Speaking of sex. . .

Writing about sexual health yesterday reminded me of something important. Okay, yes, that too. But I was actually reminded more of a friend of mine who’s in the process of raising his own little dude. My friend, let’s just pick a name out of the hat, is named John and trying [...]]]> by Richard

Speaking of sex. . .

Writing about sexual health yesterday reminded me of something important. Okay, yes, that too. But I was actually reminded more of a friend of mine who’s in the process of raising his own little dude. My friend, let’s just pick a name out of the hat, is named John and trying to work up the nerve to talk to his little dude about sex.

The problem, you see, is John knows a lot about sex. I mean, a lot. The dude was a hound, if you knowwhutI’msayin’. His past experiences seem to be coloring his expectations for his talk with his little dude.

And that’s his first problem right there. See, sex isn’t something that should be completely ignored or have discussions about it actively discouraged right up until the time you have THE TALK. The things is, sex doesn’t need a talk. What it needs is a conversation and that requires more than one little sit down.

Still, that’s a conversation for another day. For now, let’s talk about talking.

For most people, the idea of talking about sex with your kids is, well, terrifying. Mortifying. Embarrassing. I’ve never really understood this fear, but I do know it’s there. The bad news is that if you go into any kind of sex talk with your little dude or little dudette sweating bullets and stammering, you’re going to probably leave them with the impression that sex is something to be ashamed of. And that’s not good.

What is good, though, is it’s not all that hard for you to overcome your fear. The first thing you need is a mirror. The second thing is a little privacy. Here’s what you do.

Get in front of the mirror and look yourself in the eye. Then say masturbation. Follow that up with every single word you can think of that has to do with sex, no matter how vulgar. Get it all out of your system. Think of all the funny euphemisms for penis or vagina you’ve ever heard and then say them out loud. Make sure you do this often enough so you can do it without laughing or grimacing.

The next step is to start holding a conversation with your mirror self. Imagine you’re sitting down in front of your little dude or little dudette and think about what would be the most embarrassing thing that could happen. Then talk about it. Repeat your lines over and over. Imagine the look of horror on his face, make it yours, and then keep talking about masturbation or getting to third base or whatever you fear. Do it again and again and again.

Familiarity breeds, in this case, ease. These sorts of talks will never be easy for you or your little dude, but they are important. Especially because they’re just the start. Embarrassing and educating your little dude is not going to be the end of it. You want your child to be comfortable talking to you about sex. Otherwise, where’s she going to go when she’s facing an actual practical situation if she can’t talk to you?

Opening a conversation with your child about sex is important because it allows you to help instil him with your values and your ideas, rather than what that sleazy little dude from down the drive thinks.

If you’re uncomfortable about this sort of thing, just think about this. Would you rather be embarrassed and open a conversation about sex with your child, or would you rather take him to the doctor to treat an STD? Or put your life on hold to take care of your new grandchild?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Conversing. It’s a good start.

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Bad juju today, dudes. Yep, it’s Friday the 13th. Fortunately, we all live a very long way from Camp Crystal Lake, so I think we’re probably not going to get attacked by any hockey-mask-wearing psychos.

That doesn’t mean we’re safe, though. It being Friday the 13th, though, we’re all in pretty real danger. But only from [...]]]> by Richard

Bad juju today, dudes. Yep, it’s Friday the 13th. Fortunately, we all live a very long way from Camp Crystal Lake, so I think we’re probably not going to get attacked by any hockey-mask-wearing psychos.

That doesn’t mean we’re safe, though. It being Friday the 13th, though, we’re all in pretty real danger. But only from people who actually believe bad things happen on days like these. I’m pretty sure research will back me up on this (and, if not, well, let’s just make some up. It’ll be as legitimate as anything based on superstition.), but superstition is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

You think bad things are going to happen. Because you’re constantly thinking about bad things happening, then you’ll probably cause bad things to happen.

It’s what I call the Odyssey Effect. I never noticed anyone driving a Honda Odyssey on the roads. Then I bought one. With that, I saw them on the roads everywhere. I only saw them because, now that I owned one, I was looking for them.

Same thing with superstitions. Something bad happens to you and, looking back you see you broke a mirror or spilled salt or whatever, and then you blame that event for what happened. You confuse correlation with causality. That is, you think that because things occurred close-ish in time together that one thing was caused by the other. Not so.

However, it does give me a chance to drop one of my favorite words on you. Triskaidekaphobia. That’s a fancy word meaning fear of the number 13. No, really.

From Wikipedia: from Greek tris meaning “3,” kai meaning “and,” and deka meaning “10″) is fear of the number 13; it is a superstition.

English is a great language, yeah?

But it gets even better. There’s actually a word that means, specifically, fear of Friday the 13th.Friggatriskaidekaphobia, frigga, meaning “Friday” and triskaidekaphobia, or paraskevidekatriaphobia, from the word triskaidekaphobia. According to folklorists, there is no written evidence for a “Friday the 13th” superstition before the 19th century.

So, for hundreds, nay, thousands of years, people walked blithely about their lives on Friday the 13th with no fear at all.

Oh, well. At least today means I’ve now got an excuse to walk under a latter, spill some salt and go get some black cats to cross my path. Should make for a busy day.

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In my bedside table, hidden under a load of (mostly clean) superhero-themed underwear, there’s a plastic cockroach. It’s not a little plastic cockroach. This is more the size of a Palmetto Bug. If you missed it, you can find my first adventures with a Palmetto Bug by scrolling down to yesterday’s post. This part is [...]]]> by Richard

In my bedside table, hidden under a load of (mostly clean) superhero-themed underwear, there’s a plastic cockroach. It’s not a little plastic cockroach. This is more the size of a Palmetto Bug. If you missed it, you can find my first adventures with a Palmetto Bug by scrolling down to yesterday’s post. This part is where I share the misery.

You see, my wife, known to me as She Who Must Have The Patience Of A Saint (At Times), absolutely despises and fears cockroaches of any and all sizes and varieties. I am not at all exaggerating when I say she despises them with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. And she fears them even more.

I can always tell when there’s been a cockroach sighting by the fact that she’s using the power of her scream to send her levitating body rushing from a room. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to repair windows cracked from the sheer volume and hatred in her screams.

All of which goes a long way toward explaining why, a number of years ago, I went out and bought about a dozen large, plastic, lifelike cockroaches.

I know. I know. I really am a bad person.

It’s just that fear is really, really funny. Well, it is as long as that fear is happening to another person. Which, in this case, it is.

Setting out one of my plastic cockroaches used to be a lot more funny, but She Who Must Be Getting Tired Of This Sort Of Thing, has become a bit habituated to the whole thing. Which is why I had switched to leaving them on her pillow. Much funnier.

Of course, this isn’t the sort of thing you can do all the time. For one thing, it takes a while for the bruises to heal up. For another, familiarity breeds contempt. Still, this sort of thing can lead you to understand why I sometimes call my lovely wife, She Who Must Sleep With One Eye Open.

Which makes the fact that the little dudes find this whole thing hilarious even better. It used to be all three of them, but now only Hyper Lad still thinks its funny. The problem is, they’re not the most observant kids in the world.

I sleep on the left side of the bed. She sleeps on the right. We’ve always done it that way. So why do I keep finding plastic cockroaches on my pillow? And not hers? Okay, yes, I’ll admit it. I did mutter a few, possibly, maybe high and squeaky squeals. Maybe.

I’ve tried explaining the difference between left and right to Hyper Lad, but he keeps getting it wrong.

Or maybe not. As I write this, I’m beginning to get the sinking sensation that possibly Hyper Lad is taking his marching orders from someone else. Someone who should, perhaps, now be known as She Who Must Get The Last Laugh.

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