The debate over “abstinence only” versus “comprehensive” sex education continues to rage. A quick internet search turns up about a million different statistics that have been helpfully twisted around to support the opinion of whomever happens to run that particular website.  Eh, who needs statistics? I think the average logical person realizes that abstinence-only sex ed has failed miserably over the past decade. Yet even those who’ve been personally affected by these programs refuse to admit their inefficacy. *cough* Sarah Palin *cough*

In an ideal world, parents would educate their own children on the subject, but unfortunately, most parents simply fail to offer any guidance whatsoever. My own Mom and Dad, who were excellent parents in many ways, were both much too uncomfortable to discuss the topic with me. My entire “talk” can be summarized by the following scenario, which took place while Dad and I gave the dog a bath. 

“Hey Dad, hand me the soap. I need to wash his hindquarters.”

“Be careful,” Dad grunted. “He’s sensitive down there.”

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The dictionary has a few definitions of the word “hermit.”  I’m not going with the one in my title, or the Ornithological one.  I’m going with the one that applies to people who have grown tired of sharing their space with assholes and want to live the rest of their lives alone—or with a few chosen others—under the guise of religious devotion or not.

After the birth of my third child, I retreated into a very hermit-like existence.  I had an infant to tend to and I pretty much hated the living guts of most of the adults I was around day-to-day.  It was easy and forgivable for me to say, Eh, I think I’ll just putter around the house with the baby today and if I feel the need to go out, we’ll take a walk through the park or drive up to the Target around the corner for a few things.  Then I was hit with a series of non-devastating but very inconvenient health problems, followed by a couple of minor surgeries that took a long time to heal.  So, my reclusive behavior was again reinforced by my limited mobility.  I just couldn’t get out and about.  People understood, gave me their sympathy, went on with their bustling, chatty little lives and left me alone. 

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Pre-baby I knew how to chill, hard. I never worried about what was going on that weekend, or when I would have time to finish a novel, I just did it. If I felt like going out to eat, I did. If I wanted to skip work and head to the beach for a morning of iced coffee in the sand and swimming, I ran with it…but now I’ve got a just-about eleven month old…

And I’ve become a planner.

I used to chill hard, and now I plan er, harder. I mean it. I must drive my babysiter nuts because I plan out our week Sunday night. Example:

“So Monday I’m going to work from 10am until lunchtime or so, and than we can go grab lunch at the diner, and I want to bring Paige to the park so lets do that, followed by some work before dinner, okay? Tuesday lets plant flowers in the morning, and I’ll work for 3 hrs 45 minutes and we’ll make chicken salad with curry and apples for lunch and than Paige will nap and I’ll work and than we can go for a walk in the forest but than we’ll take a swim OR sit in the grass and talk..”

I actually plan out conversations.

What’s happening to me? I am a plan freak! The grandma borrowed Paige for the weekend and was deciding whether or not she would take her until Tuesday, she just needed to hear back form her job. Well, I called FIVE TIMES because I felt I couldn’t go on until I knew my plans. Like, if I knew I had an extra 24 hours to myself I’d probably spend more time laying around and reading, or twirling my hair…but if I didn’t I’d crack down and kick some ass cleaning.

I need help. I’m beginging to annoy the SHIT out of well, everyone.

Mike Moh is the kids’ former tae kwon do instructor who moved to LA to pursue an acting career, but he continues to teach and inspire his students through his blog. The other day, he wrote about the concept of a “Dream Board.” He described this as corkboard that you use to display your goals—like motivational sayings, or pictures of things you wish to attain through hard work. I immediately had a vision of my “Dream Board,” and tacked upon it would be a picture of my family.

A chorus of “awww” would be appropriate now, but let me explain why a photo of us together would be significant. Well, in this snapshot, all three of my kids have their heads attached to their bodies, and I’m still in the picture. Yes, my goal–my dream for the summer is to make it to the end without decapitating them or running away in the minivan with our life’s savings and a six-pack of diet cream soda.

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“Quick! Dad is on the way home,” my siren like voice echoes across the kitchen, until it reaches the little people who are comfortably resting on the couch and taking in all the Sponge Bob that their little minds can handle without spontaneously combusting. This is the cue that all of my children have been trained to recognize as the signal to get off their lazy keysters and help me get the house in order before Dad walks in the front door.

You see, in our humble abode, the kids and I have a little agreement. I allow the cleaning to be carelessly tossed to the wayside while we engage in cooking lessons, educational bridging exercises, kiddie pool wading and various summer fun activities. The way I figure it, trying to keep the house clean while the kids are present and involved in the messy business of being children, is pretty much a losing battle. Choosing to fight such battles just makes for afternoons filled with nothing but bouts of hair pulling frustration and frantic attempts to erase muddy footprints with the mop before the next stampede of puddle jumpers descends upon the family room.

Why bother?

That is where my husband and I disagree. He is the advocate for preventative cleaning measures and holds the same ideals of keeping a perpetually tidy house, as every other clean freak in the nation.  If he only knew how truly disgusting the house becomes every weekday, from the hours of 7:00 am until he returns home, he would probably have a conniption fit. In fact, I have to keep myself from laughing, on the weekends, when I see him anxiously twiddling his thumbs in the corner of the kitchen as he watches us leisurely go from the first meal of the day to the first activity, without so much as a sweep or table scrubbing. He can only go so long, without asking if “I’d like some help tidying up the area before it gets too bad.” Usually I will oblige his need for immediate sanitation satisfaction, but sometimes I will tell him that I’ll get to it in a minute, just for the fun of watching him pick up a towel and peevishly start scrubbing dishes. It is mean, I know. Hey…after ten years of marriage, I have to find some way of paying him back for refusing to use the laundry hamper for the disposal of his soiled garments, over and over again!

Lucky for me, the husband has a knack for finding a bigger, better more efficient way of doing event he tiniest of household chores. Then, when I finally do get around to picking up a mop, there will be a more efficient way of getting the job done, in less time!  Thanks to his freakish enjoyment of inventing these methods, I have my five o’clock cleaning routine whittled down to a silky smooth forty minutes. His method even leaves me with five extra minutes to check my email and start dinner. When the mess-a-phobe…er, husband comes through our front door, he sees a clean house, a sane mother, dinner on the stove and is none the wiser. Bwahahaha! But please, keep this between us. It may ruin my ability to sneak in some occasional day time blogging and then life, as I know it, would be much less enjoyable. Shhh, it will be our little secret!