter what she thought I would be good at. She said, “You’re good at speaking, and snuggling, and loving.” I told her I couldn’t make a career out of those things and she asked me why. So I told her that one, the only career suited to those qualities went against my moral code, and two, Daddy would have a problem with it. She had no idea what I was talking about (thank God) and looked at me like I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Anyway, the bottom line is that I’m currently unavailable and uninterested in becoming a member of the Local Sluts. I would say that I’m flattered by the invitation, but that would be a lie. Thanks for all the effort folks, but please direct your emails to more interested parties. If I was single, and even a little bit slutty……nope, not even then.

Wanda Says…On my daughter’s opinion of French kissing.

October 15, 2014 / Wanda / 8 Comments

Last night my ten year old daughter came into my room to say good-night to me, and she initiated a conversation about some new and enlightening things she learned at school that day.

Although I ask her every day how school went and what fun things happened, she often waits until right before bed to share the juicier, more dramatic details, which pretty much guarantees I won’t be sleeping through the night, because I’ll be having nightmares about how she’s growing up too fast.

The conversation went like this:

Bryn: Oh my gosh, Mom! I forgot to tell you what I learned at school today!

Me: What was that?

Bryn: Well, during recess, my friends and I were talking, and you’re never going to believe this! My friend said that there’s this thing called French kissing, and that means that two people kiss with their tongues! Like lizards, Mom! They wrap their tongues together like lizards! And guess what?! It’s true!! People really do that!

Me: (starting to sweat)

Bryn: And guess what else! In France, there are beaches where people don’t wear their clothes! They go to the beach naked, Mom!!! Can you believe that? (she dissolves into hysterical giggles and laughter) Have you ever heard of these things?

Me: (sigh) Bryn, I promised you I would always be honest with you, so yes, I have heard of these things and they are all true. Except nude beaches aren’t limited to France. Many countries have beaches where clothing is optional. I also have to tell you that I’m not sure I’m ready for you to know about this stuff yet. I’m not ready for you to know about French kissing and nude beaches.

Bryn: I know, Mom. (she kisses me on the cheek to console me)

Me: What did you think when your friend told you about this stuff?

Bryn: I think French kissing sounds disgusting! (she makes a sour face, a gagging noise and then pretends like she is throwing up)

Me: (Laughing) That’s the right attitude, sister! (she laughs with me and leaves the room)

I realize this is just the beginning. She will continue to grow up and discover new and exciting, and sometimes gross things about life, and people and relationships. Soon, in her health education classes, she will learn about sex and reproduction and how her body works. She will also learn about boys, and it won’t matter that I want to freeze time and keep her my little girl forever.

I also realize that this means raising children is going to turn me into an alcoholic, and I need to join a wine club so I can stock the house and get a discount on that shit, because I’m going to need a lot of it.