Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Conversations with The Red Head 6.2

Last night, as per our usual bedtime routine, I asked the Red Head how her day had been. She answered that it was fine as I made sure her covers were straight and she had her teddy bear. The Red Head spoke about school and art class. She described the crafts she made that day and touched on her apprehension over performing in the upcoming Christmas concert at school. Then she got quiet.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked.

", what's rape?"

I paused for a moment. I tried to gather my heart up out of my toes. For the first time in a quite a long time, I looked at my oldest child.

I mean really looked at her.

Wasn't it just yesterday that she was crawling around the livingroom? Wasn't I just showing her how to wasn't that long ago that I taught her to tie her shoes. Right? Where does the time go?

And when do they start to lose their innocence?

I cleared my throat. I try to answer all her questions as honestly as I can. But, as a mother, it is my job to keep the world out there. In my house, in the safety of my arms, I keep the world from intruding and bringing with it all the ugliness that it contains. Yet, at the same time, it is also my job to teach about the ugliness. To warn her against the evils of society.

I do the basics. I teach my children not to talk to strangers. I teach them not to recieve candy or hugs from people they do not know. It's not always easy. Old women will approach the Red Head about her hair and tell her how pretty she is. They try to hug the three-year-old because he is just too adorable to pass up. People have forgotten the golden rule when out in public. They make it difficult to instruct our young ones about keeping to the ones they know. What's worse is that sometimes it's the ones you know that hurt you the worse.

So, I answered her question. As simple as possible, I explained what one of the ugliest acts of violence was. I watched her as her eyes got big and she pulled the covers to her. I waited, patiently, as she sucked in her breath and then analyzed the information I had given her.

Finally, she asked, "Why would someone do that?'

"For pure meaness." I explained. She is too young to understand about control and power. She is too young to comprehend domination. But, she undertsands 'meaness'.

The Red Head absorbed all the information I had given her. She bolted upright out of the bed and wrapped her little arms around my neck. I nuzzled her and told her how much I loved her. I inhaled her scent. I cherished this beautiful creature that God saw fit to bless me with.


"Yes, baby?"

"Will that ever happen to me?"

"More than likely not." I answered her. "But, that is why I tell you not to hug on people that you don't know that well. That's why it's important not to talk to strangers. I tell you these things to protect you. I don't ever want to see you get hurt. Ok?"

She nodded quickly. Laying back down, she explained she had heard on the news about a woman getting rapped somewhere far from here. I nodded and made a mental note not to run the news anymore.

Kissing her on the forehead, I asked her if there was anything else she wanted to know before I turned her light out.

"Have you ever been raped?"

I took that opportunity to lie to her. I told her no.

Sunday, November 14, 2010


I don't understood the male species. While women were always deemed to be the weaker sex; I often thought males were the simpler ones. They seemed to be content in their recliners, sipping their beer....watching their sports on the enormous t.v they bought to compensate for whatever they lacked. Throw in a scratch of the genitalia and men seemed to be in a form of their own heaven.

As I grow older, I find that isn't the case.

These days, men seem to speak their own language. What's worse is that they expect women to decode it. Where once apon a time, men sought after women with a force that was usually reserved for the hunting and gathering of food; the tide has turned and women are the ones chasing after men. We are not only paying a great deal of attention to what men are saying, but we are deciphering what they aren't saying. My generation of women have turned into their own version of CIA decoders. As much as we break down every grunt, look, and shrug; we could easily work for Homeland Security.

I can see the conversation now:

Mr. President. We have certain intelligence that suggests Al-Queida will be attacking the wheat fields of Wisconsin soon.

The wheat fields? Are you sure?

Yes sir. We are positive. According to our sources, the planes are en route even as we speak.

How in the world did you figure that out? You must have had every high ranking military linguist working on this. I bet you had the best in the field on this assignment!

No sir. We didn't need them. We just pulled a couple of 30-something year old single women out of the dating pool. They were able to decode it in no time.

I long for the days where a guy would come up to you and simply state how much he liked you. He would take your hand and say, "Be mine. I want to get to know you." Instead, all we get is, "Well, sure. I like ya."

What the hell does that mean? So, you like me? Does the liking me include long walks on the beach? Do I need to find out your favorite movie? Should I be prepared to cook you meals? Am I, at the very least, going to be able to see you naked in the next decade?

These are all important questions to a 34-year-old single woman with two kids, such as myself.

Men don't seem to get that. To them, "I like ya", means "You may have a shot. At some point. But, right now I am busy trying to reach that itch under the left testicle that has been bothering me all day. Can I get back to you tomorrow?"

Tomorrow in man-time is actually next week.

A few weeks ago, bothered by the fact that the object of my desire was not being clear in his intentions, I set out to see exactly how this man felt about me. If I couldn't get him to say what his intentions were during a conversation on the phone......or in a text.....or email.....or smoke signals, I was hell bent on seeing him face to face. My reasoning behind the visit was to judge how he looked at me. A girl can usually tell if a man has some sort of interest by the way he gazes apon her.

At least that's my opinion.

I left our meeting feeling satisfied that this man did like me. The vibe he gave off was one of interest. Interest in me, of what I had to say, and even in what I was wearing. I thought "Goody, we are on our way."

No. Actually we are not on our way. At some point, our train of communication has derailed. I'm not sure when it happened, why it happened, or how it happened. I take that back. I know how it happened. The phone calls stopped. The texts stopped. There were no emails.

And I haven't received a single smoke signal in weeks.

Not sure how to get my train back on line and pulled into the station, my only recourse is to leave well enough alone. I figure I am a fabulous enough catch, that someone will jump onto the train and get the engine of communication going once again.

Unless Al-Quieda needed it to get to the wheat fields. If that's the case, then I'm screwed.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Red Head Discovers Porn

I never intended to introduce my daughter to porn at the age of six. I thought this to be too young of an age to learn how to appropriately entertain the plumber when he visits your house....late at night. My plan was to wait until she was- at the very least- ten.

Of course with her being my daughter, Red decided to take matters into her own hands.

Friday evening we are standing in the video store. In a time when you can recieve movies in your mail box the next business day, download them onto your computer, or even view them on a Playstation, it baffles me as to why video stores still exist. Yet, there I was, trying to pick out age appropriate viewing material for a three year old, a six year old, and a 59 year old. (My dad was babysitting that night.)

My three-year-old was in the children's section of the store squealing his delight with every Wow Wow Wubzzy movie he came across. "Sista, sista," he would call out in that sing-song voice of his. "Wooooook at what I bound."

"Hold on," the Red Head yelled back to him. "I'm coming." She was standing beside me reading a notice on a door. The door was saloon style, like the kind you'd see in old Western movies.

"Stop." She read aloud. "Must be 18 years of age or older to enter thru here." She looked at me curiously. "Momma, what does that mean?" She asked.

I was busy trying to decide between Iron Man 2 or Splice for my dad. (I later picked Iron Man 2 just in case the three year would be interested.) I mumbled something about having the right to vote before entering into the room.

In my defense, what happened next occured relatively quickly. I could still hear the three-year-old's squeals at the front of the store. I knew he was safe. I assumed the Red Head was with him. I know. I know. One should never assume anything in regards to their children. However, I was engrossed in reading the back of The Machinist.

I had just made up my mind to grab that particular movie when I heard a timid voice call out. "Momma? Momma?"

I knew it was the Red Head. I walked over to where the three-year-old, now sitting on the floor surrounded by a collection of Wow Wow Wubbzy movies and giggling manically, was.

"Where's your sister?" I asked him. "I dunno. But, momma, woook at what I bound! Can I get dem? Pweeeaaassee?" I answered in the negative on that and told him to sit still.

Again, I heard the faint sound of my beloved tax deduction's voice. "Momma? Momma?"

At this point, I began to feel like the mother in the movie, Poltergiest. I resisted the urge to yell back, "Carolann! Run away from the light!" Instead, I looked down every isle of the small store. Finally, I faced the dreaded door and peered underneath. Sure enough. I saw a pair of size two sneakers.


Not sure of what exactly I was going to find, I opened the door slowly. The Red Head stood in the middle of a small room overflowing with images of naked women and men doing things together that I would be ashamed to admit I knew about. In her hand was a DVD case. On the front of the case was a naked woman entertaining two lonely gentleman. She was in a most impressive pose. I breifly wondered how flexible you had to be to get into that sort of stance.

"Baby? You ok."

My innocent offspring gave me a look of confusion and annoyance. (Or she could have been a little gassy.)

"Momma, is that sex?" She asked pointing to the picture on the cover.

I try very hard to answer her questions honestly. I have never told her the story of the stork bringing a baby to the mommy and daddy. When asked, I offered up the real deal on copulation. So, unless the couple in question are into beastiality, birds don't figure into our sex talks.

"It's a version of it," I answered vaguely. Truthful I am. But, I did not think my child needed to know about oral sex in the middle of a video store. Or sex with two men.......ever.

"Do you do that?"

I cleared my throat. Oh dear Lord in Heaven and all the holly crackers. How do you answer that?

"" I answered. Candid about sex? Yes. On the level about my sex life? Not so much.

I have to give the Red Head credit. She has been known to handle things pretty well. She put the movie back in the proper spot. Taking my hand, she looked up at me and said with a rather grim expression, "Momma, let's just stick with the Tinkerbell movie for right now. Ok?"