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No Money, No Honey

I’ve never really understood how “visual” men are when it comes to being attracted to the opposite sex.  Maybe it’s because I’m a woman and my metrics for measuring up a dude are vastly different.  Sure, looks played a part in my overall decision-making process but it was never a deal-breaker if the guy had other stellar qualities.

(*note: my husband’s hotness was a bonus on top of his other attributes)

But when I saw a new study in the OC Register the other day, I had an epiphany.  The article, titled –Women aren’t looking for an unemployed man, online dating service’s survey discovers, suggests single men without a job are lonelier than the Maytag repairman as 73% of women refuse to consider dating an unemployed man.

(For those too young to remember, Maytag had an ad campaign showing a lonely repair man in his shop insinuating their washers and dryers rarely break…)

And then it hit me why men date hot chicks who have the brain cell capacity of a flea – it’s because men are wired to be visual in the exact same way women are wired to seek financial security from a mate.

Tit for Tat.  Hot Chicks vs Cold Hard Cash.  Show me the Money vs DD Cup Size

Jokes aside, I have to believe it’s how God designed us.  Despite feminism and women’s rights, the truth is most women feel vulnerable when they are pregnant or raising small children and a husband  with an adequate income allows her to focus on nurturing and caring for her young without the burden of financial stress. 

I know this all too well because when I was single mom the financial stress was OVERWHELMING.  But once I got remarried, the burden lifted.  I still had to go to work and provide but it felt more manageable with a partner.  I don’t believe women are designed to carry the financial burden alone. We can do it (and some do it very well) but it doesn’t sit well on our frame just as most men struggle to get up at night with baby.  They can certainly do it but it mommy does it so much better with a smile and a song instead of bad words from a cranky and grumbling daddy.

The male focus on visual aesthetics is not just immaturity.  According to Dr. Phil McGraw, it’s a “psychosocial, biochemical and neurological gap—so trying to get a man to function according to female standards is like trying to get a pig to fly. It’s just not going to happen. That old but often accurate notion that men are hunters seems especially applicable here.”

 
Men need to be quick on their feet and act fast to bring home the bacon while women need to plan and store provisions for a long winter and hungry mouths to feed.
 
Terry – a reader from the Register article responded: ” A man is set up on a blind date, first question, what does she look like? A woman is set up on a blind date, first question is, how much money does he have?”
 
But here is the catch, although we are designed to operate in a certain manner, we, unlike our four legged friends, have a choice in the matter.  We don’t have to  take this”pre-wiring” to the extreme.  Not every woman needs to be a gold digger and not every man needs to be a skirt chaser. 

We let the world distort God’s standards of provision and beauty.  We let Cosmo and Maxim tell us what matters most and we tune out the simplicity and brilliance of God’s design for male/female relationships.

A man who can provide a roof over a woman’s head and put food on the table is a good catch.  A man who will take a job at Starbucks, or parking cars or get up every morning and apply for a hundred jobs in a bad economy is a treasure indeed. 

A woman who takes care of herself and others, has a sweet spirit and big smile (though she may not be a super-model) is still a beauty.  A woman who follows God, is faithful and true and loves without barriers is ravishing.  And a woman who is physically appealing on the outside but nasty on the inside is not worth the misery of a dreadful marriage, or worse yet, an expensive divorce.

I think it’s time we stop complaining how men only like hot chicks and women only want guys with a job and instead start redefining what real beauty and real provision actually are.

And maybe we need to fix our broken “pickers” so we spot the real jewels when we find them. 

Is your “picker” in need of some fine-tuning? 

 

 
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Death by Tan

“Bend forward and pose like Arnold,” Maggie instructed.

In a grimace of sheer humiliation, I leaned forward and did my best body-builder imitation. 

Maggie pointed the spray gun at my shoulders and released a cool blend of brown shellac and air.

It was my first ever spray tan and I was standing in my underwear in a little tanning tent feeling like a big goof.  But then I thought about exposing my Colgate white butt cheeks at the pool this weekend in La Quinta I remembered my motivation.

I am what most people call a fair girl.  I have naturally blond hair and blue eyes with a spatter of freckles dusting my nose.  I burn, I peel and even after a summer by the pool I am at my best a gentle shade of cream.

Self-tanner is my friend in the summer.  Usually I do a mystic-tan for big events, but because this weekend is my fortieth birthday I thought I would go all out for the personal touch.

And Kolby’s pre-school teacher (also a spa owner) gave me good deal.  How could I refuse?

Maggie looked at me and smiled.  “Now go home and sleep and take a shower in the morning.  Half of this will come off and you won’t be this dark.  Don’t be scared when you look in the mirror.  It won’t be this dark.  I promise.”

I turned and glanced in the mirror and almost fell over.  My body looked smoking tan but my face looked like the scary tan lady who took her kid to the tanning bed.

I looked like an Aborigine with blond hair. 

How could I go home like this?  I put on my glasses, paid her and skulked out.

When I got home I ran up to my room and grabbed a wipey and tried to undo the damage to my brown face.  My daughter Faith came upstairs and in her usual Jr. High tactfulness said, “Ummm, do you think she did a good job?”

I ran downstairs as my son and husband returned home.  Kyle walked in and started laughing, “Mom, who screwed up your face?”

Kolby stared and looked confused.  And then I started crying brown tears of shame.

My sweet husband calmed me down and stared at my tan legs and arms. “I like it,” he exclaimed.  It will be better tomorrow. 

Leave it to my darling man to talk me off the cliff.

I woke up this morning at 4:45am and showered.  And fortunately, Maggie’s prediction came true.  All the icky brown washed down the drain leaving me with a pretty golden glow.

Score this round    Sam -10    Vanity +10

 

 

 

 

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Muno’s Heart

“OK Kolby, what does daddy for a job?” I asked my two-year old in an attempt to teach her some basic family information.

“Ummmm…daddy make pants!” Kolby replied earnestly.

“Close sweetie!  Daddy’s a pastor.”

“Dat’s wright.  Daddy tells people bout Jesus and he fixes hearts.” Kolby said with a smile that could melt butter.

“Mommy, can Da Da fix Muno’s heart?”

“Of course he can baby!”  I ran and got Kolby’s red monster doll –Muno from the series Yo Gabba Gabba and we sat him in front of daddy and I told Tim very firmly he needed to tell Muno about Jesus.

Tim looked at me with mirth, shaking his head and laughing, but he played along with us .

“Muno, Jesus loves you very much,” Tim said in his best pastor voice.  “He knows sometimes you bite your friends and it makes him sad.  Jesus sacrificed his life for you on the cross because he loves Muno so very much.  He wants Muno to live an abundant life and have a strong heart. “

I whispered under my breath, “Abundant…seriously?  She’s two.”

Daddy frowned at mommy.

Muno then squeaked out, “I do want to follow you Jesus,” only it sounded a bit like daddy on Nitrous Oxide.

So daddy led Muno through a simple prayer.

Kolby sat quietly the entire time taking it all in.  Then she picked up Muno, thanked daddy and fell asleep in my arms shortly thereafter. 

I woke up this morning clutching Muno’s hand in mine.  Seriously.  Maybe the little guy was mourning his life of sin and needed some cuddling.

I rolled over and opened one eye sleepily gazing at my husband.  “Hey PANTS-tor…what’s up?” 

 

 

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All Fleeced Up

Check out my beret...

For the last twenty-one months I have been hustling –writing early in the morning, at lunch, during baby’s nap and at all sorts of odd times.  I have been jotting down notes in the car, at church, on scraps of paper and sometimes even tapping away on my iPhone to pen some fabulous tale of awesome I might otherwise forget.

And it’s all been for this day. 

Today, I am officially a full-time freelance writer.

I wrote a while back about a big decision we were praying over and how Tim asked for fleece from God and God provided the fleece by miraculously placing a white van on the freeway with a “Got Fleece?” license plate right in front of my car.

God is so stinking creative!

Well, this was the big decision –to go all-out for my dream or stick with the safe and secure route.  In all honesty, moving from a full-time steady pay-check to a life of an eccentric beret wearing writer/artist just scraping by didn’t sound too appealing to my husband. 

But God provided the fleece.

I secured a couple of steady writing gigs and negotiated a deal to do a little contract work for my tech job.

We won’t starve, although I still may wear the beret and start mumbling in French, and read all of the works by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and maybe 50 Shades of Gray (if they offer a PG version).

I am pinching myself this morning and blown away by the grace of God and his mercy. 

Sometimes our dreams do come true with plenty of hard work and spit and gumption.

And a loving God who provides the fleece and doors of opportunity no man can shut.

What is your dream job?  What can you do today to move towards a career that resonates in your spirit and makes you feel alive?

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Driving Lessons

Walking out to the car from the grocery store with three kids in tow, I grimaced at the sight of my dirty SUV.

“Uggh! Kyle. When we get home you need to wash my car.”

My son smiled and nodded his head amiably. As we pulled up to the house Kyle noticed my parents’ car parked in the driveway –a temporary resting stop while they vacationed in Cancun. It needed to be moved if he was to hose down my car.

“Hey mom, I’ll wash your car if you let me pull out Mimi and Poppa’s car from the driveway and park it in the street.”

I looked at my son, on the cusp of high school and now suddenly interested in cars and rims and all sorts of manly automobile trivia and chuckled, wrinkling my nose. “No way, my parents would kill me if I let my kid crash their car.”

But the look on his face was pure yearning –a strong desire to grow up, experience life and to feel the roar of an engine under his feet. How could I say no? (Here is where my husband later injects –“What the howdy-doody were you thinking?”)

“How about I move my parent’s car and let you maneuver my car into the driveway?”

Kyle’s eyes rapidly blinked. “Umm sure, I’m cool with that.”

I quickly moved my parent’s vehicle out onto the street and then threw Kyle the keys to my car, motioning him to roll down the window so I could direct him.

Kyle moved the seat to make room for his long legs, adjusted the mirror and then gave me the thumbs up sign.

“Ok, pull it out in reverse and turn the wheel to the left to swing out into the street,” I instructed.

Kyle put my charcoal grey Nissan in reverse and then before I could yell, “NOOOOOOOO!” gunned the car backwards across the street. Just as he hit the curb, he braked and his head lurched forward as he pulled to a stop.

“Wow!’ he yelled. “The gas is pretty sensitive. “

Then he hit the pedal again, still in reverse and jumped the curb. The bumper grazed our neighbor’s tree as the car stopped violently.

“Oops mom, I forgot to put it back in drive,” he yelled in chagrin as I doubled over laughing until the tears ran down my legs.

Kyle shifted into drive, hit the gas and shot toward our long driveway. The right tire clipped the curb and whizzed past the mailbox by an inch as Kyle headed straight towards the garage door at forty miles an hour.

The worst possible scenario flashed through my mind. I imagined Kyle crashing into the garage door and t-boning the Cadillac parked just inside. There would be airbags and blood and worst of all –some serious explaining to do when daddy got home from work.

“Jesus stop him!” I screamed with horror.

Kyle – eyes wide with terror looked over at me.

“Hit the brake.” I yelled.

All of sudden the car jerked to a stop. Kyle threw it in park and climbed out gingerly. The car rested a mere millimeter of an inch from the garage door –about the length of a fingernail or a lady bug.

“Mom, that wasn’t like my video games at all, we might need to practice some more,” Kyle weakly grinned.

I collapsed in a heap –alternating between laughing and yelling, rolling on the grass in a gasping and convulsing dance of gratitude and frustration only a parent of a teen can fully appreciate.

Next time –we are practicing driving in a parking lot in the middle of the desert with no one to hit but a cactus.

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Pay it Forward

So my heart’s been acting a little cranky lately. It’s not a spiritual issue –more like the forty-year warranty on my body is about to expire and the valves need some fixing. I’ve spent a lot of time hanging out at the Happy Heart Center waiting, waiting and waiting for my busy but awesome cardiologist Dr. Gandhi to take more tests.

Kolby accompanies me on these journeys and even though it’s a pain the behind to hang out in a waiting room and atrophy, my two year-old keeps it real. We sing silly songs, read magazines called “Great Circulation” and play on mommy’s iPhone. We have long conversations about doggies, and William (her best friend) and Mickey Mouse.

A few weeks ago we sat near an older couple who watched the two of us and chuckled at my busy toddler. They told me about their grandchildren and we swapped stories about living in Newport Heights (my old neighborhood) and writing and life.

No one mentioned why we were there. It’s never good news at the cardiologist or the oncologist but it just might just be one of the more genuine places to meet people. Everyone there is a bit frayed around the edges. Masks are let down. Sadness and hope and resolve swirl around like air freshener.

I found out they owned a clothing company for little girls called “Girlfriends” and the lovely lady –Anita asked me what size Kolby wore. She also asked for my card to check out my blog and said she might send us a treat.

I wished them the best and off we went to wait some more.

On the day before Mother’s Day, a big box arrived in the mail and I tore into it. I pulled out one beautiful dress after another for my little girl.

And I was blown away at this couple’s generosity. We didn’t talk about God or illness or anything sad that day –because it was the unspoken and obvious, we just laughed and gloried in the life and vibrancy of a small child.

And maybe that was our simple gift to them.

Thank you Anita and Jerry for your random act of kindness and paying it forward! You made my Mother’s day very special ♥

What can you do today to bless a stranger?

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Caddy for Sale

It’s always shocking to find a note from the Coroner’s office stuck to your front door. I can only feign relief that I wasn’t home when the cops showed up to leave their dirty little message.  Opening the door to two somber policemen conjures up thought of loved ones dying in a fiery freeway accident or sudden heart failure.  Can’t they come up with a nicer way to tell people their loved ones have kicked the bucket?  (Ahhh, but that’s a topic for another day!)  It turns out; they were investigating a ’66 powder blue Cadillac that had been parked in an unnamed parking lot for too long.  They figured the owner had died and it was time to gently break the news to the relatives… either that, or confront the perpetrators who had knocked off the poor sucker.  It just so happens that I know the owner of said Caddy, and though he is alive and well, he may be a victim of domestic assault by the time I get my hands on him.

My darling husband acquired this monster car (which measures longer than a Suburban to give you a good visual) about ten years ago, for the pure whim of taking a road trip to Vegas.  It has stayed with him (like a venereal disease) over the years and has traveled with him from home to home. And though he rarely drives it, it gets occasional use at weddings and for random photo shoots.  His claim to fame is using the caddy for a swimsuit calendar.  Somewhere behind the hot models is his beaming face behind the wheel. He reminds me that we both brought baggage to the marriage, I have two adorable children and he brought the beast…I mean the Cadillac. Fortunately, he has grown to love my kids but I have not felt any furthermore affinity for the gas guzzler that is now parked in my driveway.

Yes, in an effort to avoid towing, the Caddy came home and there it sits like a ginormous eyesore.  Last night I told him an anonymous caller had complained to the association about the obnoxious car in our driveway.  It took him a few seconds before he choked on his cashews and started chortling. Each night as I lay my head down on my pillow, I dream of it being stolen.  Then again, after they fill up the tank with gas and die of shock, they will probably bring it right back, washed and cleaned and ready for the next photo-op. 

66’ Convertible Caddy for Sale.  All offers considered. Please contact Scrappy!

*Note*  I first posted this eighteen months ago.  What the heck people?  I want my garage back now!

 

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Is God Real?

I didn’t grow up a Christian. Pagan might be more appropriate title. I thought Jesus was related to Santa and as far as I knew, he lived in the mythical world of leprechaun’s and Easter bunnies.

But if I’m honest, I’ve always known God. I just wondered if he knew me.

It started in high school with the Christian Club. Mildly curious, I snuck into the back of a meeting one day, but when I saw who gathered, I turned on my heels and fled. It was the goody-two shoe kids –the ones who smiled to my face and gossiped behind my back. I was pretty sure their beaming faces were not motivated by the love of baby Jesus, but were masking a snarky agenda. Beyond skeptical, I figured they were merely looking for a new sucker to clap and sing along so they could get a new patch to stitch on a shiny Jesus vest.

So I kept my distance –I played it safe.

In college, the whole Jesus phenomenon was catching on like wildfire, but once again I held back, despite being surrounded by a posse of friends all dying to drag me to the Harvest –whatever that was? But I watched those who claimed to follow Christ –like a hawk.

Secretly, I struggled with the idea of how someone could say a prayer to Jesus and then all their problems would be magically resolved. A + B = Easy Life. It seemed too simple and trite. Besides, I liked brooding, emotion and drama, and these happy Christians types annoyed me. I perceived phoniness in “my grandma died, my dog died and I ran out of money…but praise the Lord” rhetoric. I didn’t want to be anyone’s project and then there was my irrational fear of being hijacked by a cult of ghastly Sunday singers with tambourines.

I’m not musical.

But one day I ended up in church, because a guy I liked wanted to go, and it wasn’t the saccharin-y sweet crowd I expected. I didn’t have to check my intellect at the door or even sing if I chose not to. It wasn’t the Happily Ever After message –it was simple and straight forward and the words connected to my spirit.

It didn’t feel like a traditional church, but more like a movement. The people wore jeans and flip-flops and offered genuine smiles. The music was like nothing I’d heard before and formed a knot of emotion in my belly – it embraced me like a child holding out soft pudgy arms for a squeeze. And they offered to give me a free book –a big navy blue bible, which I cracked open that evening. For the first time, I tentatively approached Jesus one baby step at a time.

I was in my Jr. Year at UCLA studying history and political science with my head immersed in the postmodernists –reading Nietzsche, Foucault, and Heidegger right around the time I began this tentative dance with faith and hip Christians and wacky liberals. The cacophony of voices shouting for my attention blended into a dull roar in my head.

The two worlds of church and Godless academia could not have clashed more. Every day at school I was exposed to the belief that all truth was subjective and the study of history was not about exploring factual evidence, but rather acknowledging the perspective of certain cultures or a person throughout time.

In this scenario: NOTHING IS ABSOLUTE.

Many narratives of the same story (i.e. told by the soldier, the general, the historian and the token woman) gave credence to a historical account, but in a vacuum of certainty everything was up for reinterpretation. My paradigm for accepting knowledge was deeply shaken and subconsciously I began to question everything –not a good place to be when you’re already an over-thinker.

Postmodern thought breeds skepticism, tolerance, distrust, and disrespect for authority. In the absence of truth, faith becomes a childlike malaise that one needs to cure by throwing more knowledge at it. Reading excerpts of Nietzsche is hauntingly similar to the words of Solomon. Everything is meaningless under the sun.

But Nietzsche forgot the “Without God” part.

And that messed with me!

Postmodern thought is completely satisfied with leaving out the conclusion that nothing makes sense without God. To Postmodern teaching, nothing makes sense period!

I couldn’t sleep at night thinking my existence in life was a random accident.

I was twenty-two years old when I decided to hedge my bets on a carpenter from Nazareth. Each Sunday I drove seventy miles from West LA to Newport Beach, CA to attend Mariners Church to learn a little bit more of the person and the message of Jesus Christ. I might have been dragged there the first time but I came back because I heard something different and terrifying.

A STILL SMALL VOICE OF LOVE

I began to consider a life guided by one truth, one absolute, and one savior. Against all my faculties, my heart and mind waged war against the simplicity of the Gospel.

I had constructed a life built on achievement –do more, be more, shine the brightest (and hide the bad stuff) and this tore apart the very fabric of my foundation. I didn’t need a rescuer because I had it all figured out.

But late at night, in the recesses of my soul there was a ravaging fear that I was alone, unlovable, and unworthy.

But Jesus –not religion, or formulas, or a magic pill –changed everything.

Once exposed to the truth it chased me down. God pursued me. Even though the Bible contradicted all that I considered to be true about relativism, something within me responded when called.

I’ve been walking with God now for eighteen years and here is the ONE THING I KNOW TO BE TRUE –God’s love is radical and it’s for you and for me and the redemption of the world.

Tambourines are optional.

God’s word tells me I was created to rest and abide in a relationship with him finding value, meaning and mission. He tells me I am forgiven and loved and worth dying for.

But how do I translate the truth about this reckless love into a culture bombarded by strategic assaults on our very method of interpreting truth?

The postmodern culture or relativist pluralism that I encountered fifteen years ago in college has morphed into a similar but different animal after 9/11. The irrational idea that all opinions or views are equally valid is now juxtaposed with an emerging awareness of “being”.

Threatened with terrorism, a blatantly consumerist culture, the organic backlash of the Occupy movement, and a burgeoning environmental consciousness; modern thought has turned introspective and idealized.

While no one wants to live in dire poverty, our children yearn to live in a more enlightened state of consumption than we did. They are aware of social injustice and their place within a global paradigm. Diversity no longer means a scholarship in the NCAA, but it is the acknowledgment of the marginalized in society. Women, homosexuals, the oppressed, children in Uganda…these voices are being heard by a new generation.

Because of this massive shift, I believe the church therefore needs to adapt and catch up to the culture. It’s not that the message of Jesus needs to change, but maybe the methodology in which we articulate Christianity needs a makeover.

When we view Christianity as a movement and not an institution it changes everything. We don’t have to have all the answers or put God in a Sunday box. It means our faith is dynamic, evolving, and always in flux.

It means Christianity is like the love of a lifetime not a one night stand. It’s the high of racing down the aisle to marry my beloved and the crushing disappointment of day-to-day drudgery as life marches on. It’s the achievements met together, the shattered dreams unrealized and the weary acceptance as I realize conflict is inevitable. It’s looking into the eyes of my aging spouse and aching for something more –an intimacy dependent on the mysterious. It’s the brief moments when our souls make contact and God reveals himself like thunder and rain washing over my heart and I know I am his and he is mine.

Faith –just like love is fragile enough to be lost but strong enough to stand eternity on.

If indeed our faith in Christ is a constantly evolving paradigm, how do we, as ministers of the gospel of Jesus Christ, walk on the rushing water of a raging river instead of planting ourselves in a stagnant pool?

These are the questions that plague me.

Join the conversation…

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How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex

“We had the talk today,” said my ten year old daughter Faith nonchalantly as she climbed in the car after school.

“Oh right, the puberty talk?” I nodded and inwardly groaned as my heart rate started steadily climbing and beads of sweat formed on my brow. “So, do you have any more questions they didn’t cover?”

(Please don’t ask me about sex. Please don’t ask me about sex.)

I looked in the rearview mirror. Faith took a deep breath and glanced up under her long dark lashes shyly. “Mom, why do I have to get a period every month? I mean what’s the point? It seems so terrible? Why did God do this to women?”

Hyperventilating, I thought to myself how this was so much easier with my older son. No curse of Eve, no sanitary items involved. Boners and sex 101, although awkward aren’t as complicated as the implications of the Christian female experience. And while Kyle asked questions much earlier and we had a running dialogue regarding sex –Faith seemed quite content to remain in the land of innocence and childhood naiveté, avoiding the topic altogether.

I paused, prayed and tried to figure out where to start. I don’t actually recall even having a sex conversation with my parents, until after they found a condom in the back of my car my senior year in high school (maybe a little too late…just saying). Sex was a topic, in generations past, we avoided. My husband remembers his mom casually saying, “Make sure to wear a condom,” as he rode over to his new girlfriends house on his bicycle his freshmen year in high school. Nothing against our parent’s methodology, but in our current hyper-sexualized culture, a proactive approach might be the better option.

Being a storyteller, I thought about weaving a tale of great rebellion, the fall of mankind and Jesus’ ultimate redemption and then throwing sex into the mix. But the epic narrative didn’t translate when I actually tried to articulate it, so after a few false starts, I just began with Adam and Eve and tried to stick to the facts without wetting my pants.

Here is what I’ve learned from talking to my kids about sex:

KISS (Keep it Simple Stupid)

Depending on how old your kid is, try and stick to what they ask you about. The details of intercourse are not necessary for a four year old asking about how babies are made. “Daddy helped mommy to put the baby in mommy’s tummy,” is probably sufficient. If they press for more, explain it matter of fact and without laughing. After a certain point –before your kids start school, use real names for sexual organs. Peanuts and Ya Ya’s don’t translate real well into elementary school.

Timing

When I explained to Faith how Kolby was conceived, her horrified face was enough to make me grateful I had waited until she was more mature. The last thing you need is your kindergartner telling his friends, “daddy sexed/humped/nailed mommy and now she’s knocked up.” Choose your moment wisely and then periodically check in to see if they have more questions.

;

Explain Puberty in Detail

Puberty is a scary place. Celebrate the changes with your child and make it a sweet passage not a time of insecurity. We had a Man Ceremony with Kyle when his voice started changing at age twelve. Tim also took Kyle away for a dudes camping weekend and used a curriculum called Passport to Purity to start some great conversations. It was a little cheesy but it created openness and a level of safety for Kyle. Many of my girlfriends have also gone to a Puber-Tea, which covers some of the same info for girls and moms in a more feminine environment. (Apparently tea and scones helps a young girl come to terms with PMS and hormonal bitchiness better)

Don’t be afraid to talk about God and Sex.

God made sex. God made us to be sexual creatures. This is your moment as a parent to talk about the beauty of sexuality in marriage. Don’t use shame based language or act as if your kid is abnormal for having sexual desires. Affirm and build up marriage as the place God intended to let us experience this bliss.

Make sure you beat their friends to the punch!

Talk about sex with your child BEFORE their friends do. Talk about porn and sexting and how blow jobs are a sexual act and not a party favor, and all the things they will encounter in Jr. High. Christianity is not a hall pass for avoiding difficult conversations and don’t expect the youth pastor to do YOUR job!

What advice were you given as a kid about sex? Do you have any tips for broaching this conversation with your kids?

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Potty Humor

“Mommy, I made Elmo sad,” called little Kolby.

I hurried into the living room of my neighbor Keri’s house where Kolby was playing in their tot-sized plastic kitchen.  “Why did you make him sad?” I asked.

Two-year old Kolby hung her head low and sheepishly whispered, “I peed on him.”

I looked down and realized I was standing in a trail of yellow liquid.  Then I too hung my head low as I told my good friend my kid just urinated all over her floor.  Fortunately she was cool with it and reminded me our other toddler neighbor recently pooped in her garage.  Keri is gracious like that.

I don’t think I would have even tried this herculean feat of diaper eradication if it hadn’t been for Ms. Maggie –Kolby’s preschool teacher.  Ms. Maggie is very loving but also very firm and when she tells you to do something with her I mean business look, you generally do it fast. 

(Clearly she has the gift to intimidate preschoolers and grown women)

 Ms. Maggie said it was time to go cold turkey on diapers on Thursday afternoon when I picked Kolby up from school, so I immediately hid all the Huggies, made a trip to Kohls for some new panties and bought Pull-ups for bed-time.  By Friday we were ready to go. 

But Ms. Maggie forgot to mention how inconvenient cold turkey can be.

Now some of you are thinking, Sam you have two older children.  You have already done this. 

True, true…but motherhood has a way of erasing the really BAD memories and apparently I blacked it out because it was too painful to recall.

In all truth, it took Kyle a full year to figure out how to aim, fire and pee and he was well over three before I could relax.  And Faith, being my fairy-like unpredictable child managed to navigate the potty in a week when she was twenty months almost effortlessly  So, I have two polar opposite experiences to pull from that happened over ten years ago.  It’s not much to go on and I’m still as clueless as every other mother.  All I know is we are running out of Jelly Beans and stickers and blue Brach bunnies to bribe Kolby with to tinkle.

On Friday I had to take Kolby to the baby potty every twenty minutes to empty her pee pea sized bladder.  Sometimes she actually peed in the potty and made it burst out in song (thanks to a musical chip on the bottom of the bowl) and then she would jump off the potty mid-stream and yell and clap.

*Note to self* musical potties SUCK

It’s a crap-shoot (literally) to see what will happen every twenty minutes.  Sometimes she pees on daddy’s leg, or on the floor, or right next to the darn potty.  I feel like I have a puppy. 

When I finally put her Pull-up on for nap on Friday, Kolby and I looked at each other with great relief and a unanimous sigh.  At least for a few hours we could stop stressing.

On Saturday evening, after destroying about ten pairs of Minnie Mouse and Elmo underpants, we headed to church where I got schooled by the volunteers about how I am supposed to stay home during this crucial pee period.  And then Kolby hid in a corner of the church and pooped on Elmo just to proove their point.

On Sunday we ventured out to a birthday party at a park.  Kolby was doing great and keeping her panties dry. But about an hour in to the festivities she tugged on my hand and asked to use the restroom.  I ran to my bag and pulled out her princess potty seat cover and we took off to the public bathroom in the park. 

I sanitized the nasty toilet, put her little pink potty seat on the lid and placed my tiny girl on top.  Kolby smiled and started to pee, and the birds sang and the doves cooed and we were so happy for about a minute and then the world came crashing down.

The toilet was an automatic flusher and as Kolby slightly leaned forward it exploded as if a jet plane was taking off under my baby’s rear-end.  Kolby’s face contorted in fear and she started screaming.  She reached for me with tears and pee streaming down her cheeks and legs.  I grabbed my baby and then I started crying too and cursing the toilet. 

And then we stomped out of the bathroom defiantly and I grabbed a Pull-up and lovingly placed it on my girl’s bottom and we both stopped wailing.

I now belive cold turkey as a method when potty-training is highly overrated.  Kolby and I are more than content to settle for lukewarm, though I’m a little scared to face Ms. Maggie at preschool tomorrow.

 

 

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