The Seance

I was still freaked out by Saturday nights Ouija board session when my friend Victoria sheepishly asked if I wanted to go to a seance to watch the professionals get their spirits on.  Yeah, of course I do.  And maybe someone there would have advice on what the hell I should do with my Ouija board.  Destroy it?  Or is that bad juju?  Temporarily, its being stored it in the crawl space in our basement for lack of a better idea.

Yesterday was a cold, dreary day here.  Perfect weather for navy bean and kale soup from Whole Foods in the afternoon and conjuring up the dead in the evening.

Victoria picked me up and we were on our way, we were right on time, until we missed the turn.  What were we thinking?  That we mere mortals were in control?  No.  The spirits had a plan.  Clearly, they wanted us to know there were hidden apartment buildings you can't see across from Marshall's until you turn in.  I'm sure there's significance in this.  I'm just too small minded to see what it means in the bigger plan.  Yet.

Miraculously, or serendipitously, whatever, we arrived just in time before the doors closed.  To a hot room jam packed with people.  Thank god we weren't doing Bikram yoga cause someone would've gotten elbowed.  We had a seat and the medium began.   Two things became very clear right away:  1.  She was a medium range medium, at best.  And.  2.  I shouldn't have eaten that navy bean soup.   Because now my gut was bubbling with the worst gas I've ever had.  Not only was it extremely painful, it rumbled loudly and sounded like a spirit was stuck in my intestines and screeching and wailing to get out.

So I did the only thing I could do.  Sucked in my stomach muscles whenever I felt the gas in an effort to muffle the sounds and then roll it down to the lower abs when the gas moved, like a belly dance roll.  Until it moved down to the sphincter and I  clenched my ass with all my might.   Praying to god it didn't reek the way it wrenched.

While I was otherwise occupied, we'd already been visited by Steve McQueen, who apparently liked old cars and told his sister she had a pebble in her purse.  Who the fuck doesn't have a pebble in their purse?  And a photo?  Wow, no one has that!   And really?  That's your message from beyond?  "Hey there! It's me, your long dead brother.  By the way, there's a pebble in your purse."

Then there's "that" lady who's a total spirit whore who won't shut up with her dead people commentary and how everything relates to her.  She was visited by her dead fiance and someone else, by that point, it didn't even matter.  She'd felt their presence in the room she claimed.

So, since I'm fucking dying of gas pains, I try my own little internal spiritual test.  Mom, if you're here, give me a sign by relieving my gas pains.  But don't make me fart a horrendously loud stinking fart.  Thank you.  Unless I'm supposed to say amen.  I'm not sure.  Fill in the appropriate salutation here.  And.  Absolutely nothing happened.  Unequivocal proof that this whole seance thing was a sham.  But forget hot yoga, I did get an incredible ab and ass workout.  So it wasn't all a wash.

Although I should have just let it rip while announcing, "Listen, I think Steve McQueef is speaking through me!"

We left completely underwhelmed.  Victoria confirmed it sounded like I had a demon in my gut and I insisted she drop me at the end of my driveway, so I could let it all out on the long walk up.  Of course that's not what happened.  Oh, I farted all the way up, but I wasn't done yet.  And when I started to tell Craig the story, I let out some more evil spirits mid conversation.

Then, I was laughing, farting and there's a slight possibility I was also sharting.  But, I won't confirm that.

The thing is,  I still don't know what the hell to do with my Ouija board!   Maybe I should skip the middle medium person and consult with it directly.  What I do know for a fact is I shouldn't eat any beans today.

Black Magic

Every year we have a Halloween party.  I handle the food, invitation, cleaning, cooking and nuts and bolts of the operation.  While Craig heads up the fun and games committee doing the decorations and scavenger hunt.  Craig claims he does this all for me because I love Halloween.  But, I don't think it's all as selfless as it seems.  Because he loves this stuff and is completely meticulous, going way above and beyond every year.  He started building things for the party a couple days after his near fatal fall off the ladder.  And I couldn't stop him.

He made this winged tombstone.

And this one, he worried might offend some people.

Rounded out with your standard RIP, just to keep it traditional and classy.

And this one, the open grave to freak everyone the hell out.

Then he made a cemetery sign to tie it all together.

Now, he's doing all this with his one good arm and a broken face looking like a version of Frankenstein.  My sister sent him this nut cracker that bore a striking resemblance.  What's funny is when  Craig was in the hospital with a concussion and didn't know what happened, he made it a priority to check and revel in the fact that his nuts were ok.  No joke.  Making the nutcracker even more hilarious.

Ember was completely alarmed when on the morning of the party she saw this.  And came running to me concerned.  "MOM, DAD'S ON A LADDER AGAIN!"  This time, he didn't fall on his head, thank god.

But, he did make a Ouija board from scratch for the party. 

And a psycho killer in our shower stall.  

He even made a chalk outline of exactly where he landed on the driveway just a few weeks before.  If you look close, you can still see the eriee real-life blood stain he left behind.

 One of our friends came to the party dressed as Craig.

(I'm sure his nuts are ok too.  Although I didn't ask.)

This is Craig and I at the party.  Do you know what we are?

BONUS-BEHIND-THE-SCENES-ALMOST-MIDNIGHT STORY:

Near the end of the night, while the kids took over the karaoke machine, one of my friends suggested a group of us ladies go down into the basement and play with the Ouija board.  Why not?  It's just board with some Sharpe on it. It's not like it's gonna work or anything. 

But, I was wrong.

The six of us sat around the board lit by a black light.  Two friends started by welcoming the spirits and putting their hands on the planchette.   And we all freaked the hell out when it started moving.  Without anyone pushing it.  In fact, they were barely touching it.  And then we had no idea what the hell to do.  So we asked it it's name.  And whether my friend Judy would take that dream trip to Italy. It painfully slowly creeped to "yes".  Which leads me to believe she may have to kayak to get there.

Then, it was my turn.  

And these days, I have one big question on my mind. Will I get published?  And it went crazy.  Linda and I had our hands on it and it swirled madly across the outer edges of the board about 3 times before it landed on the sun.  Meaning.  Ask me in the morning, I'm not a night person.  Or.   Something good is going to happen.  And all of us were completely freaked out.  

Before we went to bed, Craig put the board outside.

Despite this, I still couldn't sleep.  Going over and over whether we had said "goodbye" to the spirits before we left to go upstairs.  We did.  And now, I'm going to pack up the Ouija board and not use it again.  Probably.

Craig asked me if I wanted him to destroy it.  But that seems even scarier than keeping it.  Maybe we should bury it in the open grave...

People

I've spent a considerable amount of time in the waiting room at doctors' offices lately.  Basically, anywhere a group of people are congregating, Americans view as an opportunity to make small talk. Except when you're waiting to see a doctor.  The waiting room is a reverent place, where we give our fellow sickos their privacy and solitude.  Not out of respect, mind you, but because we think we're going to catch whatever they have from making direct eye contact.

So when I took Sky to what I hoped would be his last post-op appointment with the Otolaryngologist, but wasn't, I searched for a suitable, ultra-contaminated magazine touched by hundreds of other people to pass the time.

I'm not a cat lover, so it wasn't Cat Fancy.  Dog Fancy although better than it's feline counterpart by nature, didn't do it for me either.  Road and Track?  I don't think so.  Food and Wine was in the running.  Of course there's always Redbook.  Although I don't give a crap what Joy Behar thinks about anything.  So what's the point?  It's common knowledge that the gold standard of waiting room magazines is People.  It's a quick read and mostly photos at that.  Generally of people you don't even know why they're famous.  Or if they are celebrities for certain.  But, they must be because they're on the cover of a magazine.

Because I'm such a frequent waiting room waiter, I had already read the old tattered issues with the pages falling out at the Orthopedic Surgeon or Orthodontists offices.  The ones I'm sure at least a thousand sickos have previously thumbed through. Perhaps even licking their fingers so the pages turn easier.  So, I thumbed my nose at those.   I was only looking for the newest issue.  I knew it was there.  It always is.

 I visually assaulted the other patients in search of it.  Being careful not to break the cardinal rule and look them in the eye.  Instead, I did a less intrusive, but more awkward scan of everyone's lap. I found the culprit. A 12 year old boy, who was clearly reading the wrong magazine.  I wanted to right the situation by trading him a Road and Track.  Not to stereotype or anything, but come on?  Wouldn't you rather look at fast cars than Who Wore it Best?  Just hand it over.

Finally, he got called in.  Yeeeeeesssssss!  Except then he did the feigned surprise "oh-you-mean-me-how-could-it-be-my-turn-already-take-five-minutes-to-get-my-stuff-together-even-though-I-don't-have-any-stuff-because-I'm-a-12-year-old-boy" thing.  Seriously kid?  You're wasting my valuable trash reading about people I don't know time!  I must know about Mischa Barton's nightmare!  Wait.  Who the hell is Mischa Barton?  Inquiring minds want to know.

What I do know is that apparently Pearl Jam and Amos Lee have new albums out. However, as fate would have it, Sky got called in before I got to the cover article.  So I did the "oh-you-mean-me-how-could-it-be-my-turn-already-take-five-minutes-to-get-my-stuff-together" thing while I contemplated hijacking the magazine and bringing it into the treatment room.  Can you do that?  How weird would that be?  What if I got so engrossed I didn't make direct eye contact with the doctor looking at my kid's ear so I could read about Misha whatsherface?  That would be weird.  So in order to avoid an awkward situation like that, I decided to leave it there.  Forgoing my own personal needs for my kids, yet again.  So, I'm pretty much a hero.  Or a psycho.   Like Misha may or may not be.  I'll  probably never know.

The doctor examined Sky's ear, and proclaims his hearing to be normal.
"How can that be?"  I asked.  "He still can't hear me."
The doctor looked at me confused.
"Cause he's a normal teenager" I said, trailing off.
"I still want you to keep the ear drum dry until Christmas though", the doc advises.
I know this isn't what Sky wants to hear.  On second thought, I'm not even sure he heard it.
"Best Christmas present ever!!!"  I announce with a bent swingy arm gesture to drive home my sarcasm.  "After all, is there anything better than the gift of hearing?"  Shaking my head and mouthing "no".

The doctor doesn't know that the waiting is the hardest part.  Luckily, Tom Petty does.  And I bet he's got a great sense of humor too.  Some people don't.  And I feel sorry for them.

But, not half as sorry as I feel for me, having decided not steal the magazine from the waiting room for all my pain and suffering from all that waiting....

Medical Mystery

It started on Friday when all the kids were home from school. A pain in my abdomen that wouldn't subside. Getting more intense as the day went on. This was all we needed after the medical bills from the dogs trip to the ER and Craig's. I still haven't seen the bills from the latter, in case you were wondering. And now clearly, I was probably on the brink of death. Or at least, another trip to the ER.

So, I pretended to be fine, for the kids' sake. They didn't need any more trauma. I could do it, my best performance ever. So, I channeled Meryl Streep.

I knew enough that a targeted point in the lower right quadrant of the abdomen could be an indication of appendicitis. Except, it would be excruciating when pressure was applied. It wasn't. Although I still palpated it. All day long, just to be sure that nothing changed. Until it became tender from me jabbing it continuously.

Oh my god, clearly it's an ectopic pregnancy. Everyone had warned me, after adopting four kids I'd get pregnant with the fifth. This would explain the searing pain I felt while getting up from a chair, discomfort with movement was a symptom. It seemed to fit. Although I just had my period a couple weeks ago. Unless that was just the vaginal bleeding...

Craig suggested it was Mittelschmerz, pain women sometimes get between menstrual cycles. I've personally never been too bothered by my girly bits. So that seemed unlikely.

Unless this was a sign of menopause. And since I'm only almost nearly 44 soon, I haven't thought about the ramifications of life's little curve ball much. Besides the tell tale hot flashes and mood swings, which I have neither of. But maybe, when your ovaries shut down they close a big dungeon like gate and maybe sometimes the spikes on the it impale the ovary itself. Which totally makes sense.

But more likely it's definitely cancer. I'm positive it is and know that it's completely plausible for me to die any second without having time to say goodbye to my kids. Within the next 12 hours I'll be dead for sure. Probably by getting hit by a bus. Or Kanye West's limo. Or skydiving naked without a parachute. But still, it's within the realm of possibility for sure. And you know cancer was planning it, so it clearly deserves the blame no matter what.

By Saturday night, while I was at a party, I took a turn for the worse. When we got home, I explained to Craig that the pain had now expanded in a band all across my lower abdomen. Clearly, this was an ominous sign.

"That's good", Craig said.
"It doesn't seem like it's a good sign...," I replied hesitantly.  I know he's a doctor, but I'm always skeptical that he actually has no idea what he's talking about because he's also my husband.
"It means it's your intestines."
"Like an obstruction? Parasites? What?"
"Like gas."

Yes, readers, the 48 hour mystery of the gas pains had been solved! Well, almost. The weird thing was, I wasn't farting. Which only meant the pressure of the gas in my gut was building like an impending volcano.

Now to determine the source of my terminal flatulence.

My personal top 3 noxious gas producing foods:

1. Beans
2. Cabbage
3. Barley

It all makes sense now. That beef and barley soup I threw in the slow cooker on Thursday that was so amazingly delicious, I kept eating copious amounts of it as leftovers because no one else was eating it? Yeah, THAT was the culprit.

I guess I should throw it out. But, it pains me to waste food. Maybe I should feed it to the dogs....

Crash Test Dummy

This is not me, for clarification purposes.  I would never wear a t-shirt of a crash test dummy giving a crotch shot.  Wait.  Yes, yes, I would!

Yesterday I spoke to the publisher who called me when Craig was in the ICU.  I needed more answers about the publishing world.  And I wanted to know that someone who didn't know me, or the blog and published real books, really liked it.  Which, I knew she must have because she called me to tell me she loved it, but couldn't publish it.  No one calls solely to reject you.  That's all done via tweet, facebook, a text, no response at all or if you're extremely lucky, a you're-awesome-but-we're-still-rejecting-you-e-mail.  I must be one extremely lucky girl, because I've gotten a lot of those.

Kira, the publisher, is a fascinating woman.  Born in Israel, her daughter had a horrible accident falling out of a second story window when she was only 4 years old.  So, we spent a good amount of time discussing near tragedy together.  Her daughter is now a precocious 28 year old living here in the US, as does she.  That's why she wanted to read my book in the first place, when she publishes books outside my genre, political ones.  She was curious how an American woman would interpret being so far from home, so relatively close to Kira's homeland.

"The average American isn't interested in other countries.  They wouldn't know some of them existed if  it weren't for wars," she said.  She "loved" my book and thought it was "interesting" and "engaging", and found herself reminiscing about Israel.  But, she thinks even those who aren't well travelled will connect to Rock the Kasbah, the book.  The problem is, she doesn't think she can do the marketing of the book justice in today's marketplace.  Especially since she doesn't work with memoirs like mine.  She figures I have enough of a potential market on my own to do what she could do or better, without her taking a cut.  She'd even help me do it.

"The nature of publishing has changed with the internet," she said.  "People don't buy books like they used to."  And no one can predict what will take off and make it big.  Which may explain the Fifty Shades of Grey and Twilight phenomena, where many say the writing is uninspired and formulaic.  (I've not read either one to verify, but I've heard enough friends talk about these two books to take it on faith.)  So publishers have become extremely cautious.  

And then it occurred to me, I was part of my own demise, a crash test dummy.  Blogs and free writing on the internet combined with self publishing are the downfall of traditional publishing.  I'd shot myself in the foot.  Unless, I'd shot myself in the face.  Either way, it was done now.  All there is to do now is to move forward. To self publishing.  After I submitted my manuscript to a selective self-publishing company, I got the fastest letter of acceptance ever.  Which makes me wonder how selective they are.  Or just confirms my cynicism and shattered confidence at this point.

Since I'm researching and waiting for a couple of things before I start the process, I have time to work in really, really dumb one-take self-made videos that capture my feelings in song.

If you choose to watch this,  I'm sorry in advance...

Of course, my battery is dead!

Left Brain / Right Brain

While Craig was still a bit lost in a swirl of questions from his concussion after having fallen on his head from the roof narrowly escaping death, one of his questions was what is the left brain responsible for.  Since I am completely right brained, remembering what hemisphere did what, took me a minute.  Or two.  "It does all the logical analytical stuff.  And your left brain is fine, because you did your own medical assessment from the moment they brought you in here. And your right brain is fine, because you were cracking jokes when you did it." 

 Me on the other hand, that's a completely different story.  I don't think my brain will ever be fine.  I'm completely right brained and I think it's only running on one cylinder.  And I don't even know how many cylinders are supposed to be working.  But clearly, I'm at a deficit here. Let me explain.  

It started in the driveway. 

"Which hospital would you like us to take your husband to?"  The paramedics asked.  

"I have no idea.  I'm not the medical person, he does all that", I said in a panic.

"We really need to know which hospital ma'am."

"I really don't know which is best."  My hands covering my mouth.

"Penrose is better for head injuries."

"Ok."

"Are you ok to drive there by yourself?" He asked.

"No. I'm not ok to drive on a normal day."

Which you would know if you've ever driven with me.  It's more of a carnival ride which will result in me getting lost at least once while attempting to get to my destination.  So my neighbor drove me.  Thank god.

After I was at the hospital and the ct scan of Craig's head showed no brain bleeds I breathed a sigh of relief.  Until I remembered that I forgot to pay the medical insurance bill for two months straight.  Then I silently panicked every time anyone came with a paper for me to sign.  Oh shit, they're going to call our insurance and they're going to tell them we don't have insurance anymore because some moron forgot to pay the fucking bill!  And do you know how often someone comes in for you to sign something?  All the fucking time!

That night I went home and stuck 2 payments in an envelope with 1 huge whopping check and put it in the mail the next morning on the way back to the hospital.  

Turns out it was discharge day.  Thank god.  So I tried to send a group message on my pathetic 1995 cell phone that doesn't do much of anything.  It took me about 6 attempts before it went through, but I had time since Craig was exhausted after a night of very little sleep.  Before my phone blew up with responses.  And I had no idea how to turn the volume down so it wouldn't disturb Craig.  But it did.  Finally he took my cell phone and within 20 seconds had turned it to silent, I'm too embarrassed to tell you how long I fiddled with it unsuccessfully before that.  He sealed the deal with the zinger, "I thought I was the brain damaged one here."  

When they got the wheelchair for discharge, they gave us instructions to stop by finance on the way out.  Which I conveniently forgot.  Cause there was no way in hell I was going to fight with our possibly non-existent insurance before they did surgery on Craig's wrist.  I figured I'd just avoid it all now and claim stupidity later.  That was my strategy.  The same one a kindergartner who just made a beautifully confusing collage but got glue all over the place and left the scissors on the floor would use.

What I forgot to mention is when Craig was in the ICU, I got a call from an unknown number and because so many people were calling concerned, I answered it.  It was a publisher who'd read my entire manuscript.  And loved it!  She's an Israeli woman who deals mostly in political books.  Publishing mine would require a title change, which she thought would be a deal breaker for me.  Which, it is.  She suggested, if I wanted to maintain creative control of my book, that I should self publish.  In addition, I'd make more money.  Which was never important to me before right now.  

Now, when I have probably _____ thousands of dollars worth of medical bills to pay.  So using my pole skills to start stripping and earning some quick cash?  Or moving forward to self publish and getting my book sold?  

Quickest and easiest decision of my life.

Sexy Nurse

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Emergency 911

On first guess, you'd think it would've been me, with my hanging upside down on a pole.  Or the kids, just being kids, falling from their bikes or not looking both ways before crossing the street.  But, it wasn't.  It was Craig.  If you don't know my husband, he can do absolutely everything and he does it well.  He can fix absolutely anything and he does that well too.  He's a man's man.  Like the Marlboro man.  Except he doesn't smoke.  Or wear a cowboy hat.  Well, occasionally he does.

So when I heard a loud thud Thursday morning, I ran outside to find him face down in the driveway with a pool of blood under his head, unconscious.  It was only a few posts ago I told you I'm not the person to have a heart attack in front of.  I should have added fall from a ladder on the roof.  My friend was just telling me that our feelings manifest into our reality it's The Secret of life. Fuck.  This is all my fault.  And now, all I can do is scream.

My neighbor heard the ladder and the screams confirmed his urgency. With him there, I could run in the house and grab the phone to call 911.  Then try to comfort Ember who hadn't left for school while my neighbor attended to Craig. Trying to be calm for her, was probably the best thing for both of us.   Another neighbor came and took Ember to school.  The firetrucks and the paramedics were there when I walked her down the driveway past her dad, to wait across the street for a neighbor to walk her the rest of the way to school.

My neighbor drove me to the hospital after the ambulance pulled away.  He tried to soften the mood and relax me with small talk.  But, I'm assaulted by thoughts of the worst, they are the only things that penetrate my overwhelmed mind.  Everything else lingers above me like a humid vapor.  The same damp heavy air we used to breathe in daily when we were newlyweds living in Miami.

When we get there, Craig's conscious, he's performed his own medical assessments, confirmed his balls are intact and thanked everyone profusely.  In fact he's on a loop from the concussion, doing this same check every minute on the minute.  He has a huge open gash down to the skull on his forehead where most of the impact was.  And a broken and deformed wrist at the joint where he took some of the pressure of his stage dive off the roof.  The CT confirms he has no bleeding in the brain.  He's going to be ok.  I can breathe again.

He'll spend the night in ICU to monitor his head trauma.  The rest of the day we spend waiting for the hand doctor to show up and tell us when surgery will be. Later today or tomorrow?  So we wait.  For hours.  We wait so long, I start to refer to the doc as "hand job" for entertainment purposes.  It's 2pm, and still, no hand job.  I leave to pick up the kids from school and bring them back to the hospital to see their Dad.  We leave when visiting hours are over.  Still, no hand job.

I return on Friday morning and they downgrade Craig from ICU to the floor.  The morning CT scan looks great.  But we're still waiting on our hand job.  We waited all freakin' day.  Finally, someone made the decision to discharge him late Friday afternoon and that we'd have to schedule an outpatient surgery directly with him.

Because hand job never came!  (Ok, seriously, how fucking funny is that?)  And now I'm questioning his hand job skills.

And on Monday when we meet him for the first time I'm going to try my best not to call him hand job to his face.  Although I can't make any guarantees.  I should at least wait until after Tuesday, when he'll be doing a hand job on Craig.  Surgery.  I'm talking surgery here people.

Sexual Equality

There's no denying it.  Sex makes the world spin.  And your head spin.  So much of our lives are spent consumed with thoughts about something we spend so little time, in comparison, doing.  Unless that's housework.

As my kids get older and become sexual beings.  Ok, just saying that kinda makes me barf in my mouth a little.  I'm sure the way that my kids think about their dad and I being sexual beings does for them.  It's only natural at this stage in the circle of life.  But the thing that has become abundantly clear to me is that there never has been sexual equality.  Nor will there ever be.  Because quite simply, biologically we are completely unequal.

Although I've given the same sex talk to my kids, talking about respect and consequences, love and lust, there's always a glaring difference.  The woman always bears more of the risk.  Obviously the female is the only one who can end up pregnant, but she's also much more likely to get an std, they also tend to be far more dangerous, even deadly in women.  Then there is the social stigma.  And don't even try to tell me it's 2013 and that it's so much better now than it used to be.  Cause that's total and complete crap.

So while I started my kids off with the same introduction to sex speech, I'm far more protective and cautionary with my 12 year old daughter.  (My youngest daughter hasn't gotten "the talk" yet.)  While my oldest has gotten the "some boys are only after one thing speech",  a few times already. The thing is she's a girl.  So, likely, she'll think sex is gross for at least a few more years. INSHALLAH  (god willing). I hope the next couple of years are devoted to finding comfortable, practical, preferably really, really hideous, nunnish-looking bras and panties that don't even come close to matching.

My boys on the other hand, have a sudden and curious interest in my Women's Health magazines and confiscate the Victoria's Secret catalog upon arrival.  Of course this is completely natural.  But what's different now than when I grew up is, free hardcore porn streamed directly to your laptop, phone or i-pod.  Now, I'm no prude, not by any means.  But this isn't catching a glimpse of a Playboy or the soft core Playboy channel pornos from the 80's when they actually had a story line.   With really bad dialogue and a pizza boy.  And in case you live on Mars, if you have a son in middle school, I guarantee you he's seen some hardcore porn.  Even if he's one of the few dorks (speaking as a mother of a dork) that doesn't have a cell phone.  Some other kid at his lunch table does.  And showed him exactly what Debbie does.

The curiosity of what Debbie is doing is of course completely natural, even though she may be doing some of the most unnatural acts known to man.  And I mean super freaky shit. I could go further with that, but I won't.  In fact, this isn't even the blog post I sat down intending to write when I started. But, now that it's almost over, this is what it is people.

My point is, even though there will never be sexual equality, both sexes need to have sexual responsibility.  We as parents need to ensure we instill it in them from a young age.  And checking your kid's phone from time to time isn't a bad thing.  Or at least talk to them about the difference between porn sex and real sex.  Real sex involves funky body odors, awkwardness, occasionally bumping heads in addition to other body parts, farts and other embarrassing noises, condoms and real consequences.  Sometimes colicky ones that cry all night long.

This mom is done with her lecture for the day.  Now, let me check the bathroom for this months Women's Health.  Carry on.