Tag Archives: parenting


Doing His Own Dance

The grumpiest, gloomiest face I’d ever seen greeted me at the end of the school day.

I hadn’t recognized the teacher who’d walked his group out. Another new one. Someone he didn’t know. And it was the one after school activity we’d both been nervous about, although for different reasons.

“So? How was it?”

In the middle of the parking lot, he hung his head and refused to talk to me.

As we walked to the car, I chattered, desperately searching for some topic that would pique his interest and get him to open up. I looked down. Tears were streaming down his grubby face.

“What’s wrong, Sean?”

“I hated dance club! It wasn’t fun at all!” His tone was accusatory, as though I’d twisted his arm and forced him to go.

I’ve learned over the past few years that the more I respond, the less he says. I squeezed in hand, a quiet condolence.

“She’s a kindergarten teacher! I had to follow kindergarten rules.”

His voice was thick with the injustice of a first-grader lowering himself to behave like a “little” kid.

“What kind of rules?”

Sniffle. Snuffle. “I had to sit criss-cross applesauce! My teacher doesn’t make me do that. Only babies have to sit that way!” he wailed.

“I’m…sorry.” Sometimes, you just don’t know the right words. “Did anything else happen?”

This is the part I should have been prepared for. I knew, better than he did, what he’d signed up for by joining the dance “club” at school. Sure, they were all between the ages of five and seven, but there were expectations. Apparently, big ones.

“Yes!” He spat the word out, the disgust emanating from his tall, thin body. “It was mostly girls.” I’d warned him that would happen. He hadn’t believed me.

I squeezed his hand again. It was all the encouragement he needed. “And I couldn’t do my own dance. I had to do the stupid dance everyone else was doing.”

There was the real injustice. My free-spirit child (who keeps it all tightly locked away) had hoped, beyond hope, for a moment to do his own thing, to let the music move him, to be as different and unique as he felt like being.

He had no opportunity to be silly and crazy or make everyone laugh. Nope, he had to color in the lines, follow the rules, and be like everyone else. He hates that.

I wish I could make him understand that being one of two boys in a group of girls in order to dance automatically means he’s coloring outside the lines. All he knows is that he’s facing criss-cross applesauce, a gaggle of girls, and being “just like everyone else” in the group for the rest of the school year. It was the worst day ever.


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Conversations With My Kids While in the Car: The P Words #sexpositive

Conversations with My Kids: The P Words

I’ve noticed a thing about parenting…

When you want something to happen with/for your kids, it will never happen when you think you’re ready, when you want it to, or when it’s the “best time.” Kids will do everything when it comes to their development on their own damn time.

Potty training.

Eating vegetables.

Feeling comfortable talking to their mom about anything. And by “anything” I mean “sex.”

Aidan is slowly starting to open up and ask questions. He’s still a little traumatized that I’m so open about things and don’t really speak in code. He prefers terms like “the s word” or “the p word.” At least, when he’s talking to me, he does. And if I happen to say “sex,” he responds with “Oh God.” Every. Time.

But he’s starting to come around. Most of our most serious conversations happen in the car on our way to or from school. It’s a good 20 to 30 minute drive, and I guess the hum of the tires and scenery zipping past gets him thinking.

The most recent conversation took a turn I didn’t foresee.

“Mom, I’ve been thinking about a word, and what it means.”

“Ok, lay it on me. I’m happy to help.”

I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him cringing. He really doesn’t want to say whatever it is.

“Come on, Aidan, you’re not going to get in trouble for using a word if you’re asking to understand it. You get in trouble for using words to hurt or in a harmful or inappropriate way.”

He looks down at his hands, and then up at me. “The ‘p’ word.”

Now I’m confused. We’ve talked about penises until all of us were blushing. What other ‘p’ word? I’m wracking my brains. Which one is it?

“Aidan, you’ll have to be more specific. Just say the word.”

“Pervert.” It came out as a strangled whisper more than anything else.

Oh my gawd. I have to explain ‘pervert’ to a 10 year old with his 6 year old brother in the car? Well, hell, here goes.

“It’s about porn, isn’t it?”

I did not see that one coming.

“My friend tried to look up “porn” on the computer at school and got in-school suspension.” I bet he did.

Big deep breath. You can do this.

“Well, first of all, porn is for grown ups. It’s not at all appropriate for kids your age. It involves [long pause, as a I prepare myself] sex.”

“Oh God.”

“Some people think watching porn makes you a pervert. I don’t. What you do about porn, how you treat other people, when you objectify them, when you do harmful things that other people don’t want done to them, then you’re a pervert. And if you watch porn and start to do those things, then porn becomes a bad thing.”

“O…kay.” Pretty sure he didn’t expect that answer.

“Porn isn’t necessarily bad by itself. It’s about sex…” “Oh God” “…and you’re way too young for that but when you’re an adult you can decide for yourself.”

Sean pipes up. “You know I can hear every word you’re saying, right?”

“I do.” Which is why I got into almost no specifics, not that I think Aidan really needed those, not yet.

After that we had to have the conversation about how its okay to ask me or John anything, that we’ll answer their questions and even giggle with them about it, but please don’t go to school and tell everyone your mom said “porn is okay” or try to explain what a “pervert” is.

“Not everyone feels the same way I do about talking to you guys about sex.”

“Oh God.”

“Some parents want it to be done in a certain way or at a specific time. So while home – and the car – are safe places to discuss this stuff, let’s not go to school and talk about it, okay?”

Because while I unashamedly will bring my boys up to be as sex positive as possible, I really don’t want to have the conversation with a teacher, parent, or principal about why my children are holding court with their peers and explaining “pervert” and “porn” at the lunch table.

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Maybe I’m Not the One to Ask for New Parenting Advice

Maybe I'm Not the One to Ask for New Parenting AdviceRecently someone I know told me his wife had just had a baby. He was apologizing for being “off” or not as on top of things as usual. After the obvious and enthusiastic “Congrats!” (as well as the relief that it’s someone else and not me) and all that, I couldn’t help myself:

“Screw the sleep when the baby sleeps. You’re not getting rest for at least a few years.”

Sometimes I forget that through email you can’t hear my tone. There’s no sarcasm font…yet. So I was left to wonder:

Uhh, too honest?

The advice I give to new parents – usually unsolicited and just part of a conversation where I let my sarcasm show – isn’t anything like what you’ll find in all the books you buy or websites you visit.

Buy lots of wine, beer, liquor, or your alcohol of choice. You’re going to need it. (No, I would never tell a breastfeeding woman that – but I will tell a new father to do it.) Sometimes, at the end of a long week or day…or morning, what you need is a drink of something that makes you feel like a grown-up – because the spaghetti-o’s you cleaned up off the floor sure don’t.

You don’t really think you’re going to sleep when the baby sleeps, do you? [Insert incredulous snort.] When Sean was first born, I can remember standing in the living room, rocking him back and forth (desperate to get him to stop crying and go the fuck back to sleep) as I dozed. Yep, I rocked, shushed (lovingly), and dozed while standing up.

You only need a few packs of onesies and some diapers. It’s okay if your half-naked most of the time. I swear to you, my kids only had on complete outfits when we needed to go somewhere. Until my oldest was about three, he lived in a diaper/pull-ups/Thomas the Tank Engine underpants.

You’re sure you want to make all your baby food from scratch? Call me when you’re crying because you can’t remember the last time you showered, then we’ll talk about that baby food thing. I think we all have amazing intentions when we know a baby is on the way, and when a pregnant woman goes into nesting mode, watch out. You’ll be spending a few hundred dollars on a blender – specifically for that homemade baby food.

Screw the playdates. Give your kid a box. You’ll all be happier. I’m the least social person I know. Getting together to watch two small children drool, ignore one another, and then fuss when they realized they weren’t alone – who is that other kid?? – in order to discuss all the “Mommy” things was never my style. And really, kids can entertain themselves with almost anything, including big empty boxes.

Yeah, so maybe I’m not the one who should give parenting advice. And really, if you’re looking for affirmations and guidance, I’m not the one. But if you need a margarita and a few laughs at your own expense, I’m probably your girl.

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This Isn’t How I Envisioned the “Sex Talk”

When I was a kid, sex was a completely off-limits topic in my house. Most of my education came from the school’s health class and sneaking to read trashy romance novels (something I still love to do) – neither of which actually prepare you for sex. At least not in a healthy way.

Before the boys were born, I told myself I would do it differently. I wouldn’t let the school or their friends be the only source of information – especially since both will be a little bit (and sometimes a lot) wrong.

I consider myself a fairly open person. Who you love and who you have sex with is your business as long as everyone is a legally consenting adult. Want to get married and you’re both dudes? Cool! Love each other but hate the idea of marriage? No worries here. I don’t think you’re going to hell. Love is love. Sex is a normal functioning part of life. Women who have lots of sex aren’t sluts. Men who don’t aren’t freaks. And anything goes when both parties consent. (Yeah, even the freaky stuff.)

I figure talking about sex in an age-appropriate way with my boys and teaching them the importance of consent will help them be more open about sexuality when they’re older. That’s the hope, at least.

I also acknowledge that my boys are going to have sex much sooner in life than I think they should. And as much as I want grandchildren, I don’t want them before either boy is out of high school. Condoms will be available. The conversation about no meaning no will happen (hell, it happens now when Sean won’t get off his brother’s head when they’re “playing”). All the things I think they need to know will be shared with them – many times, because we all know kids don’t listen the first 10 times you tell them anything.

I’ve been mentally preparing for the days when we’ll need to have these discussions since I was pregnant with Aidan. Okay, maybe not that far back, but close. Call me weird (I am, it’s okay) but I’ve been a little excited about the idea of having such an open line of communication with the boys as they get older that they’ll come ask me anything. I see them confiding in me when they’re confused or lost or heartbroken. We’ll be the home that doesn’t shy away from the awkward topics surrounding sex, and they’ll grow up knowing they can ask anything.

Aidan is the oldest (so of course, he’s the experiment since I’m clueless), and he’s not cooperating with my vision.

I tell him he can ask me anything. He nods, blushes for a moment, and then starts talking about Minecraft.

I remind him that I’m always here for him, no matter what. He shrugs and goes back to his YouTube videos.

I test his knowledge to see where he might be at in terms of slang and body parts. He shakes his head at me and walks away.

This isn’t going as planned At. All.

The other day, I took the bull by the horns (so to speak). He said something that related to sex, and I pushed a little harder. I asked him straight up, “Do you know what sex is?” He shrugged. I asked if he wanted to know. He gave me a smaller shrug, then whispered that he wanted to know but he didn’t think we should talk about it in front of Sean.

Later, when he’d clearly forgotten the conversation (and Sean was out of the room), I pulled him to the side and asked if he was ready to know.

He nodded, blushed, and then covered his face with his hands and mumbled, “I don’t think I can do this.”

Him?! I’m the one that’s struggling to figure out what’s age appropriate while still being clinical and adult about this and watching out for Sean who wants to know everything his big brother knows. I’m the one who should be hiding under the table!

I told him anyway. Simple terms, using the correct names for body parts.

His eyes widened. His cheeks became redder than before (not sure how that’s possible). He shook his head and walked away.

Where were his questions? Where was our moment to bond a little? Why isn’t he curious?!

I know the reason. I haven’t completely lost it. Moms aren’t supposed to know about this stuff and we’re definitely not supposed to talk about it with our sons. Aidan really wishes I would follow the rules of being a Mom.

Now that the mechanics of sex are out of the bag, I’ve kept my ears open for any opportunity to further the discussion. The child isn’t an idiot. He’s playing it close to the vest in case I divulge other information no mother should ever tell her son. But sometimes, the boys hands me sex-talk gold.

Riding in the car on the way to school, Aidan and Sean joked about have multiple “nipples” that are really “pimples.” They couldn’t get enough of saying both words, over and over again, and over and over and over…Anyway, in an attempt to shock me, Aidan joked that his “pimples” were, “down there, Mom” with a nod to his groin.

For once, all my cylinders were firing and I went with it.

“Yeah, if that was true, you’d be in danger of it rotting off.”

“That can happen?!” His eyes took up his whole face.

“Not quite, but if you have sex without a condom, you can get a disease [I nodded towards his groin] down there and you’ll think it’s going to.”

Maybe that’s not the healthiest way to start the discussion about safe sex practices but at least I didn’t have to hear about fake pimples on little boy penises anymore. I’m gonna call that a win.

This sex talk, sex positivity, open line of communication with Aidan isn’t going how I envisioned it AT ALL – which means it’s just like every other part of parenting. I thought he’d have questions and bring them to me (because I’ve told him his whole life that he can) – and he doesn’t. He won’t. I’m his Mom, after all. What do I know? And if I do know anything, Aidan doesn’t want to know about it. “It’s too embarrassing, Mom.”

As with walking, talking, reading, and tying his shoes, I’m going to have to pull him along and make sure he gets the education he needs before he decides to go get the experience he wants. Damn it. This was so much easier in my head.

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Help a sister out, amiright?

I-see-all-these-Moms-who-can-do-everythingSince you’re already doing it anyway…is there a list I can get on?

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Happy 6th Birthday, Sean!

Happy 6th Birthday, Sean!

I would like to know where time keeps flying off to, why the minutia of each day takes a thousand hours, and how my baby went from baby to big boy in the blink of an eye.

The long days of parenting take forever. They never seem to end, even as we’re told (ad nauseum) to enjoy these moments because they’re fleeting. But then you wake up one day and your youngest isn’t a baby anymore, and you start a new path.

September 10 – Sean’s birthday.

The highlights so far for his 6th year of life…

Kindergarten. Where he’s apparently the leader of the shy kids and the only one they’ll go to, talk to, and even listen to. Since that’s an improvement on the months of silence and refusing to participate during pre-kindergarten, I’ll take it.

Big boy everything. His legs are longer, his body sturdier and heavier, his appetite bigger. Aidan might not eat much, but Sean has a hollow leg and can put away the food.

Just like his brother. Ask him what he wants for his birthday, and he’ll tell you something Aidan has. Ask him what his favorite color is, and it’s probably Aidan’s. Neither of them realize it, but Aidan is his hero, even when they’re making the other crazy. He wants to be like his brother and with his brother in all things. The heartbreak in his voice when big brother betrays him, bothers him, or hurts him will melt a heart of stone.

Glasses. By the time you read this, he’ll be wearing his glasses. His Buddy Holly glasses (just brown instead of black). I was afraid he “flunked” his eye exam just to have glasses like Aidan. Thankfully the optometrist is no fool. Nope, Sean is already near-sighted – like the rest of us. Are we losing our eyesight earlier – I was eight when I got glasses, Aidan was seven, and Sean was technically five, but it was eight days before his birthday so I’m not sure it counts – or are we more diligent now? Who knows, but he sure is proud of them.

I’m an only child. I know nothing about siblings so every bit of this is new to me. I didn’t expect him to be both just like his brother in some ways and his polar opposite in others. Even after all these years, I’m still surprised when I have to switch parenting methods to match his personality. Surely if it worked on Aidan, it should work on him. Nope. Wrong. Try something new, and then explain to Aidan that it isn’t about fairness, it’s about effectiveness.

I can’t imagine my life without both of them in it. Aidan’s earnest worry and anxiousness and Sean’s wide-eyed impishness. They are a pair.

Happy Birthday, Sean-Sean. Always be thankful that I practiced on your brother first.

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Lies I Tell My Children

Lies I Tell My Children

There are a few things no one tells you about becoming a parent:

  • You will be puked, peed, pooped, and bled on – a lot.
  • You will never sleep a full night again.
  • You will worry every day.
  • You will become the biggest liar ever.

It starts small. “The shots won’t hurt, baby, I promise.” You say it to a newborn who doesn’t understand, doesn’t care, and after one prick of a needle, wouldn’t believe you anyway.

That’s the gateway lie. The next are bigger. “Santa Claus is real. The Tooth Fairy pays you for your baby teeth. The Easter Bunny leaves plastic eggs with candy inside.”

By the time they’re older, you’ve moved on to the real lies.

That’s coffee-flavored ice cream, not chocolate. You won’t like it.

I don’t know what happened to the last of the chocolate chip cookies.

The bran-wheat-sugar-free cereal is all we have.

When did most of my lies becomes about food??

Saying “penis” over and over again isn’t funny. (Yes it is. It totally is. That and wiener.)

Keep making that face and it’ll get stuck like that. (When did I become my mom??)

I always know what you’re up to. You can’t lie to me. (Keep believing that one, boys.)

Mom has eyes in the back of her head.

It’s bedtime. (This one only works on Sean.)

Ya know, I tell myself I’m a brutally honest person. I may have to re-think that one. I’m so glad that my pants can’t really catch fire.

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Writer Life

All The Places I’ve Written: August 2015

via Google Images

I write. All the time.

Some days, the word count is in the thousands.

I write on different topics.

Divorce. Love. Parenting. Sex. And some topics that may never be shared in this space.

I try to share them all with everyone who I imagine will read my words. (I’m lookin’ at you, Mama.) But sometimes it’s just not possible for everyone to see everything. So, why not share them here, right?

Where did I go and what did I write in August?

Better Days Are Coming – Mamalode

A promise to the moms of toddlers…

There’s a time coming, an in-between time, when this whole mom thing is so good. Oh no, I know it’s good now. You love your children with every fiber in your being. I have no doubt about it. I also know that diaper changes, potty training, demands for food they won’t eat, crying because the crayon is green instead of blue, and missed nap times sometimes make you want to run screaming out of your front door. Or at the very least wonder if this will all be worth it someday.

It will be. Better days are coming.

Read the whole thing.

Top 10 Reasons Older Men Make Better Partners – Ravishly

John is 18 years older than I am, and that works for me on a lot of levels.

I’m not looking for some kind of Sugar Daddy. I don’t want to get tangled up with a mid-life-crisis-leave-your-wife man. I’ve always been attracted to older men, and now that I’m in my mid-30s, my man is in his 50s.

Read the whole thing.

7 Lessons I Learned About Love From My Divorce – Divorced Moms

It took a divorce, a sexual revolution, and a more meaningful relationship to learn these lessons.

Over the course of the separation, negotiations, and in the aftermath of the divorce, I learned that what I’d felt and what my ex-husband continued to claim as love was nothing of the sort. How do I know? Because three years later, I am surrounded by real, true, deep love. It looks nothing like the “love” from my marriage and especially the divorce.

Read the whole thing.

I wrote a lot for Divorced Moms in August:

8 Things I Learned About Myself From My Rebound Relationship

5 Sex Games Guaranteed to Spice Things Up in the Bedroom (this one made for uncomfortable conversations with the family, but it was fun to write!)

A Better Life After Divorce Isn’t A Given, But It Can Be Earned

I’ve got several more articles in the works for September. If we’re hooked up on social media, I always share them in those places, but if you don’t see them, give me a month, and I’ll share them over here, too.

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New School, New Teachers, Same Worries

I have despaired of my children’s education for years. Public education was always the only option for me as a child, and I wasn’t fearful of it being the option for my children.

As a kid, I had some great teachers, some not-so-great, and yes, some freaking assholes. But I also loved school, learned plenty, and still carry good memories of that time. I know things change, but I had faith in public education.

Then I sent Aidan to school. It wasn’t that he had awful teachers. He didn’t. Kindergarten and first grade were great. Second grade, so-so. Third grade, better than the year before. Fourth grade was good because he’s relatively intelligent, a good boy, and doesn’t need a lot of direction. Each teacher was distinct, and Aidan is slowly learning how to deal with different types of authority figures.

What I learned, to my horror, is the staggering differences that can be found between schools within the same district, districts in the same state, and teachers within the same school.

Then, just as I was starting to worry he would only ever be taught to the test, we moved as a nation to Common Core, and I despaired that my child would never learn basic math – mostly because I could no longer teach him. (Hi, my name is Michaela, and I can’t understand Common Core math.)

He’s been in schools with fewer resources but teachers who care. He’s been in schools with more resources and teachers who seem to be tired (and yes, I know teachers are overworked). His last school was a very poor school which, thankfully, meant it received extra resources from the school district. One of the few fortunate ones in Pinellas County, apparently.

I’m from small-town southern America. The choices you have in school options are one, maybe two choices. Take it or leave it. While Aidan was in 4th grade, after we’d moved to the “big city,” I began to realize that other options abound, but only if you’re fortunate enough to win a lottery or brave enough to home school.

I have zero aptitude for home schooling. I already know, six years early, that I won’t be the one teaching Aidan to drive a car. No teaching bones exist in my body, and I have zero desire to find out if I can muddle through.

Thankfully, in our part of the world, charter schools are almost as numerous as the regular schools. When I received a brochure for a local STEM (science, technology, engineering, and math) school that was already doing well after only three years in existence, I knew we had to try.

By the grace of a mysterious Universe or the luck of the draw, both boys made it in for this next school year.

Sean heads off to kindergarten, my last baby, my shy guy.

Aidan is a big boy fifth grader.

No one is excited about the school uniforms. Aidan because he has a distinct sense of style even at age 10. Sean because he doesn’t like belts. (Who knew?) Me? Well, I’m the one that has to get the school patch on the uniform shirt without it being on the wrong side, upside down, or off-center (because my OCD nature can’t handle it).

Neither boy is excited about making new friends. Aidan has been to four elementary schools since kindergarten. He’s tired of moving around. I’m tired of it for him. I hope this will become his academic home. Sean simply doesn’t believe he’s capable of making friends, even as he regales me with tales of his Boys and Girls Club summer camp friends.

I’m hopeful that I’ve found the right place for them. They are both interested in STEM topics in their own way. The school spends a lot of time on math and science, and the all important state testing is still a factor.

But they also remember to nourish their minds in other ways. There are a dozen after school clubs (most of which are free) that cover music, gardening, art, and other topics that can’t be covered in the school day.

It doesn’t matter that the new school gives me the warm fuzzies simply by effectively communicating via email or having a well functioning website filled to the brim with info. It doesn’t matter that the boys’ eyes light up at the thought of joining the Lego robotics club. I’m still going to worry that they’re getting a good education, making a few friends, and being prepared for life after school.

It’s a new school with new teachers, but the worries and fears are all the same.

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Random Musings, Writer Life

I Write About Sex – Just Not Here

I Write About Sex - Just Not Here

My mother and aunt are a little horrified.

Former colleagues are uncomfortable – thankfully we no longer attend meetings together so need to avoid eye contact at the coffee station.

Friends, old and new, some who surprised me, in my generation are like, “Yessssssssss.”

All because I write about sex and then share those writings on social media. Not often. Not in intimate detail. Hell, I don’t even use all the words I know (and prefer) for certain acts or body parts.

I went through a bit of a sexual revolution a few years ago. Topics that weren’t discussed at all when I was a child were left up to my imagination, romance novels, and sad fumblings in darkened rooms. Until I hit my 30s and decided I’d rather feel good than feel repressed.

Sex is natural, sometimes beautiful, sometimes hilarious, and with the right person, damn good. But it’s this thing we don’t talk about.

Part of that is understandable. I am a grown woman with two children and a loving, long-term relationship that may or may not end in marriage (but we certainly don’t sleep in separate beds) – and I am incapable of discussing sex with my own mother. It’s this thing we both know about – and had to rediscover in new relationships – but we’re definitely not discussing it. Ever.

Part of it is confusing. Our unwillingness to discuss sex means we demonize sexual activity we don’t understand. We allow people in places of authority to dictate what kind of sex and how much of it is okay. We allow schools to teach our children misinformation about sex because we’re not comfortable discussing it with them.

I made a promise to myself several years ago. A few actually.

  • I will talk to the boys about sex – in an age appropriate way.
  • I won’t shy away from the uncomfortable questions.
  • I will make sure they have condoms and know how to use them. Not sure how I’ll teach that one with a straight face but my babies will not create babies until they’re old enough to take care of them.
  • I will continue to write about it in ways that share the knowledge I’ve accumulated over the years – because I know if I was still a little lost and confused at age 32, so are other people.

Sex is part of life. I don’t see any reason to act like it isn’t. I don’t believe we’re going to hell for enjoying sex. I don’t think people are deviant or damaged for having sexual preferences that differ from the mainstream. I don’t approve of cheating and lying just to get a sexual fix, but I do believe it’s proof of underlying issues in a relationship instead of pure malice (although that exists, too). I believe sexual compatibility is no less important than other types of compatibility between people.

As I find venues that accept my perspective on sex, I’ll continue to write about it.

For DivorcedMoms.com, I’ve found a place that seems to welcome my little bit of sexual knowledge. Enough that one post was even featured on HuffPost Divorce (OMG, holy hell, y’all!).

My Post-Divorce Summer Fling

Rediscovering Sex After Divorce

8 Ways to Spice Things Up in the Bedroom

5 Sex Games Guaranteed to Spice Things Up

Where else will I write about sex? Who knows…there are plenty of opportunities out there.

Why won’t I write about it in this space?

For right now, it’s because I’m still finding my voice. Because my default way to discuss sex is blatant, with no filter. I’m pretty sure that much brutal honesty about sex doesn’t have a place here. I could be wrong.

Until then, know that there’s nothing to be uncomfortable about when it comes to sex and sexuality. As long as everything you do and like involves consenting adults, just have fun and be safe. I have an opinion about sex, education, and sharing our stories. And as I find more places to share my experience (in writing, y’all, get your minds out of the gutter), I’ll share it here, for those who are curious enough to click a link. But I’ll probably leave the sex talk for other venues and the introspective, music-loving, mom stuff for this space.

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