Meno is a cool mom. She’s the kind of mom I’m working on being. The other day, she posted an entry about buying her daughter a vibrator. Now, Meno’s daughter is 16 and my girls are nine and seven, so the vibrator issue is still a way off, but I’m doing my bit to educate my children, nonetheless.
Around the holidays, the Mythbusters team took on the question of whether adding things to one’s Christmas tree water would help preserve it (sorry, but a quick search couldn’t turn up a link to that particular episode. Go here for an overview). Some of the preservatives tested were soda, aspirin, bleach, fertilizer, hairspray and Viagra. Yeah, Viagra. They didn’t actually CALL it that, though; they used the coy referent of “Santa’s little helper” whenever they talked about THAT tree.
We were watching the episode at Bowyer’s house, with all four kids – the oldest of whom is Punkin’ Pie, at nine – in attendance. Punkin’ Pie, being the curious sort, asked – incessantly – what “Santa’s little helper” was, exactly, so I told her that I would explain it to her in the car on the way home. I have no problem answering these sorts of questions for my own children, but it’s not my place to be giving sensitive information to anyone else’s kids.
In the car, I explained as best I could how Viagra works and why, exactly, some people need it. I was fuzzy on the chemistry, but I am perfectly clear on the stated purpose of the medication, and I gave my daughter the full benefit of my knowledge. This led to a conversation about birth control (I never miss an opportunity to talk about birth control) and about how, regardless of how weird or icky or uncomfortable it may seem, she can always come to me for anything that she needs to ask or talk about concerning sex.
By the time it was all over, she wanted to get out of the car very, very badly. She’s nine, folks. This is very foreign and profoundly icky subject matter for little girls who think that boys’ only purpose in life is to be enormous pains in the butt.
Really, though? This isn’t the funniest part of the story. The funny part of the story came a few weeks later. Husband’s twin was up for the holidays and we were all out to breakfast at our local IHOP. The waitress came and asked for our orders, and my husband’s selection came with the choice of bacon or sausage. Not liking either, he turned to me to see which I would prefer, and I wanted sausage that day.
The meals came and my husband made a funny bit of picking the sausages off his plate with the tips of his fingers as though they were some sort of horrid things that may actually explode on him, resulting in the links looking a bit like sorry, flaccid little members. Bruder proceeded to exclaim that it was “time to go See-Alice!” which got chuckles from the grown-ups in the know.
Punkin’ Pie, being the curious sort (as I’ve mentioned before) wanted to understand what was so funny. Knowing that the explanation wasn’t really crowded restaurant-appropriate conversation, I told her I’d explain it to her in the car on the way home.
She thought about this for a few minutes, then turned and gave me the “talk to the hand” gesture. “Mommy,” she said, “if this is anything like that OTHER thing you explained to me in the car, then never mind. I don’t want to know…”