Cash Back Recycling – Brilliant!

On trash pickup days, we put our recyclable materials in curbside bins: glass bottles, plastic bottles, tin and aluminum cans. The city hauls them all away for recycling.
“Do we get the CRV?” my daughter asked.
“No, we just let the truck take it all away for free,” I said. “And we feel good for recycling.”
My daughter was aghast, We were giving away cash! Ever the industrious teen. She kept the recyclable containers aside until we had a month’s worth of bottles and cans. It was a huge pile of loot, with plenty of those big dime-value containers.
We drove to our local recycling center, and were promptly told to sort our cans and bottles into bins. No problem! We had already separated the glass and plastic. How hard could it be?
“Clear glass here, colored glass there, aluminum here, plastic there, tin here,” the guy running the place said. A gruff-looking man rode up on a bicycle with huge plastic bags full of recyclables that we guessed he collected off the street. He didn’t need a tutorial, he went straight to work at sorting his find. Hey, if he can do it, so can we.
“Just make sure it says CA CRV on the label,” the recycling station manager said to us.
“Don’t they all say CA CRV?” we asked.
The recycling station manager cracked a smile. “Nope.”
For the record – California pays cash back for containers that held water, soda, beer, wine coolers, mineral water, sport drinks, coffee, tea and juice. (The redemption value is added on to the price of the beverage when you buy it.)
Those milk cartons we brought? Bzzzt.
Those plastic yogurt containers? Bzzzt.
Those tin cans that had healthy vegetables? Bzzzt.
For the stuff we returned that had redemption value, our cash back totaled a whopping 70 cents. That’s not even enough to buy a taco!
“So much for getting rich off our own recycling,” my daughter said.
My daughter gives up too easily. Clearly, we’re eating the wrong things.
“No more milk in your cereal,” I said. “Soda pays cash back.”
Caching!

Senior Moment

I recently celebrated a birthday that edges me closer to 50 than 40, and my daughter has predictably started teasing me about having senior moments. You know, those times you forget something you clearly should have remembered? Like wondering where your glasses are when they're sitting on top of your head.

I pride myself on having a razor sharp wit. (Whether I'm witty or not is still up for debate.) And so I don't exactly relish any senior moments that happen to me. I try to laugh them off and blame my pre-dinner insulin shot. Anything but accepting that my brain isn't quite what it used to be. (Is there an old home remedy for senior moment-itis? Sigh. Didn't think so...)

So I was thrilled when my teen daughter had a senior moment of her own.

My eighteen-year-old daughter is a collage sophmore. She's chosen extremely tough class load at school, with multiple hours of homework each night.

Add in club soccer, volunteer work, refereeing to make a buck, and she doesn't even have time to set the dinner table.

Okay, before anyone calls Child Protective Services, please know my ex and I talked to our daughter, and suggested she lighten her load. One less class won't make her collage transcripts look bad. And the time saved will be a huge benefit to her mental and physical health.

My daughter agreed, talked to her counselor, dropped a homework-intensive history class, and was good to go.

She texted me one morning from her school: have you seen my history book? I need to turn it in.

I was off work, so it was simple enough to duck into her room and look. No book on her desk, in the dresser, on the floor, on her bed. I texted: not here.

Twenty minutes later, another text from here: I'm sure I brought it to your house from mom's.

Okay, my daughter is Miss Super Student. More than once, she's been the sharpest tool in the shed. So of course, I figured I was having a senior moment and I'd overlooked the history book in her room. I searched again. No luck. I texted her back: sorry, it's not here.

She texted me: okay, I'll check my car.

If my daughter lost her book, it wouldn't be a big deal. She simply have to pay for a replacement. Textbooks aren't cheap, and teens don't make much money, so it would hit her where it counts. But she'd survive. Maybe even learn a lesson from it.

A few hours later, I received a text from her: I just remembered - I turned the textbook back in before school this morning.

Can you say "senior moment"?

I can. And she'll never hear the end of it. I guarantee.

Teen Daughter – Curfew, Shmurfew

My teenage daughter has her driver’s license, her own car, her own cell phone, and her own set of friends. In other words, I’m starting to not see her much lately. She’ll take off on a weekend afternoon to hang out, or engage in Nerf-gun wars. She’ll take off on a weeknight to study with friends.
I’m suddenly having to set and enforce curfews.
She’s an adult, and she’s in college, so I’m trying to give her as much curfew freedom as possible. With freedom comes responsibility, right? And what better time to learn responsibility than when you’re living at home with a parent to guide you.
On a recent Saturday night when my daughter was out with friends, she texted me an hour before her midnight curfew: can I stay till 1?
I texted back: where r u?

She texted that they were at a friend’s house, watching the Sound of Music on DVD.
A one hour extension seemed perfectly reasonable to me, especially since she’d given me decent warning. I asked who else was there. She told me – a mix of boys and girls, and the girl’s parents were home. I said fine, be home by 1am.
At 12:30am, she texted again: can I stay till 2?
WTF? When she texted the first time, she would have known what time the movie would end. I was guessing they were moving on to some other entertainment – Wii, or cards, or Craig Ferguson on TV.
I figured this was a teaching moment. Since she wasn’t giving me any compelling reason to push her curfew to 2am, I decided she could live with her first request.
I texted back: no.
Five minutes later my phone rang. (My daughter never calls me. She only texts)
“Hi, Mr. Valadez,” a girls’ voice said. “This is your daughter’s friend Maxine.” (Name changed to protect the innocent.) “Can your daughter sleepover tonight?”
Huh? This was way beyond watching a DVD, or playing Wii. I mean, sleepovers are fun and all, and I’m fine with my daughter sleeping over at a girl’s house. But for me to be asked by my daughter’s friend? In the middle of the night? When I’d already been told there were boys?
“No,” I said. “Tell her to be home by one.”
“It’s just girls sleeping here,” the friend said.
“That’s great. One o’clock.”
Sometimes a dad has to be firm with his daughter.
Especially when he’s usually a pushover.

When a Dad’s Daughter Needs Girl Stuff

My daughter asked me to buy her tampons the other day. Ugh. That’s the last thing a dad wants to get at the local drug store. It’s bad enough buying her razors (little pink ones), face soap (fancy junk from a spa), shampoo and conditioner (a very specific brand and type).
I can never find exactly what she wants. I stand there endlessly searching shelves while female shoppers wonder why their section’s been overrun by a guy. Men no more belong in an aisle of women’s personal things than women belong by racks of jock-itch cream.
But feminine hygiene products? Someone please find me a rock to crawl under.
“Can’t you get them yourself?” I asked.

My daughter is eighteen and has her driver license. She loves any excuse to get behind the wheel, including running an errand.

“I really need them,” she said. “I’m already out.”

“So go right now.”
“I’m about to take a shower.”
She’d just returned from the gym and needed to get cleaned up. Plus, she’d driven herself there, so maybe she already got her behind-the-wheel thrill for the day.
“Don’t you have an emergency one in your bag?” I asked.
“I used it,” she said.
If she was at her mom’s house she could raid the bathroom and find what she needed. But here in her dad’s house, she’s the only female.
She smiled sweetly, one of those pretty-please looks that melts a dad every time.
I sighed. “Can you plan a little better next time?” I asked.
“Okay,” she said, then kissed me on the cheek.
She told me exactly where to go in the drug store, as well as the brand name and color of the box. (Oddly enough, the word tampon doesn’t appear anywhere on the packaging. How the heck would I have found what she needed on my own?)
Ah, but did she want scented or unscented? I was tempted to pick a box and go, but I’d come this far, I wanted to get the right one. With my daughter in the shower and unable to talk on the phone, I dialed her mom. Nothing like saying the word tampon into the phone with nearby customers peering and leering at me.
My daughter was pleased with the purchase, happy and grateful I’d come through in a pinch. I have to admit I made it through the experience unscathed.

Losing Control

Several years into this thing, I think I am officially experiencing diabetes burnout — in the form of food rebellion, that is.  My numbers have been crap, and I am feeling disgusted with myself. Sound familiar, anyone?
Actually, it was Kelly K’s ‘food quirks’ post over at Diabetesalicousness that got me thinking, I ought to clear my conscience by airing the bold truth about what’s going on with me: I feel like I’m officially ‘losing it’ (and I don’t mean weight).
Unlike Kelly, who was diagnosed as a child and feels grateful for the freedom and flexibility that carb-counting has brought to her life, I feel enslaved by it. I noticed that gradually, over this year’s Holiday Season in particular, I’ve started throwing caution to the wind more and more often and indulging in carb-heavy foods I’ve rarely touched in the years since my diagnosis: crackers, granola, muffins, rice chips, tortilla chips, potato chips and various forms of rice. These items taste GOOD, and I missed them terribly! Do note that in my case, everything now has to be the special gluten-free variety, and having to deal with this incredibly fussy wheat allergy just makes me feel that much more entitled to eat something truly yummy now and then.
I am SO TIRED of watching people around me enjoy pancakes, cupcakes, French Fries, pasta — even something as supposedly healthful as crab cakes, which I can never order in restaurant as they are always doused in flour.  When is it my turn to enjoy yummy foods again? When I’m dead?
But on the flip side, I hate the payoff of enjoying these items: extra pounds (tighter pants) and glucose levels often well over 200. SHIT! It’s my own fault. I feel guilty and angry and unimaginably frustrated, but also somehow unable to stop myself, at least for the time being.
Add to the extra carb-punch the fact that I had a bad cold a few weeks ago, and developed an ear infection. They had me on antibiotics for 2 weeks. So you see, when diabetes things go wrong, they go wrong BIG. It’s Murphy's Law. Running really high today? Let’s take a wild-ass guess: it could be the infection, the antibiotic meds, that pack of chips you probably carb-counted wrong, or maybe even the fact that your throat’s getting sore today so there may be a cold coming on.
It’s a big fat guessing game, and I am tired of it. I suppose my current attitude is simply: Why try? I know that’s not sustainable; I’m struggling to ‘get it together’ again.  I hope y’all don’t mind my venting, but I figured it might do somebody some good out there to know that we PWDs (PEOPLE WITH DIABETES) are all riding the same roller coaster. {insert rebel yell!}

Cell Phone in the Dryer

My daughter’s cell phone went through the laundry.
There, I said it. And no, it’s not easier to say simply because it happened at her mom’s house. What happened could have happened at my place or anywhere.
You see, my daughter did the laundry, and she doesn’t normally do that chore. She dumped things in the washer one pile at a time. So she didn’t exactly check every pocket for rocks or gum or money.
Or cell phones.
At least I know she won’t be sending any dirty text messages. (Haha. Get it?)
Lesson learned, for my daughter.
My daughter should have emptied her cell phone out of her pocket before she chucked her jeans in the dirty clothes basket.

You’d think she would have noticed when her phone wasn’t near her! She’s a texting maven. Her phone chimes, rings, and buzzes off the hook, even when it’s not exactly on the hook.
To help her learn a lesson, we waited a month (!!!) before replacing the dang thing. And we charged her a pretty penny for her share of it. But replace it we did. She’s back texting again.
“Hey Dad,” she said this morning. “I’m popular!”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“I’ve gotten 200 texts in the last 2 days!”
I don’t equate popularity with number of texts, or self esteem with texting. But she’s only eighteen. Let her have her fun, eh?
“Do you have unlimited texting?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said.
“Are you sure? Because if you don’t, you’re paying the over-run charges.”
She went silent. After paying her share of the replacement phone, I can’t blame her.
“Mom says it’s unlimited,” she said.
Huh? “Are you positive?” I asked.
“I just texted her!”
That’s my Pumpkin!

A Dad, His Daughter, Her Friend

A friend of my teen daughter was recently going through a stack of old photographs when she came across a picture of me. I was in a swimming pool, holding her (the friend) so that her head was above water. We were both smiling, mugging for the camera. The girl was three at the time.
Here’s the weird part: this teen girl and my daughter only became friends in high school. The photo was taken fifteen years before.
To which I say: WTF!?
Before this blog post goes all Twilight Zone on you, know that there’s a simple explanation.
By sheer coincidence, our families had both vacationed in Vegas at the same time. Our daughters met and hit it off in the Kids Club. The parents hit off it at the bar, conversation-wise. And I had spent a boat-load of time in the pool with both girls, so much so that the other girl’s mom took photos of us splashing around.
There were pictures of the two girls, as well. But their looks had changed so much over the years, the friend didn’t recognize my then-three-year-old daughter from that trip.
Somehow, I looked the same. (Fifteen years later!)
I guess all those insulin shots and high blood pressure medicine have kept me well preserved.

Wal-Mart: The Weirdo-Freak Capitol Of The World

One positive thing about becoming Paris Hilton would be that I’d never have to go to Wal-Mart.  But, if for some strange reason I did become Paris Hilton, I’d have to say I’d gladly go to Wal-Mart in exchange for a brain and/or the removal of all the venereal diseases I have swimming around in my reproductive system.
Regardless… Wal-Mart is a strange place.  While I understand it’s a “monopoly” of sorts I cannot ignore the fact that their oatmeal  is twenty cents cheaper than Homeland’s, their canned mandarin oranges are ten cents cheaper than Target’s, their adult diapers are almost a dollar cheaper than Geriatric World’s and their fertility testing is almost a thousand bucks cheaper than the local hospital’s!
Although, low prices don’t always tend to attract financially saavy individuals hell bent on saving money for retirement… they also attract some of the weirdest damn freaks you've ever seen!
Case in point:

I myself fell victim to a Wal-Mart troll about a week ago… although it wasn’t so much what I saw than what I heard.
Allow me to explain…
Bre and I had just turned the corner of the bread aisle because we were looking for some tortillas to make chicken enchiladas for some friends that particular evening.  A quick glance down the aisle revealed I was sharing it with one other man.  He was an older gentleman carrying a food basket.  He sported a very trailer-trashy ensemble with a long trench coat, flowing greasy hair and combat boots.  This indeed really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for Wal-Mart but as we closed in on crossing paths I noticed he was talking on the phone in very hushed tones.  I’m not one to really try to listen in on other people’s conversations but as we passed I couldn’t help but catch what he was saying in very forceful tones:
“I’m sticking my tongue in your mouth and I’m swirling it all around all in your mouth.  Oh.  It feels so good…..”
Needless to say I was slightly taken aback… yet strangely intrigued by this multi-talented man who could apparently shop for bread while deeply engrossing himself in such an emotional phone call.  I don’t stare at people EVER… but this just wasn’t any old people.  This was perhaps one of the weirder things I hope to ever see at a Wal-Mart.
So, I positioned myself amongst the wheat breads in such a way where I could keep an eye on this guy and see if I could hear anything else he was saying.
I didn’t have to wait long.
As he continued strolling amongst the breads he stopped and began slapping his hands together right next to the receiver of his telephone while saying, “… And I’m spanking your ass so hard!  Oh, and you like it!  Oh yeah, c’mon baby!”
For as quickly as I was intrigued by this dude… I was just as quickly completely disgusted and felt a bit like vomiting on the english muffins.
I tucked tail and got out of that aisle as fast as I could lest I contract some airborne “freak-weirdo” virus and feel inclined to conduct a phone sex call in Wal-Mart or something.
While it could have been any number of scenarios, I believe he was more than likely a phone sex-operator on the phone with “a client”… or he was just a complete freak getting his rocks off on a phone-sex call!   I’m not one to judge (okay maybe I am), but isn’t there a better place to conduct such a phone call than in the bread aisle at Wal-Mart?
I felt a little less queasy once I came home and took a shower to wash all the heebie-jeebies off.
———————————————————————
I wanna hear good stories from you all on some of the weirdness you’ve seen at Wal-Mart.  C’mon… gimme somethin’ good!

Kim Kardashian And I Broke Up

Those of you who know are familiar with my crush on the socialite gone mega-super reality star, Kim Kardashian.  I’ve mentioned her one to many times and have kind of made it a running joke for those of you who listen to me.
I understand my fascination with her.  It isn’t her wit or wisdom or ability to make me laugh.  It certainly isn’t the fact she made a sex tape with Ray J who might possibly the Universe’s biggest douchebag.  It honestly was because of her looks.
But even I can’t maintain a celebrity crush based on that alone.
When someones fame becomes far larger than the galaxy in which they reside… it kinda turns me off.
She’s everywhere.  She endorses everything.
Shoes:

Fast Food:

Weight-Loss Supplements:

Silly Bands:

The Dodgers:

Giant Mouth Bowls:

And along with a million other products… she has her very own song for the love of everything holy.

How much more exposure does she need?  How much bigger can she become?  The Kardashian mafia made over $65 million in 2010 and they command such outrageous demands as $25,000 for a tweet to endorse a person or product!  No wonder I could never get her to follow me on Twitter!  I don’t have $25,000 to throw at her so she can make more in one second typing something on Twitter than most people in Cambodia or Somalia make in their entire lifetime.
Kim is very pretty but I believe her head has become bigger than her ass at this point… and that would make for one gigantic head.
I’m sorry Kim… it’s over between you and me.
Please stop crying.  You’re embarrassing me.

My Teen Daughter is a Grandma

My teen daughter is already a grandma. How can this be?
No, she hasn’t given birth to any children, let alone have children give birth to any kids. (I gave her a father daughter sex talk at an early age. I’m pretty sure she won’t get pregnanton a drucken booty call anytime soon.)
She does have her senior moment, but that’s not it either.
My teen daughter is a grandma for one simple reason – when we bought a box of See’s chocolates, she insisted on getting nothing but candies with soft centers.
WTF!?
You think I’m nuts, right? Please. I can’t even think about biting into another Dark Buttercream, Pineapple Truffle, Cocoanut Cream, or Blueberry Truffle without gagging. Where are the nuts? Where’s the caramel? Where’s the brittle? Where’s the molasses chips?
Grandmas buy chocolates with soft centers so they won’t bust a tooth. They buy soft center chocolates so when their dentures are in a glass, they can simply gum the candies down.
My daughter is a grandma. And she’s only eighteen.

Get a Job!

When an oil change for my daughter’s car turned into major automotive repairs, it created a chance to teach our teen responsibility. You see, she doesn’t own the car; her grandparents do. So who exactly was supposed to pay for the repairs? (Subliminal message to our teen daughter: Get a job!)                                                          

My ex and I talked and came up with a plan.

First, we told our daughter that we didn’t expect her grandparents to fix thier own car and then give it to her for free. It’s not like they’re exec at AIG or anything. There’s no money tree in thier backyard. If there is, they kept it secret from me for 15 years! (Subliminal message to our teen daughter: Get a job!)

Second, we told her she didn’t have to take that car. She could find a comparably priced vehicle that she preferred. On that news, she jumped on craigslist and soon found a kick-ass Maxima at a cheap price. (Props to her for being so motivated.)

Only problem, the Maxima was in Boston. But hey – the guy selling it was in the Army and heading to Iraq, and he needed to unload it quick. He’d even pay to have it shipped here to California. My daughter was thrilled.

Um… does that sound sketchy to anyone besides my ex and me?

Who would check the car out? Why couldn’t this guy sell it to someone in Boston? Had the vehicle been in a collision? Was it considered “totaled”? If we did send a check, who would make sure the car was transported by a reputable shipping company all the way to California?

In other words, we told our daughter no to the Boston Maxima. (Subliminal message to our teen daughter: Get a job!)

Our daughter did some more checking, and realized her grandparent’s car was actually a great deal. The car is the vehicle of her dreams, but it’s functional and affordable. Props to her for doing the research, and being comfortable with her choice! That’s responsibility.

Third, while she does have money that she’s saved over the years toward a car, she doesn’t have enough to buy the car, repair it, and maintain it. Her mom and I said we’d chip in on one condition, and our message was not subliminal: our teen daughter had to get a job!

When I was seventeen, I’d already worked a full year, slinging burgers at Carl's Jr.. I couldn’t wait to make my own cash. Granted, my daughter has been a youth soccer referee since she was thirteen or so, and she refereed for gas for a while. But once her collage social life took off, she didn’t want to work weekends anymore.

Now that her teen independence is on the line by way of a car, she’s taking a new and deeper look at the whole work thing. Does she want to spend her weekends refereeing soccer, or being a cashier at Target? Or would she rather spend her remaining free time with friends? She’s thinking hard.

How long will it take for her to get a job? Who knows. At some point, she’ll decide she wants the car badly enough. Or there will be something else that costs money that will make her realize she needs to get a job.

Then again, maybe she found her grandparents’s money tree.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Teen Responsibility by the Truckload

My daughter’s car needed an oil change. Me being a helpful dad, I offered to take it in while she was at school.
Okay, it’s not really “her” car – it’s her grandparents’s. So they are happy to let her drive it. One day, they might even sell it to her at a family price. I don’t like the quickie oil change franchise stores, and instead prefer to use my regular mechanic. That was great for the car, since it has a nasty engine squeak we wanted checked out. I waited until the rain let up this week, then tossed my bike in the truck bed with the intention of cycling back home while the mechanic did his work.

Here’s where the problems started.

I turned on the engine, and the CD player was blaring! Okay, my daughter’s in collage. I’d done the same thing when I was her age. I turned the volume down, and listened to Abba as I drove.

On the way to the mechanic, I noticed the gas gauge wasn’t just low, it was on empty! Damn. I pulled into the nearest station and put ten bucks in the tank. (My daughter later told me she was trying to stretch the gas out one more week. She’d get in the car and verbalize her wish: “Come on, you gotta hold out for one more week!” Damned if that didn’t work for her.)

When I dropped off the car with the mechanic, and pulled out my bike, it started raining. Doh! No worries, I could dry off at home. But wouldn’t you know, it didn’t just rain, it poured – and only during my ride – drenching me to the bone. The rain let up as soon as I arrived at my house.

A few hours later the mechanic called. Bad news. The rear tire tread was too low for the car to be safely driven (especially in the rain), and the front tires were 1/32” away. He doesn’t sell tires – so this is like a massage therapist noticing you need a root canal. Just take care of it soon!

But wait, there’s more! That squeak? Belt tensioner needs to be replaced. Belts too.

Oh, and the front brakes are pretty much gone.

WTF!

What kind of grandparents lets thier granddaughter drive a death machine like this!? (just kidding).

No worries, all these things can be repaired. Right? Um… for $600. Not including new tires.

Okay, at this point I wondered why I suddenly have to pay to fix problems that already existed on a car I don’t own. I tell the mechanic to hold off, and I call my ex.

Turns out we can buy the car from her dad if we want. She can negotiate him down to cover some of the repairs. Blue book value is $3500. So now I’m looking at $1750 for my share, plus some portion of tires and repairs.

WTF! This was supposed to be an oil change.

My ex and I talked things over. We both didn’t want to dump that sort of money into our daughter’s car. I mean, what happened to riding your bike everywhere, getting a job at Taco Bell, saving every penny until you could afford your own wheels? Oh, that’s right. We live in California where some kids are given new Beemers when they turn sixteen.

My ex and I agree that we need to make a plan – between us, our daughter, and the grandparents. Who will pay for what. Who will own the vehicle. Who will be responsible for maintaining it going forward.

Does this sound like a chance to let our daughter learn about fiscal responsibility? Oh, yeah!

I broke the news to my daughter, and she took it in stride.
“It sucks being a responsible adult,” she said.
“Ha,” I said. “We’ve got you on responsibility training wheels. Wait until you’re out there on your own!”

Quarter tank of gas: $10
Oil change: $42
Life lesson for a teen about fiscal responsibility: Priceless

[Read the followup post: Get a Job!]

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

How to Talk to Your Daughter About Sex

This advice comes about nine months too late for the Gloucester High teenage girls with the pregnancy pact, but there’s been enough reaction to what they did that I figured some prevention talk was in order.
As a single dad with a teenage daughter, I have first-hand experience in giving the talk to a girl. I told my preteen daughter about the birds and bees in explicit detail when she was a heading into sixth grade. This in response to news that local 6th-8th grade boys were persuading girls to perform oral sex on them in the school bathroom. (My daughter is now 18 and dating.)

My daughter and I talked for an hour. I wasn’t nervous, I remained calm and spoke openly. My candor eased her into having a real conversation with me.

1. Biology – I explained the reproductive system of men and women, building on whatever knowledge the school had given her. I asked leading questions to see what she knew, then wove in new information. I described intercourse. (I didn’t get into crazy monkey sex.)

2. Love – we talked about falling in love, getting married, caring unconditionally for another person, and how sex can enhance all that. Without getting into tantric sex, I explained that great sex can feel spiritual.


3. Enjoyment – sex feels good. If it didn’t, no one would procreate.

4. Entertainment – it’s possible to have sex for entertainment and fun, without being in love, and a lot of people do just that. It really helped having a visual aid for my daughter. I showed her the book Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love and Lose at Both, and explained how hooking up and sex without attachment leads to empty feelings, not to mention the risk of disease.

5. STDs – some sexually transmitted diseases are passed through an exchange of fluids, and others from skin-to-skin contact. Safe sex, including condoms, is a must.

6. Peer pressure – we talked about how some people go along with the group, even if the choice is wrong. Locally, girls were told they had to give blowjobs if they wanted to hang out with the cool boys. Some were even promised the status of girlfriend. This gave the girls a sense of self-esteem that maybe they weren’t getting at school or at home. Problem was, the next day some of the boys turned a cold shoulder and moved on to their next conquest.

7. Oral – the boys in our local community were telling girls “it’s only a kiss, just not on the mouth.” So, yes, I explained to my daughter how oral sex is peformed. She was kind of grossed out (what eleven year old wouldn’t be?)

8. Parenting – I reminded her that having a kid changes the course of the rest of your life. Parenting is hugely rewarding, but also a giant responsibility. Let pregnancy happen when she’s ready for everything that goes with it.

My daughter asked great questions – Does it hurt? How old was I when I became sexually active? She called her aunt the next day with well-thought follow-ups.

The fact that I’m single and dating helped me relate. It also meant I felt a little awkward at times – like any normal adult, I usually have sex just for fun. Sometimes that’s with a Friend-With-Benefits or booty-call partner who I’m not in love with.

But I kept all the awkward feelings to myself. It was more important to arm my daughter with knowledge, and empower her to feel good about herself, enjoy sex when she’s ready, and become a mother on her own good time.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]