.SOMETIMES RAW.

The other day, I was putting my almost eight-year-old son to bed, when he turned to me and asked…

“When I grow up, will I have a chin?!

At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but then I realized that he knows many men with beards, so he thought his chin would disappear. I explained that he could have a beard or no beard, and either way, he would still have a chin.

I thought my work there was done and was about to head to the living room to read, but his follow-up question was…

“How did I get in your belly?”

Big questions, little man!

Back when I was seven and heard on the school bus about the shocking mechanics of baby-making, I hurried home to ask my mom, and I remember sitting in our cozy kitchen as she told us matter-of-factly how it all worked. And gave us books about this topic to read.

So, I looked around for a few books for Joel, and here’s what I found…

The Baby Tree. This is a beautiful, charming book about a little boy, whose parents reveal over breakfast that they’re expecting another baby. The boy wonders where the baby will come from, and proceeds to ask his babysitter, teacher, mail carrier, and grandpa. They all give him different answers, and when he finally asks his parents, they tell him directly and truthfully (and somewhat abstractly:). It’s really sweet, and I love that the final page of the book addresses more in-depth questions — about adoption, same-sex parents, etc.

Ages 4-8: It’s Not the Stork!
Ages 8-10: It’s So Amazing!
Ages 10 and up: It’s Perfectly Normal

These three books by Robie H. Harris and Michael Emberley are WONDERFUL. They talk about bodies, sex, birth, adoption, different types of families — and for teenagers, puberty, contraception, homosexuality, masturbation, you name it. The books are very open and accepting of kids’ questions and feelings while writing with a warm, direct tone.

Pamela Druckerman wrote a New York Times essay about the inspiring Dutch approach to teaching kids about sex:

Apparently, the Dutch are at the forefront of sex education, and they have little trouble broaching the topic. Parents in the Netherlands have lots of casual age-appropriate talks about sex with their kids, over many years, beginning when children are small.

“If we start with sexuality education when children are teenagers, or even just before they start with any interest in sexuality, I think you are too late,” says Sanderijn van der Doef, a psychologist…“As soon as children have questions, they have the interest, and then they have the right to get a correct answer.”

Dr. Van der Doef says parents should give simple, clear responses. If the child has more questions, he’ll ask. Once he’s 3 or 4, “You can start to explain, in a very simple way, that Mommy has a little egg in her belly, Daddy has very small sperms in his body, and when the sperms meet the egg, a baby grows in the belly of the mother.” Three-year-olds rarely ask how the sperm and egg meet. If they do, “then you have a very smart child at that age, and that means that child needs to have an answer,” she adds.

What about you? Have your little dudes asked about where babies come from? What did you tell them? How did your parents tell you? I’d love to hear… and no, I am not pregnant.

I believe the better the friend, the messier my house will be when she/he leaves.

I believe in listening to a taxi driver (in Vienna) tell me about his runaway daughter, four ex-wives, getting punched in the face last night, and being shot at on three separate occasions, in the time it takes to take me home.

I believe in what goes around comes around, reincarnation, and time travel. And Spiderman.

I believe there should be etiquette manuals called “Don’t wear fishnets stockings to a funeral”.

I believe in a Pulitzer Prize for swearing.

I believe in my brother who can fly a plane to get himself, my son and I safely from Vienna to Bavaria. I will take a parachute though. And a bat-suit for my son…. because it looks cool when we are all going down. 🙂

I believe that my brother will get super pissed about this but we will try to smuggle it on board. And of course we will cheat on the weight scale…..

I believe that instead of the superpower of flight or invisibility, I would like the ability to pick a ripe pear or honey melon.

I believe in buying the next size up because I was not put on this earth to fit into or restrain the largeness of my life.

Nor was I put on this earth to scroll my birth year like a Price is Right wheel, or remember what it was like to be your age.

No, I don’t want to talk to you on the phone while you talk to the barista; or text you when I get there; or wait for you on the corner that’s near there because I am not a prostitute.

I don’t want to grab anything by the horns, or keep it real.

I believe that nothing ages you more than shushing a room.

I believe in myself. I believe I should have put this first on the list.

I believe in a barfing cat home alarm instead of a barking dog.

I believe in emojis like peaches, the eyeroll one, the swear one, and the palm against forehead.

I believe in hole-punching divorce papers to make confetti.

I believe the new corona book clubs are robotic floor cleaner races (all fully vaccinated of course because of the terribly dangerous Delta mutation…… #eyerollemoji)

I believe in being positive and that mood swings suck.

I believe in the magic of lifelong friends.

I believe in Karma.

I believe that someone who takes a (not in a funny way) full Silence of the Lambs Anthony-Hopkins-through-the-psych-ward-looking-glass look at me is weird.

I believe in getting comfortable at Media Markt and play Nintendo Switch with my son for one hour without buying anything. They (covid-related) removed the massage chairs, goddammit. The little pleasures…..

I believe in playing chess with my son (for hours) without getting too angry when he beats me again.

I believe in a good old prank.

I believe in laughing when others are crying.

I believe in backup plans.

I believe in great sex but have you ever been relieved by a colleague at work and were able to go home?

I believe in fair treatment. Deep down, this must exist.

I believe I can sense certain patterns, selections, or promotions.

I believe in being a grown-ass lady.

I believe in having bad habits.

I believe that young kids are exposed too much to the internet. It is a consuming black hole and parents need to pay attention to this.

I believe that anyone who gives forcefully expressive advice about marriage is heading straight to the divorce court. Marriage is about the dance you do together but so many people are disappointed they are not in a lifelong happy relationship. There is no such thing. There are ups and downs. This is called life.

I believe in making people happy, in telling stories and making people laugh.

I believe being really connected to another person is as good as it gets. Candlelight… sex, all the good stuff.

I believe in love. It does exist.

When I lived in Canada I learned that Canadians apologise for everything. All the time. It is weird to me because Germans are so different. But it triggered this article. Here are some things I heard on a daily basis:

Sorry, I have a question.

Sorry, I am sorry. (Whenever I stood in front of a shelf in a store and couldn’t make a decision but someone wanted to get by)

Sorry, oh, you must be the new client! I am sorry, I am a police officer, not the receptionist. I feel terrible for misleading you, but I cannot get you coffee or give you a foot massage while you wait.

Sorry, but I can never express how I really feel at this place.

Sorry for clocking in three minutes late. I had to drop of my son at school, but then he puked Cocoa Puffs all over my shirts and- I know, I should have just told him not to get sick! It was completely in my control, and I have no excuse. Please don’t fire me.

Sorry about my naturally screechy voice. Feel free to plug your ears whenever I am talking!

Sorry, but from now on you have to address me as Mr. X and not Mrs. Y anymore. Things change. This is the 21st century.

Sorry, I am binary now. I will have my breast surgically removed so nobody knows that I am a woman.

Sorry for my resting bitch face. I know my serious expression is no fun for you to look at. Yes, you are right, I should smile more! Thank you for the advice, male stranger at work.

Sorry I am not wearing makeup today. I look like a total swamp creature. Anyway, ready for this half-marathon on your lunch break?

Hey, sorry to ask, but is this bus seat taken? Also, I apologise that my nine-months-pregnant-with-triplets belly is taking up so much room. Actually, I will just stand. It is fine!

Sorry, can you please stop yelling at me and tell me in a normal tone what I did wrong? Yelling means, you cannot express yourself in a civilised matter.

Sorry, for not realising you are a man.

Sorry, for not realising you are a woman.

Sorry, for not realising you want to be called raccoon.

Sorry, for being the reason the world is coming to an end and another lockdown in around the corner.

Sorry, but this doesn’t make sense to me at all. Why should I stand on a duct-taped cross?

Sorry, that I caught you cheating on me, but its much worse for you because your new girlfriend is screaming at you for cheating.

I am sorry, but I am breaking up with you. I am sorry for ending things now, the moment I realised I no longer loved you, instead of stringing you along just to avoid hurting your feelings.

Sorry, I am not interested in you, creepy guy at Billa – I am in a relationship. Yes, you are absolutely right! I am a nasty person for politely turning you down when I clearly should have prioritised your fragile ego. Let me just break up with my boyfriend real quick, and then you can put your sweaty hands wherever you want.

So sorry, construction workers. As much as I would like to stay and bask in your heartfelt whistling and sexual comments, I really must get going. Apologies if I also involuntarily make a face – you are just being nice, and I cannot take a “nice” compliment about my breasts.

Sorry cabdriver, but me telling you my name does not mean you will get a blow-job.

Sorry, I know it’s really stupid, but can you walk me to my car? Actually, I don’t want to inconvenience you. It’s only 11 pm – I can walk back to the sketchy parking garage by myself.

Sorry, but can you please stop texting and following me? This is creepy.

I am sorry, I should have been more clear last night. Obviously, saying “no” over and over really means “yes”. It is all my fault anyway.

Sorry for apologising so much!