Saved by the (Taco) Bell, or Where Babies Come From...Kind Of

As you may be aware, I've been successfully avoiding having the talk with either of my children for years now. I almost had it a month or so ago, but the book I was going to use was checked out from the library. (Did I say "talk?" I meant to say "throw a book on her bed and pray for the best"). Look, I had hoped that the topic would come up in the natural course of conversation, and that I would be able to address it without any trace of awkwardness, as if it were no big deal. But that didn't ever happen. In reality, it turns out that I am really great at being vague, and at changing the topic of uncomfortable conversations, so that my Anarchist did not even know what a penis was until just last year (I'm actually not even sure that she does now, to be honest, but at least she is comfortable enough with the word to shriek it ad nauseum at Christmas brunch).

Precious baby. Loud, expensive, and
very beloved.

The problem is, if I don't get to it first, the school might, and heaven knows what they'll teach my darling offspring. They might tell her that if she ever has sex out of wedlock, she will give birth to a six-headed demon baby and burn in hellfire for all eternity, or they might take a page from my ninth grade health teacher's book, and tell her that literally everyone her age has already had sex, and that if she says she's never participated in a full-on orgy, she's a total liar. Either way, no thank you. I'd like her to view this beautiful and completely natural act for what it is: totally awkward, over-hyped, and potentially resulting in loud, expensive, and of course, very beloved children.

So now I've been pretty much looking for opportunities to discuss intercourse with my children. But suddenly, they've stopped presenting themselves. Suddenly, all my children want to do is discuss Minecraft YouTube videos and computer games with strange animals who collect rare objects and constantly report one another for "scamming." Not helpful.

So imagine my joy when, as I was walking my children to an all-organic, locally sourced cafe for a healthy, after school meal  we drove to Taco Bell's drive-thru for after school nachos, my children helpfully brought up the topic all on their very own.

Anarchist: "When do people start needing deodorant?"

Me (just feeling the perfect, totally-not-awkward sex talk moment coming on): "All different ages. It usually happens some time between now and when you are a teenager. Your body starts to change because it's getting ready to grow up and do things that grown up bodies do. The change is called puberty, and it's totally natural. It happens to everyone...blah, blah, blah, etc."

Anarchist (playing right into my hands): "What other changes happen to your body?"

Me: "Well usually, you need deodorant, and you'll need to shower more because your skin produces more oil. Later on, you'll start your period." (There! I said it. Out loud. Ha!)

Dictator (even though we've totally talked about this before): "What's a period?"

Me: [explains menarche in the perfect, natural, non-awkward way, doesn't use the word "menarche," because seriously, who talks like that?]

Dictator: "Oh yeah."

Anarchist: "Why does your body do that?"

Me (deep breath, this is happening): "Because some day you might want to have a baby. This is your body's way of getting itself ready to do that."

The amazing Dictator. Because sometimes
the "medicine" doesn't work. And sometimes
we're really glad it didn't.

Anarchist: "Oh. I don't think I want to have a baby. I think Boyfriend and I will adopt. I don't want my body to make the baby. How do I stop it from doing that? Is there medicine?"

Me (feeling rushed): "Umm...actually there is. It's called 'birth control.' It can keep your body from having a baby if you're not ready."

Anarchist: "So if I take this medicine, it will work for sure, right? Because I really think I don't want to have a baby grow inside my body."

Me (totally sidetracked): "Well...I mean, it's supposed to work, but it doesn't quite always work. Sometimes people have babies even when they don't mean to, even when they're taking medicine. [Nods meaningfully at the Dictator, who we totally conceived while on "medicine." I promise she didn't notice the nod, as she was blissfully absorbed in drawing pictures of Minecraft YouTubers]. That's why it's important to make sure you're with someone you want to spend the rest of your life with when you decide to have a baby. It would be very nice if you were married. It's also ideal if you have somewhere to live, and enough money to take care of the baby. Otherwise it can be very, very difficult. So that's why you need to be wise about having a baby."

Anarchist: "Yeah. Well, if I ever have a baby, I'm never working again. So I'd want to wait until we had some money. Otherwise, Boyfriend would probably have to work day and night at three different jobs, and I would never see him. Poor Boyfriend! That's too much work for one person...but I'm not going to work. Not if I have a baby. That will be for poor Boyfriend to do. And I will have to feel so bad for him."

Me (dumbfounded by her unabashed laziness): "Oh."

Anarchist: "Okay. But I have one important question, though. So...if sometimes the medicine doesn't work, can I wait until I'm ready to have a baby? Maybe I should just tell the doctor to stop putting that baby inside of me...when the doctor starts doing that...when it's time."

Me: "Sweetie, the doctor doesn't put the baby inside of you."

Anarchist: "Okay. Then I have another important question."

[Deep breath. Here goes...]

Me: "Yes, Anarchist?"

Anarchist: "If the doctor doesn't put the baby inside your body, then how does it get there?"

Me (ready to launch into "the talk" for real this time...I might even go all out and say "scrotum..." out loud): "Well, when you're ready to have a baby...

Nice Taco Bell Drive Thru Girl: "Welcome to Taco Bell. You can go ahead with your order."

Me: "Oh! Hi. Umm..could I please have.a side of nachos, a side of rice, a soft taco supreme, a soft taco...no, that's two separate tacos, one regular and one supreme...right, right...and two nachos bell grande no meat, please. That will be all. Thanks so much."

Yeah. That's right. That's how my "talk" ended. Because I am a coward. And I have bad timing. And also because I have a strange attraction to bad, albeit convenient, queso.

In my defense, I tried to bring it up again. As we were driving away, arms-deep in crunchy chips and shredded iceberg, I turned to the Anarchist and said, "I'm so sorry we were interrupted by tacos, Anarchist. Wasn't there something you wanted to ask me?"

Anarchist: "No? Why would I ask you something? Can we please go home now so I can eat tacos and get scammed in computer games involving strange animals?" (that last sentence may be a paraphrase...)

Me: "Actually, I think you were asking a very important question about how babies were made, and I'd love to tell you all about it over our vegan, locally sourced meal. In fact, I never want you to feel uncomfortable discussing anything with me, especially something as natural as sexual intercourse. Also, I will happily define anatomical terms for you, including 'scrotum,' 'penis,' and 'labia,' and I will do this without flinching or giggling, or anything, because I am an adult and an ideal parent."

Actual Me: "Yes! Let's go eat tacos and remain ignorant forever!"

And so we did.

Listen. It'll be totally fine. At least I didn't tell them they would produce six-headed hell demons, or encourage them to have orgies. I mean, I'm sure they never really need to know where babies come from, right? After all, as the Anarchist is quick to point out, they can always adopt.

The Anarchist, Half-Nelsons, and Me

A not-creepy "special surprise."
Yes, I know my sheets don't match my
duvet cover.

The Anarchist has always been...well...an anarchist. She's also always been a feisty little fighter. It's why she's still alive today, actually. So of course, we maybe encouraged this character trait in her just a teensy bit too much. She threw--oh, who am I kidding, throws--epic tantrums, often in public (usually in public). She lashes out physically when she's frustrated. She likes hip hop more than ballet. And she' recently taken up a brand new hobby. She calls the hobby, "I have a special surprise for you." It sounds like something a creepy guy in a windowless white van would play, but it's not creepy. It just hurts. A lot.

This photo got enough
"likes'" that I was
eventually freed.

 See, it started off as a "surprise" tackle hug every night after I blew her hair dry. It was kind of cute and delightful...until she wouldn't let me go. And lest you think I was just humoring her/playing along, consider this: The first night that "I have a special surprise for you" got serious, I had to use my foot to kick my phone up toward my hand (while she wasn't looking) so that I could text the Bureaucrat for help. He didn't see the text, but the Anarchist finally released me on the condition that a I post a photo of her triumph over me on social media and get enough "Likes" to satisfy her little ego. It was just good, wholesome fun, of course, but her super-human strength was a bit disconcerting ("My knee's on your chest. Do you really want to try to get up with my knee on your chest, Mama?"). 

So I decided to look up local girls' wrestling leagues. Turns out, they don't exist. Seems there's a low demand for places where delicate little girls can pin each other to the ground/exhibit their wiry strength. So "I have a special surprise for you" has become "I have a bad surprise for you," and now it sounds something like this (if this sounds familiar, it's because I posted it on Facebook a bit ago...although this time she wasn't holding me hostage while I did it):

Me (from beneath Aine, as she pins me to the ground): "We need to get you into wrestling."

Anarchist: "You're never gonna get up. Try.Just try. TRY! Also, what's wrestling?"

Me (putting forth a valiant effort at upending myself and getting nowhere): "Exactly what you're doing now. Pinning people down so they can't get up."

Anarchist (using her legs to hold me down): "Oh my GOSH! We need to get me to the nearest wrestling court FAST!"

Me: "Sure. Just let me up and I'll try to find a 'wrestling court' for you."

Anarchist (accidentally giving me a bloody lip): "NEVER! You'll NEVER GET UP! Hmm...but I think maybe I'm too sweet and too delicate to wrestle people, don't you?"

Yes baby. Too sweet. And too delicate. Like my lip. And all those ribs you almost broke.

My fragile flower. So sweet. So delicate.

Suffice it to say, if anyone knows of any local girls' "wrestling courts" please send their information my way. If I don't respond immediately, it's probably because she has me in a half-nelson, and I can't quite reach my phone. 

All in good fun, of course. (She's just so passionate).

It's the Most Emotional TIME of the Year!

It started about a week ago. I was at work, and I saw a baby. I started weeping (on the inside of course, because I am a professional...barista). I figured it was some fluke, some weird maternal urge, ten years too late. I ignored it. And then I saw a pumpkin spice latte. And I teared up a bit. I wasn't too alarmed. After all, I hate pumpkin spice lattes and all that they/their "PSL" fans stand for. But still. Tears? Who cries about a latte? (A crazed PSL fanatic last year, when she discovered they were back early, that's who). Nevertheless, it was probably an isolated incident, I thought. But then I saw a scone...and I cried. I was washing dishes and some of the delicate little soap bubbles popped...tears. I swept up a muffin crumb and threw it away...and it was gone...forever. I had to go into the back room and pull myself together. I couldn't let anyone see bubbles, and pastries, and lattes (and then ice cubes, and napkins, and the sound of birds, and the voices of children, and the wind, and a trash bin) reduce me to a puddle of weeping. What was going ON? Did I really just hate pumpkin spice that much? Had I not been getting enough sleep? Did I need to be admitted to a mental institution?

But then I remembered.

This happens every single year. I start crying when I see commercials, leaves blow in the wind, when sparrows look at me funny. Every single year, right around the end of summer, I turn into an emotional basketcase. Every single year, other parents are rejoicing, relishing the prospect of freedom from the siblings bickering, the constant noise, and the endless cries of "I'm BO-O-ORED!" And every single year, I start to rejoice, and then all of the sudden I find myself, stroking the hair/cheeks of my children as they sleep like some creepy stalker, whispering to them about how much I love them (also like some creepy stalker), and crying like a fool. 

Every single year, at the end of summer, for one week only...I become sentimental. 

I am not a fan of this state of existence. Oh yeah, I'm sensitive, and squishy, and emotional, and easily traumatized all year round, but not sentimental. Never sentimental. I've built up quite the arsenal of defense mechanisms against that nonsense, thankyouverymuch. So it's hard to recognize at first. And I think I've gone off my rocker. Because I'm laying on the floor of my living room weeping because those crayons in the pile of school supplies smell so new. And there are less crayons than there were last year. And more pencils. And ohmygoshtimepassessoquickly. Sob. 

The Anarchist wept the first time the Dictator boarded a bus.
"I very miss the Dictator." The Anarchist is pretty much
always sentimental.

I guess all of the school-supply-specific feelings are what tipped me off this year. Even I don't generally cry about spiral notebooks.

But I finally did identify the source of all these horrific feelings. And I addressed them. And I worked through them, like any healthy, emotionally mature adult would. And I was fine.

I was stable and okay enough to reassure the Anarchist that no one at her new school would hate her for "being ugly," or would punch her in the face, or steal her boyfriend. And that, yes, the classroom caterpillars probably would still be pooping, which is apparently the highlight of third grade, which was enough reassurance to get her to sleep last night. 

I was stable-ish enough to take a deep breath and just let the Dictator wear hideous, friend-repelling socks with shoes that should always remain sockless on her first day (after putting up a fight, of course...I'm very passionate about footwear). 

But mostly, I was distracted from becoming a ball of sentimental nonsense on my children's first day by the terrifying prospect of having to enter the new school building/office, drop off allergy forms (that I probably should have dropped off weeks ago), and (gasp!) talk to adults. I had hoped I could pawn this responsibility off on the Bureaucrat. After all, forms and offices are very Bureaucratty things. They're practically part of his job description. But no. The Bureaucrat wanted to be all reasonable and force me to face my fears. And force me to be an adult. And also force me to drop off forms because he really didn't feel like doing it. Whatever. At least I was now shaking in terror instead of crying in a sentimental heap

So, after snapping a pic of my adorable children in their first day attire (the Dictator in all owls and those hideous socks, the Anarchist in "my cute outfit and my cutest ponytail so that my boyfriend will see it, because that's the reason I am going to school"), I donned my mommest mom outfit of khaki shorts and an Ann Taylor top (something that really says, "I swear I'm an adult, and I don't normally forget to turn in forms until the first day of school, it's just that I'm so responsible, that I'm full of responsibilities, all of them child related, of course, because look, khaki shorts. Also, I will probably join the PTO, volunteer for everything, and generally be a model parent. No. Those forms aren't wrinkled. They are purposefully folded. And no, that wasn't a tampon and an old sock you just saw fall out of my purse. They couldn't have been. Because I'm wearing khakis), and strode purposefully to the school building. 

All owls. And those socks. And a boyfriend-pleasing
ponytail/skirt combo. Sigh.

I helped the Anarchist find her classroom, tactfully avoided getting anywhere near the Dictator's classroom (because apparently, moms are more embarrassing than bad sock/shoe combinations), and acted like a total, composed grown up as I faced down my social anxiety and talked to office-y adults. 

"Here. I brought these allergy medication forms to you at the last minute on purpose. Because I totally intended to do things this way. Because khaki shorts. And I'm professional. See how professional I am? I'm sure you think I work in an office of something. Just like you. So I'm not even acting scared at all. And also, I'm not even an emotional basketcase. Because I cried my last tear over pencil sharpeners and fluttering leaves days ago. Just here to do mature, adult, thing/kid dropping off stuff. Totally devoid of extraneous emotions. Just like everyone else. Thanks. I appreciate it. Have a great day."

And then I breathed a sigh of relief. 

And I stepped out into the school hallway.

And I wept.

And all the crying kindergarteners took a brief pause from their separation anxiety to stare at the crazy lady. And I decided that I didn't care.

Having all the feelings...despite my power-khakis.

Because here's the thing. I don't think it's reasonable to expect to savor every moment. Life is full of lots of reality, and it's not fair to beat ourselves up for not reveling in every waking second of parenthood. But now and then, there are times when you notice. When time does stand still for a second. When the big, stoic, fifth grader comes into your room in the middle of the night with her arms full of all her stuffed animals, half asleep, and says, "Mommy, I'm scared. I had a bad dream." And you haven't heard those words in years. And you realize you might never hear them again. And you gather her up, and all her stuffed animals with her, and you hold her in your arms, and you're late for work, and you don't care. Because this is one of those times when you realize how precious it is and how fast it goes, and you can be a little sentimental. And you can hold onto that moment for just one second more. Or when the third grader in the line to go into school tells you that you can leave if you want, because she's not scared anymore (because caterpillar poop makes all things well), but that you can also stay if you want. Ya know...for your own benefit. And then she hugs you, but she holds on so hard with her little fingers, just like she did her first day of preschool. And you feel how fast it all goes, and how beautiful it all is. And so maybe being sentimental isn't the very worst thing. Maybe it's just slowing down a little and noticing. And maybe that's okay. 

Maybe crying in power-khakis alone in an elementary school hallway is a totally normal thing that all emotionally healthy parents do. If it isn't please don't tell me. I've totally made peace with all of this, and I and my khaki shorts would like to keep it that way.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cry into a pumpkin spice latte while I watch sad soap bubbles pop, and think about how fleeting it all is. 

Happy first day of school.

Birth, Diarrhea, and Bottles of Alcohol: A conversation with the Anarchist on the miracle of life

Inspired by the Dictator's tenth birthday (the annunciation of which I've recounted HERE)*, the Anarchist wanted to discuss birth. Just kind of in general. This is the conversation we had in the brief five minutes while I brushed her hair after a shower. God help me.

Anarchist: "So...is the Dictator ten yet? I mean, what time does she turn ten?"

Me: "Well, she was born in the afternoon. I'm not sure exactly what time. I was a little out of it."

Anarchist: "Oh. Okay. So she's still nine. I get it. What time was I born?"

Me: "In the evening. Around 8 pm. I remember because we had to call Daddy away from his school board meeting when you were born."*

Anarchist: "Okay. But exactly what time?"

Precious Anarchist. Born at I'm-not-sure o'clock in the evening-ish.
Because I am bad at numbers, and not because alcohol.

Me (embarrassed): "I don't know. Eight-ish. I don't remember exactly because I'm bad with numbers, and also because I was very tired."

Anarchist: "I see. So how many bottles of alcohol did you have, then? The night I was born?"

Me (confused): "Uhh...none? No bottles of alcohol? You don't drink alcohol when you're pregnant. It's not safe for the baby."

Anarchist: "Well, then what were you drinking?"

Me: "Uhh...nothing? Ice chips?"

Anarchist: "I mean, how drunk were you?"

Me (wondering how on earth she even knows what "drunk" is...I swear we're a rather sober people...especially around our children): "Drunk? I wasn't drunk at all."

Anarchist (confused): "Well, I mean, don't they get you alcohol when you have a baby to get drunk? For the pain?"

Me: "Lord, no, Sweetie. They gave me an epidural for the pain."

Anarchist: "Then why did you forget what time I was born...if you weren't drunk?"

Me (still baffled that she seems to understand the concept of "drunk"): "Having a baby makes your body very tired...and your brain very tired."

Anarchist: "Oh, yeah. I get it. Diarrhea makes your body very tired, too. So it's just like diarrhea."

Me: "Uh. Yeah. Just like that. Just like diarrhea."

And no. She still doesn't know how babies are made. I wonder if she thinks it's a little bit like vomiting...I think I'm not going to try to find out.

Me in the hospital, not getting trashed in
preparation for the Anarchist's birth.

*Yes, I keep pushing it on you, because it is my very favorite story. I think it's hilarious. Well, it wasn't hilarious at the time. I might have been traumatized for weeks. Poor back-in-the-day me! But now, all is well, and I laugh hysterically every time I think about all of the pee sticks, and all of the stupid nativity scenes, and all of those degrees I could have had..

**Because OF COURSE a Bureaucrat would be at a board meeting on the very night of his child's birth. She probably became an Anarchist in protest...