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(Disclosure:  this post talks about adults having consensual sex.  If by this point you do not want to read further:  there are cartoons on Disney Jr to entertain you, you prude!) Sex.  It’s a pretty serious subject.  We have already discussed the sex talk in previous posts so, my lovely readers, you know how serious I am about it.  Obviously with 7 kids, I kind of have had sex before.

Sex with kids.  Not having sex with kids.  That is a serious and illegal subject but not one I am going to give credence to at this point. I’m not a paedo for gods sake.  I am talking about how parents are able to still have sex with children in the house.   It’s like an Olympic sport.  Not the sex part, although it can be.  I mean the planning of said activity.

In our house, it starts out several hours in advance.  S.O. will give me the side eye and make charming subtle comments like, “Hey, can we get it in tonight?”  I melt.


lily%2520liam%2520eggsSo you thought you were going to do what, Mommy?

I start planning out the timeline.  Feed kids dinner. Get kids to complete chores without having to result to violent threatening and loss of freedoms.  Bathe small children.  Attempt to shave legs and other parts in bathroom sink while bathing kids.   Answer questions from #6 about why mommies have to shave.  It involves a lot of  “you’ll understand when your older.  You can thank your grandmothers Eastern European genes for the necessity.”   Meanwhile, S.O. is watching t.v in the living room, completely oblivious to the pregame activities taking place.

Kids bathed. Check.  Kids in jammies.  Check.  Kids tucked into bed.  Unchecked.  #6 has a sixth sense when mommy and daddy need some alone time.  Her entire mission in life is to prevent said alone time.  She will complain that she cannot sleep in her bed because it is: lumpy, haunted, too small, too big, too cold, too warm, scratchy, not mommy’s bed.  She will request me to read her a story. Fine. Reading is fundamental after all.  She picks out a tome.  Not happening.  We read a book about Taylor Swift.  Followed by Q&A from #6 about everything we just read.  Now we need a drink.  Now we need to potty.  Now we need Daddy.  S.O. comes upstairs and sits with her until she falls asleep.

I decide to make sure the sheets are halfway clean, brushing off the crumbs that #7 and I managed to get everywhere from eating chips in bed earlier, as you do.  I spray some Febreeze to set the mood.  And to hide the smell of S.O.’s work clothes that are so tauntingly thrown NEXT to the hamper.   #7 whimpers over the baby monitor.  It’s okay, he is not crying so no need to check on him.   I start the shower and jump in, expecting S.O. to come in at any minute. Try to look sexy with shampoo in eyes and half shaved legs.

Get out of shower, wrapped in semi-clean towel from kids bath earlier.  No S.O.  Tiptoe to #6’s room to check on them.  He is snoring in the rocking chair, T-Swift book dangling from his hand.  #6 has her finger wrapped in his other hand.  Gently wake him up while he exclaims in a still-trying-to-sleep tone, “Huh, whhat?”

Maybe tomorrow night it will happen.  For tonight, I will guide him to bed (crumb-free) and let him sleep.  All the pre-game activity has worn me out as well.  But definitely tomorrow.  Maybe the day after.


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Whenever I hear parents utter the phrase “I want my children to be honest with me” I cringe.  I shudder.  I want to shake them by the shoulders and have them retract that statement, post haste.

I want my children to be honest with me .. but .. I am a fan of not having full disclosure with them.  I want them to come to me with their problems, with their worries, with their highs and lows.  I just don’t need all the gory details.

Case in point:  puberty.  I have five sons and two daughters.  My kids range in age from 24 to 2.  I am the queen of the sex talk and dealing with all the perils of puberty.  And I hate it.  I hate it with the same amount of passion that Hillary hates Benghazi.  I wish that I could just sleep through puberty.   It is that bad.

Puberty for boys is totally different than puberty with girls.  #1 pretty much stayed in her room for 2 years and wore a lot of black.  I could have owned stock in Hot Topic.  She did it the right way.  In private.  Without tears or recrimination. Mostly.

Boys are rough.  They are gross, smelly, and do not mind telling you about all the changes taking place in their little bodies.  Even after you’ve told them not to.  In front of company.  Gleefully.

#2 took on the personality of Andrew Dice Clay.  He thought he was funny.  Everybody else thought he was a dick. (Note to parents:  you will not always like your kids.  You will occasionally call them bad names.  You are not a bad parent, you are a human being who birthed a child who is too much like you.  Try to only call them bad names in your head.  Do Not Call Them Bad Names Out Loud!) #3 hid in the corner of the kitchen, sobbing his little heart out.  Because he had to do dishes.  He was 13.  It was sad.   #4 was a mixed bag of emotions.  He would tear up if you looked at him wrong and than blame you for looking at him. Thankfully, his puberty period only seemed to last about 2 weeks.  Than he had a mustache and started locking his bedroom door and washing his own sheets.

#5 has been the worst.   He went from being the cute little baby boy (#7 wasn’t born yet) to being this tall, skinny, hands and nose too big for his body, moody, pissy, petulant, sometimes unlikable, most of the time unbearable, man-boy.  He did not cry, he yelled. He raged.  He failed classes and stayed away from chores like a Mormon does caffeine.    And he had a girlfriend.

Most of the time the talk goes like this:  your body is changing, blah blah blah.  It’s okay to masturbate, do not use mommy’s good towels.   Sex makes you stupid, always use protection and do not become a statistic.  Don’t be afraid or embarrassed to ask questions but you can always ask Dad if you don’t want to talk to Mom.  And do not ask your older brothers for advice.  They will lie to you and think it’s funny.  No, you cannot break a boner.  Pretty basic talk.

Except now I had to have the full disclosure talk with #5.  Who was still in the mindset that his parents are only out to make his life miserable.  Because he’s 15, ya know?  SO was not happy to be included in the talk.  My beloved, who is not exactly a shrinking violet, believes that children should learn about sex when they are married. At 30.  And not from him.

#5 turned several alarming shades of red.  He stuttered.  He averted eye contact.  He told me the dreaded words that no parent wants to hear, but will eventually.  Maybe I could buy him condoms.  Ya know, just in case.   My baby, my little premie who was still one of the smallest in his class.  He wasn’t ready for this.  What about the girls parents?  Did they realize they had raised a harlot? A hussy?  A fallen woman? (Full Disclosure:  I love #5’s girlfriend, she really is a sweet girl.  Not really sure about her taste in boys but still sweet.)

Than I realized:  I had asked him to never be embarrassed.  To come to us and know that no matter what, I would always give him the best advice I could.  So I told him that while I wish he would wait, I was glad to see him taking responsibility and for being honest with me.  I told him that this would forever change his relationship with his girlfriend and that it was a big step.  I told him that I would not be raising any grandbabies and that McDonalds is not going to support a family.   I parented.  Hard.

Don’t get me wrong, I was not happy that my child was possibly going to have sex.  But, I am realistic.  After all, I had #1 at 18.  Kids are going to explore, even if its someone elses nether regions.  They are going to be full of hormones and youth and stupidity.  And I am glad that my children can be open and mostly honest with me.  Without all the gory details.


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