Quit Talking to Your Kids. STOP NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

Nov 5 2015

“You can ask us anything,” we said.

“Nothing is off-limits,” we said.

“We will always be open with you,” we said, and, “It’s better to get accurate information from your parents than questionable information from your friends.”

This is the best policy. Talk to your kids! It’s what we do, and WE ARE THE BEST PARENTS EVER.

They asked us questions about penises. We answered them. Rigidity, wet dreams, vas deferens, sperm, ejaculation and where that penis can go. Oh, the places that penis will go! We answered them all.

Vaginas and uteri. Eggs and periods. Sexual pleasure and masturbation. We are an endless bastion of  information.

Drugs? We talk about them. Pot. Meth. Heroin. The whole gamut.

Jesus? Him, too. Even the HARD questions and the ones we can’t answer.

We explored the world together when we talked to our kids, and it was awesome all the time! Until…

… Oh geez…

Until I was upstairs minding my own business and one of the third graders hollered from below, “HEY, MOM! WHAT’S SEX TOYS?” And then, “Mom? MOM! I said WHAT IS SEX TOYS?”

You guys. You guys. You guys. I did what any wise, experienced mama who’s committed to talking openly with her children would do. I HID.

I hid in the bathroom, and I prayed a little prayer.

“Dear Jesus,” I said, “please let my child stop asking that question. Or, barring that, Jesus, don’t let him find me. See how I give you choices, Jesus? Alternatives? That’s because I’m humble and not demandy, which is why you should grant my wish, Genie Jesus.”

And then Jesus betrayed me, because that kid came upstairs, found me, and said, “Hey, Mom, did you not hear me? ‘Cause I asked you what is sex toys but you did not answer. I’m glad I found you, though, Mom, ’cause, Mom? I think sex toys are toys you play with for when you and dad do sex, and what I really want to know is do you have sex toys and what do they look like and how do you use them?”

Since hiding was a bust and Jesus was just giggling in the corner at my predicament, I told my kid I had to poop. “I would love to answer that question,” I lied, “but I have to go poop, like, really bad, so you should get out of the bathroom,” which is when he reminded me he hangs out in the bathroom when I poop, all the time, and didn’t see why he should start giving me privacy now. “I am fine with talking with you about sex toys while you poop, Mom. That is fine with me.”

Of course he is. Of course he’s fine with that. So I told him I had to go the kind of poop where I make my I’m Pooping REALLY Hard Poop Face, and that he could have four pieces of candy in the candy basket if he would let me do it alone.

I’ve managed to avoid him ever since.

In conclusion, I have a brand new Parenting Plan: Quit Talking to Your Kids. I mean it. STOP NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN. It’s too late for me – he’s not going to forget that sex toys question forever – but you can still save yourselves. RUN, parents. RUN NOW.

Wishing you all the best, friends. All the best.


P.S. The first time I wrote WE ARE THE BEST PARENTS EVER, it came out WE ATE THE BEST PARENTS EVER. So if you ever wonder where the hell those Best Parents went, now you know. We ate them.

The Non-Sponsored, Unaffiliated Lowdown on THINX

Nov 3 2015

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to talk about periods and the women who have them, so I’m just saying now, no matter what your junk looks like, if that topic makes you want to harf, get out. GET OUT NOW.



Here we go.thinxad2

I bought THINX.

TWO PAIRS of THINX, y’all, even though they’re, like, $30/pair, and I’ve been using the heck out them.

Have you heard of these?

They’re underwear for women with periods.

As in, you don’t need a tampon or a pad or a cup or any of the usual blood collectors with these ’cause the panties do it all. When Little Miss Red coming a’riding, you just — get this — put on your undies and go.

I know, right? I KNOW.

Weirdest thing EVER. Also, COOLEST. And even though every single girlfriend I tell about these looks at me as if I’ve lost my ever-loving mind — all furrowed brow and pursed lips and head cocked to the side — and even though you may be just like them, thinking, “Really, Beth? Really?” I am here to say, “YES, REALLY.” For REALS, REALLY.

Thing is, I debated for two months about purchasing these things after I found out about them. Two months of “Thirty dollars? GEEZ. I’m not sure I want to risk thirty entire dollars.” ‘Cause what if they don’t work, you know? Or they don’t fit? Or they feel squidgy and damp? So I kept up with my regular routine which includes finding and losing my diva cup, scrounging in my bathroom drawers for the upended dregs of a tampon box, cobbling together off-brand pantyliners into what I hope passes as a full sized pad, and wadding toilet paper into my panties when I’m truly desperate. It’s not pretty, guys. It’s not pretty at all. But it’s what I do. It’s what I’m used to.

Or it’s what I did. What I was used to.

Until the day I had a sort of epiphany.

An epiphany that went like this, “What if I could have my period, put on a pair of undies like I do every other day, and just go?” and “What if it doesn’t have to be like it’s been?” and “What if my daughters could do the same?”

Greg was there when I epiphanied, lucky guy, so he got to hear every profound thought as I thought it. Every ah ha! Every grace-filled, self-actualized insight. It was beautiful, y’all. Deep. “I am going to buy myself Thinx, Greg. And I am going to buy TWO OF THEM. And you know what you’re going to do about that? You’re going to give me ZERO GRIEF, man. ZERO of the GRIEF GIVING even though this will cost us SIXTY DOLLARS. And you know why you’re going to give me zero grief? DO YOU KNOW WHY? Because if you bled from your penis for 25% of your life from age 10 to 55+, you better DAMN WELL BELIEVE you’d have figured out a way to quit shoving blood catchers up there by now. You would have said HELL NO to ramming cotton penis swabs in that thing and trying to pull them out in a bathroom stall and make your way to a faucet without anyone thinking you just reenacted that blood bucket scene from Carrie or slaughtered a small animal. That’s right; MEN wouldn’t have put up with this crap. MEN would’ve DEMANDED another solution. But we women sit passively by and ACCEPT that our lives have to BE LIKE THIS. Well, no more, Greg. NO MORE, I SAY. I’m spending sixty bucks, man, and YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE IT. GO, WOMEN!”

And Greg, because Greg is wise, said, “YES, I AM. I am going to LOVE it,” and he asked me the next day what Thinx are.

Here I am, two periods later, friends, and I have to say, I’m a fan. This “put on panties and go about your day” business? It’s pretty amazing. Pretty incredible. And I highly recommend.




P.S. This post isn’t sponsored by THINX. They don’t know who I am, and I get nothing from telling you about them other than the joy of sharing a good find and freaking some people out by talking about periods. Wheeee!

P.P.S. All photos included in this post are the property of THINX and are used without permission. I didn’t ask before I lifted them from the internets. I’m sort of just banking on the THINX people being cool with free advertising of their product. If they let me know I’m wrong, I’ll remove the images. I’ll think they’re a little less cool, but I’ll remove them.

P.P.P.S. THINX is also doing cool things for girls in Africa. Rad, I tell you. These things are rad.

P.P.P.P.S. You can find out more about THINX here.

P.P.P.P.P.S. If you have any questions — any at all — let me know and I will answer.