Okay, okay. The truth. The truth is that I wrote a comment on someone's blog post a while back about how I never wanted kids, I will never understand why people my age are having babies, and that the baby aisle at Wal-Mart makes me break out in hives.
And then.
My son fell in love with a pregnant girl. And then she had her baby. And my son fell in love with the baby, too.
And then. Well. He brought them home. To live with us. In our home. And then I fell in love with the baby. And Chris fell in love with the baby.
And between the 7 folks living in my 1800 sq. foot home, we are all tag-teaming baby duties while her Little Mama finishes her last few weeks of high school and my sweet little monkey begins his summer semester 8-week classes.
Needless to say. Controlled chaos has ensued.
Oh. And we are still in the process of getting our house ready to sell. Following our original plan, it should be on the market in 10 days.
Excuse me while I piss myself laughing.
So you will have to excuse me while I am swept up in the glittering hurricane that is my life. My writerly self has fled and is replaced by my shitty-diaper-changing, baby tummy raspberrying, kitchen-tiling, shutter-painting, front garden-sprucing glittering hurricane.
Becoming a famous writer has sort of moved down my bucket list of late. I know this is unacceptable. I know my Feed Demon is demanding I pay some attention to some fantastic people I have met through this blog. I know my paycheck job is sitting to the side at this very moment as I write this.
Fear not. I shall return. Bigger. Brighter. And whiter than snow. I will scream at the make believe, scream at the sky. And I'll finally find all my courage to let it all go. *wink*
In light of the passing of sweet-ass Chrissy Amphlett,
rivaled in my heart only by Joan Jett, I feel the need to talk about
something.Something most chicks don’t really
talk about.
The ages and ways boys and girls discover their bodies are as varied as one snowflake to the next. It seems as though, in today's society at least, a boy's process of physical self-discovery is not only expected, but condoned, and understood, and is as inevitable in a parent's mind as his eventual desire for a driver's license.
The one double standard that is not as clearly defined and accepted is a little girl's process of
physical self-discovery. Mothers of daughters fret over it. And quickly correct their daughters if they happen upon a chubby little hand shoved into her Strawberry Shortcake panties. Even more misunderstood is that for many little girls, their self-discovery starts at a much earlier age than little boys. The last thing most parents of boys would expect to inadvertently interrupt is their 4-year-old son jerking his junk to an episode of Dora the Explorer. But if you have a 4-year-old daughter, you may already have, and did not even know it. Well, not Dora. But maybe Diego.
I am about to turn everything you thought you knew about little girls upside down (or perhaps tipped slightly askew?). It is going to be explicit (or perhaps vaguely so?). It is going to be uncomfortable. The girl I am talking about is me. And I am not ashamed. You have been warned. If you'd rather read something else, may I suggest This?
*******
For many of us, our process begins as soon as we
develop enough hand-eye coordination to deliberately touch our no-no
parts.
And that is where the raising of your hypersexual little princess soars light-years
beyond anything parents are conditioned to expect in a
daughter.
Let's cut to the chase, shall we?
How the fuck do you parent a little girl who
had her first orgasm when she was 4 years old?
On the flip side. Let's look at it from your little darlin's point of view. Do you know how scary that is?
Perhaps it is better for me to illustrate
this scenario with clips from the inner dialogue of a tenderly young baby girl.
4 years old—“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??!!!”(Yes, tiny girls say words in their noggins
that would make most parents shit their pants).
4 years old (5 minutes later)- “OH MY GOD!!!I DID IT AGAIN!!!”
4 years old (5 more minutes later)-“Hmmm…. I wonder how many times I can do it
in a row?”
----- Months pass.Techniques perfected.Ignorance
as to her own biology remains----
5 years old- “Oh shit!What if it runs out?What if I
can only do it so many times and after that, I’ll never be able to do it
again??Oh craaaaap!!!!Okay, I’ll just do it one more time….. today…..”
6 years old- She meets a boy at daycare who
explains that the word “fuck” means to touch tongues.So, after fucking Trey, she goes home and
tells her mommy that she fucked a boy at daycare.Mommy flips her shit, only to discover her
sweet little baby’s innocent mistake. Deep breaths.
6 years old (the next day)- “Mom, what does fuck mean?”Grandmother passes out on the kitchen
floor.Mommy takes girl by the arm
into another room and explains about penises and vaginas.Girl begins to make a tenuous connection
between fucking and that really cool thing she does with her no-no parts when
no one is watching.
7 years old- Girl discovers that if she imagines certain
things while she is touching her no-no parts, that awesome thing that happens
feels even better!!
8 years old- Girl discovers that she can control it.Faster, slower, circles, up and down.She discovers that she can deliberately
prolong that awesome thing from happening so that when it finally does happen, it’s
like….. HUGE.She discovers 20+ years
later that there is an actual term for that technique- “Edging.”
10 years old- Girl watches her first porno.She watches with vested
interest, analyzing, taking mental notes.Instead of disgust, she is fascinated.And after 6 years of perfecting her favorite undercover pastime, she is finally
introduced to the word “cum.”
--- Years pass.Girl finally adds the word “orgasm” to her lexicon.And it is slowly elevated from just a super-secret
hobby to an Olympic sport.-----
It is
around this time that an idea begins to take shape in her mind.A challenge of sorts.In public places.In school.And so she begins to practice.Wearing different kinds of pants, preferably jeans with thick
inseams.She tries sitting in certain
ways in her desk at school, moving her hips in certain directions, so slowly
that no one in the entire classroom even notices she is wiggling ever so barely
in her seat.
15 years old- Girl finally achieves a scientific
breakthrough that, if she were brave enough to admit it to the world, would
have certainly garnered her some sort of Nobel Prize-the hands-free orgasm.
36 years old- Girl is now the mother of teenage boys. Absolutely nothing about their evolution from
baby to a passionately sexual man surprises or disgusts her.And she has never.NEVER.Not once.Opened their bedroom
door without knocking first.
So. In closing, I would like to say a few things to parents of
little girls:
- I don’t care how old they are, they were created to be sexual
beings.
- Age means nothing in matters of physical pleasure.
- It is a natural human curiosity to touch all of the parts of
your body that make you who you are.
And nature- not perverted human beings- created those parts
of your daughter’s body that make her feel good.
- If you tell her it is bad- you fail.
- If you tell her it is a sin- you fail.
- If you refuse her questions- you fail.
- If you walk in on her, realize what she is doing, stand
paralyzed with fear, and exclaim “what the FUCK are you doing??”- you
fail.
- If you believe this is only an issue for parents of boys-
you fail.
Whether you believe in god, intelligent design, secular-driven
science, or nothing at all, your body reacts to masturbation exactly the way it
was designed to react.Be compassionate, not disgusted. Be open, not repulsed. Answer her questions if she asks. Leave her alone if she does not. And ever so politely suggest that she please remember to lock her bedroom door. Misguided and misinformed
speeches on morality and impurity are no different than any other social commentary that serves to cause our girls to be ashamed of their bodies.
And THAT, my little darlings, is all I have to say about THAT.
I believe in good and evil.Humans who are good for the sake of being good.And humans who create chaos and harm because
they enjoy it.Yes.I believe in that.
I have never wanted to die.Even in my darkest moments.I
have never threatened or attempted suicide.I never will.
Compared to the things I am proud of, I have very few
regrets.Or maybe I have none.I haven’t yet decided.
I have never lost hope completely.
I have, however, felt helpless plenty of times.
I’m pretty sure I am addicted to dopamine.
For the past 2 years, I have developed this terrible habit
of ripping the skin off my lips with tweezers.I used to just bite the shit out of them.But tweezers are so much more accurate.It makes people uncomfortable to watch
me.
If I dream about people I know, they are NEVER good
dreams.In my good dreams, everyone is
an invented character who can change physically or psychologically at the whim
of my desires.
If I dream about physically fighting with someone, my
movements are always in slow motion.
I don’t care how many times I type it (which is almost daily
because of my job), I still cannot spell silhouette right the first time.Yet I
can pound out nephroureterolithiasis without skipping a beat.Go
figure.
I have serious doubts that Albert DeSalvo was really the
Boston Strangler.I don’t know why.I’ve never been able to put my finger on
it.
I fear emotional pain exponentially more than I fear
physical pain.Matter of fact, if given
the choice, I’d choose physical every time.
I have serious problems with women who use chemicals or
unnatural processes for the sake of vanity.That includes makeup, crap they put in their hair,
manicures/pedicures/nail polish in general, tanning, waxing, perfume, hair
dryers, curling irons, plastic surgery, blah, blah, blah.I know I just ruled out 95% of the female
population of this planet.And I’m good with
that.
I leave cobwebs in my house because I think they look cool.
My tummy hurts right now. Like, a lot.
Did I mention that I can blow stuff up with my mind?
Life lingers not in tails of falling stars.Life is your screaming soul- where tangible
meets definitive, driven mad by the laughter of absolution- Dreams are the blood
truth licks from your lips.
I had a baby. See, look------> 