Here is a brutiful story about one of my favorite families. I am honored to introduce you to Monkees Laura, Jaime, and Simon. I have learned so, so very much from them. I hope you do, too.
Please listen to Laura and Jaime from your heart.
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Love,
G
Friends. I miss you.
Here is what is going on over here:
I’m writing to you from a new office this morning – Craig’s office, which used to be the “baby’s room.” Since no baby ever came, this room became Craig’s work-from-home-office, and I did all of my writing at a desk in our bedroom.
It soon became clear that we were going to need to trade offices. Because the thing is that when your desk is right next to your bed, your bed attacks you. Sort of like the Botox situation. So every time Craig came in to see “how my writing was going,” Theo and I were sound asleep in my bed. Soooooo coooozy. So this morning Craig moved all of my things into his office and made me sit in here. It’s nice and bright and I like it. New perspectives are always good. I’m still tired, though, and I’m not afraid to snuggle up on the floor. We’ll see.
So: Yesterday a Monkee asked me when and how to talk to kiddos about sex.
Oh, my goodness. I don’t know. We haven’t really gone there yet. We’re easing into the tough stuff.
A few months ago, Chase starting mentioning “bad words” a lot. My guess is that some kiddos in the neighborhood or at school were talking about it and he was getting curious. Maybe obsessed would be a better word. What are the bad words, mom? Why are they bad? How can words be bad? And my favorite- Mom, are bad words just misspelled words?
Craig and I decided to sit down one night and tell Chase every bad word we knew. It became important to us that Chase understood that there was no information “out there” that he couldn’t get straight from us. So we listed all the bad words we knew and we sat together in his bunk bed and we said them each aloud to him. Except for the F word. Neither of us could bring ourselves to say the F word to our little man’s sweet face. So we told him there was another one that started with F, but we couldn’t say it. And unfortunately Chase said, “Ooooh. I think I know that one. Is it the one you say when you can’t get the front door open, mom?” And I avoided eye contact with Craig and said. Yeah. That one.
We explained to Chase that there was nothing inherently wrong with any of these words, because they were just letters strung together – and because “bad words” are different in every culture and time. We said that they do have power, though, because in our particular culture, these words, along with many, many others, can cause strong feelings in other people. Maybe not all people, but some. You never, ever know who will be affected by them and who won’t. Sometimes people will even act like certain words don’t hurt them, but they really do. And since we love people and want to be very, very careful with their feelings, we try not to use words that can hurt people.
We also told him that if he shared any of these words with his buddies he was dead meat.
He seemed satisfied.
But sex. IYIYIIIII. Not so simple, to me.
The sex talk scares me, for one simple reason. I don’t have sex figured out yet. I really don’t.
I know it’s not cool or maybe even reasonable to say, but I really do believe that it’s best to save sex for marriage. Because I have ALL KINDS of issues with sex, and I think some of them stem from the way that both Craig and I used sex with other people before we were married. Irresponsibly, lightly, recreationally, desperately. Not good. And there is residual damage for both of us.
But then again….how would I tell that to Chase? Sex before marriage is a mistake, Chase. I mean, sex before marriage also resulted in the most precious gift I’ve ever been given- Chase, himself.
Tricky.
And I know they say, stick with basics, right? Just talk about vaginas and penises and fertilization. But- that’s so not it. That’s like trying to teach a child about God by describing a church. Or explaining marriage by describing a wedding ceremony. It’s just not it, at all.
So anyway, I don’t know, is my answer. I have no idea how to talk to kiddos about sex. I don’t think I’m the right one to ask. It’s like how scared I am to talk to my girls about body image and food and the like- because- ummm…I’ve never been an expert at walking that line.
So I was hoping you brilliant Monkees might have some sex talk ideas. Do you? If so, help us please.
Maybe we can start here. I think this is a brilliant place to start.
And let us remember, there’s probably no “right way.” Probably just lots of good enough ways. We don’t want to be perfect, ladies. If we are, our kids will have NO MATERIAL. That would suck.
Love you,
G
This is what writing a book looks like.
Also, this.
I know. None of it’s pretty.
First, I tried to appear shocked in this picture. But I kept checking the shots and I couldn’t make my face looked surprised at all. It was weird. And then I remembered:
Suspend judgment, Monks.
I accidentally got Botox last month.*
It was an accident.
I went to my weed-whacker (laser hair removal lady) and I saw a sign about Botox and I accidentally asked her about it.
And she told me I HAD TO GET IT IMMEDIATELY.**
But I said: NOT BY THE HAIR ON MY CHINNY-CHIN-CHIN, which is a lot and ridiculous, by the way. And I reminded her that I am very deep and organic and un-vain and I would never use money on POISON FOR MY FOREHEAD when I could use it for something like I don’t know, the March of Dimes. Get Behind Me, Satan! I yelled.
But my WEED WHACKER IGNORED MY PLEAS AND RAN AT ME WITH THE NEEDLE and before I knew it I was a Housewife of Orange County.
I’m still shocked about the whole ordeal, although you’d never be able to tell.
Immediately after the attack, I texted Sister and said, “OMG. I just got attacked by Botox.”
And Sarcastic Sister texted back, “I see. Is botulism part of your all organic and detoxifying lifestyle?”
I did not text her back.
Instead, I texted Nervous Husband.
I wrote, “Husband. You will never believe what I just accidentally got!!!”
And he wrote back, “Glennon. Tell me it is not a puppy. Tell me you did not accidentally get a puppy.”
I really want another dog.
And I wrote back, “NO. I got BOTOX.”
And twenty long minutes later, he wrote, “It’s not a puppy you named Botox, is it?”
Jeez.
Anyway, I know it’s ridiculous and vain, but my appointment was the day after the adoption fell through and I thought, well, maybe I can’t save the world, but I can save my forehead, damnit.
You know how you pick your battles with your kids? You let your girl wear tie dye leggings with a neon pink tutu and cowgirl boots and a Monkee Hoodie and lip gloss on her eye-lids to church because you just want to avoid one fight? One meltdown? Because you just need to let something BE? I do the same with myself. I pick my battles with myself. I don’t let myself off the hook for unkindness, shamefulness, gossiping, littering, and things such as this.
But my greedy vanity- I’m keeping it for now. I shall continue to rid myself of chin hairs and grey hairs and the deep crevice in my forehead. I don’t even know why. So I’ll look prettier while I sit behind the computer, I guess. Whatevs. Can’t explain.
I love you, so I just had to tell you. I feel weird when I don’t tell you things. Be nice to me. I’m a little fragile lately. Clearly. With all the attacks.
Love- G
*I know. I know it’s poison and I’m going to die and I’m an awful person for spending time and money on ridiculous vanity when there are so many actual worthy uses of time and money and energy. Just wanted to let you know I’m aware, in case anyone was truly concerned that I needed to learn that. It’s like flossing- I know it’s the right thing to do- and I still choose not to do it. It’s not a matter of education, just weak will and questionable judgment.
**My amazing face doctor might have a slightly different version of events.
