I’m not an uptight parent. I don’t over sensor myself in front of my kids, I don’t lock the bathroom door when I’m in there, and I walk around the house in my underwear when my kids are awake. They have heard me swear
although I try not to and they have seen me naked they will be scared for life. To me, it’s life. It happens. Deal with it. In fact, the kids have basically learned to zone me out. They don’t pay attention to what I’m saying especiallly when they are in trouble, and they don’t broadcast the fact that they caught me in my underwear. It’s our crazy little life, inside our tiny little bubble. Outside of that bubble they are well behaved, even tempered children. In general, I am not worried about how they are being raised despite some of my major mom fails.
With that being said, I have a bit of an addiction to morning radio talk shows. An addiction in the fact that I get anxious when I don’t get to listen in the car on our way to where ever we are headed. It wakes me up, it makes me laugh, it causes problems with parenting. Wait….what? Problems with parenting?
Have you ever listened to a morning radio talk show in the car with a five year old on board? It doesn’t matter what else is going on in the car, singing row-row-row your boat for the millionth time or going on a space ship ride through the solar system, when an unfamiliar phrase suddenly fills the airwaves, they are going to pick up on it. Words like bitch, ass hole, and butt nugget usually cause a fit of giggling, but that is about it. The little parrot in the backseat will usually have to ask if I heard what they said, I say yes, they repeat it once, I remind them it’s a bad word, and we drive on. Back to the melody of
that damn row boat row-row-row your boat, and the fact that John Smith is a butt nugget and his wife is a bitch is now null and void. Thank you radio talk show for your assistance in asserting proper language with my children.
This is all well and good until they start talking about SEX. For some reason the word sex turns my five year old into a broken record. “Mommy, what’s sex?” she asks
as I want to hurl myself out of the car.
“It’s something adults do when they are alone together.”
“Like something kids don’t do because it’s for adults only
and horny teenagaers in the backseat of a car.”
“But what IS it?”
I now want to turn in my parenting permit and quit. I don’t want to do this anymore, parenting was a real shit decision on my part. Belay my last, someone take these damn kids before I ruin them for life.
Fuck! “It’s when two grown-ups wrestle naked. Alone. In the bedroom or the kitchen counter, or the shower, or the backyard.” When in doubt, go with the old standby used in the past. Please don’t ask anymore questions. I would kill for another round of row-row-row your fucking boat! Alas, for some reason, this explanation just isn’t doing it for her. Either it’s not sticking, she’s looking for more detail, or she doesn’t believe me. Naturally, I assume she is looking for more detail. I told you I wanted to turn in my parenting permit. “Do you and Steve have sex?”
“So you guys wrestle naked?”
Oh my god, someone remove this kid from my car!
“Only when you’re asleep,” and now I’m the biggest liar on the planet.
Every damn day the people in my radio have to mention sex. Every damn day I have to sit there and go through this conversation again and again. Stop it, just STOP! Isn’t there anything else to talk about? Gaza? Israel? Cheese cake? The fact that Pi has no end? Anything? Just PLEASE don’t mention sex again! Please, please, PLEASE!!! I mean, I guess I could stop listening in the car, but that would be too easy.
And then I would have anxiety. We all knows what happens when mothers have anxiety, they eat their children, and my children are far too filthy to eat without causing serious health problems. Therefore, I will continue to listen to my morning radio talk show, and continue to explain to my
fucking dear sweet five year old what sex is. Maybe tomorrow she’ll get it, but probably not.