Scribbles and Giggles

By Viv Sade for Buscovoice.com

Mark Twain had the right idea on raising teenagers: Seal them in a barrel when they turn 13 and feed them through a tube until they turn 20.

That day started out normally enough … well, if normal can be defined as two teens sleeping until noon and then waking up and peering into the cupboards crammed full of $200 worth of groceries and declaring loudly, “There’s NOTHING to eat!”

Son Age 19, needed directions to get to the Indianapolis airport to pick up a friend who was visiting from Florida. He also needed to borrow $25 for gas. And maybe just $10 – no, make that $15 – for food and”stuff.” Just until payday. No, really.

Traveling with him were Levi, Josh and Alex, who we will refer to as Larry, Curly and Moe, with my son being the Ringleader Stooge.

I drew detailed maps and laboriously wrote out precise, articulate directions. Son Age 19 grabbed the money, ran out of the house, jumped into the car with his three friends and took off.

The directions remained on the kitchen table.

Two hours later, I received a series of cell phone calls from the four hopelessly lost Stooges. They took turns reading road signs, describing the surrounding terrain and asking me if I had a clue where they were, exactly.

At one time, they were in Zionsville, north of Indianapolis, and the next time they called, they were in Shelbyville, south of Indianapolis. They insisted they had never seen I-465 – which completely encircles Indianapolis.

After the sixth call – this one from “some highway” with a sign noting that Richmond, Ind. was only 40 miles to the East, I begged them to just pull over and ask someone – anyone – for directions to the Indy airport.

Then – silence – the calls stopped.

I relaxed, but not completely, because shortly after giving birth, a woman loses 22.3 pounds and all capacity to completely relax for the next 25 years.

About three hours later, the phone rang. Moe told me they were headed home and were nearing Fort Wayne. They wanted directions to a Fort Wayne Hospital to visit a sick friend.

I gave the directions to the downtown hospital. Everything was fine. Heck, they were 30 minutes away. What could go wrong?

Five minutes later, two very polite officers from the local police department knocked on my back door.

The police explained that they had received a call from the Fort Wayne Police Department about a suspected kidnapping at the corner of Taylor and Broadway streets. A passing motorist and concerned senior citizen had reported a group of hoodlums stuffing a body into the trunk of a 1996 Blue Buick Regal.

My Blue 1996 Blue Buick Regal.

Raising teenage boys makes me crazzzzzy ...

It was one of those life-defining moments when – in a split second – everything balanced on the precipice, with the potential to change dramatically as I straddled that very thin line between loving, understanding maternal figure and murderous, loony madwoman.

I grabbed my cell phone and motioned for the cops to hold on.

Moe answered.

“How’s it going?” I asked. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Great!” Moe said, obviously unaware that he was on America’s Most Wanted List. “We just left the hospital and we’re on our way home.”

“You haven’t … ummm … done anything well, stupid, have you?” I asked. “Like, maybe, kidnap somebody?”

Moe – who, like Son Age 19 and Son Age 17 – has had a propensity to “go along” with doing something stupid many, many times over the past ten years, gasped in disbelief. “How did you know that?” he asked incredulously.

“Wild guess,” I said into the phone while smiling weakly at the two officers.

I then did something of which I wish I could say I am ashamed, but I am not. I streeeeetched the truth and scared the beejimmies out of them.

Using my shrill “mom” voice, I told them the Fort Wayne Police had called the local police and issued a suspicious vehicle alert and were looking for them.

“If they pull you over, be prepared to be apprehended at gunpoint and thrown to the ground and handcuffed,” I told Moe. ” … and possibly Tazed. Ooohhh, ever been Tazed? I understand it hurts like hell. Sometimes people die.”

Actually, the Fort Wayne police were waiting to hear from the local police who were now standing in my back room, who had earlier assured them that it was probably some kind of teenage prank.

The ploy worked. The boys were home in record time.

They explained that they had been “goofing around” and thought it would be funny to put a paper bag with cutout eyes over Curly’s head and act like they were kidnapping him. They did this and then “threw” him into the trunk and took photos on their cell phone and sent them to all of their friends, asking for ransom money for Curly’s release. All the kids thought this was hilarious. The senior citizen driving by in the 1986 Ford sedan did not. Neither did I.

Later, the photos of Curly, smiling and showing off his cute dimples and freckles with the paper bag perched on top of his head at a jaunty angle while Larry, Moe, Son Age 19 and Florida Friend Fresh From the Airport grinned like maniacal jack-o-lanterns in the background, all went into our Great Dysfunctional Family Scrapbook.

I tried to explain that while that kind of horseplay might have taken place in the small town where we live without so much as a second glance, in bigger cities – where sociopaths are known to stuff bodies into trunks on a semi-regular basis – it can’t be done. Not without SWAT team interference.

Then they uttered the statement that all teenage boys make after doing something incredibly stupid: “We were just having fun.”

On the other hand, the faux kidnap message did raise several hundred dollars in ransom for Curly from some cute girls who wanted to “rescue” him.

(Viv Sade is a writer and the mother of four, and thinks that children, politicians and overly-perky co-workers on Prozac should be neither seen nor heard.)

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade for Buscovoice.com

Fishnet hose is making a comeback.

My father is turning over in his grave.

The two thoughts are synchronistic.

As a child, I learned a hard lesson – that silky, black, fishnet hosiery is Latin for “SLEAZY.”

That message was not so subliminally ingrained in me as a young, impressionable adolescent girl during a time when studies showed that the average teenage girl’s brain was composed of Silly Putty and NeHi grape soda.

When I was 14, a Greyhound bus service ran 15 miles from my hometown to Fort Wayne. My best friend, Roberta “Bert” and I would catch the bus in front of Barnhart’s Drug Store and Soda Fountain every Saturday for 50 cents round trip.

We would save our weekly (50 cent) allowance for a few weeks and then ride the bus and spend the afternoon wolfing down donuts and cherry cokes at Murphy’s 5 & 10 Store in downtown Fort Wayne. We also visited Stillman’s Department Store, a high rise – Lord, what was it, five, six floors?

It was a world far outside of our small neighborhood – women in pillbox hats and meticulous white gloves who drank martinis with olives, snooty saleswomen wearing strands of pearls, gray-haired ladies who smelled of musty roses who worked all day selling ladies’ dress gloves – for God’s sake, there was one entire floor of GLOVES!

All of these women and the salesmen who worked in the men’s departments seemed oblivious to the fact that the world was changing around them – young boys were dying in some war in a jungle far away; in the South, people who were trying only to be treated as human beings and as equals were dying, as well.

But on the fourth floor of Stillman’s – Hosiery & Gloves – life stood still.  The Earth rotated around a delicate pair of white cotton evening gloves with tiny covered buttons or the perfect pair of Sandtone, silky nylon stockings.

For weeks, I saved money so that I could make the ultimate of all acquisitions for a 14-year-old in 1966 – some groovy, black fishnet hose.

I told no one except of course, Bert. Somehow, although we’d never discussed the complex, immoral implications of fishnet stockings, I just instinctively knew my parents would not approve. Nor would Bert’s.

Besides, I wasn’t allowed to wear hosiery at all – fishnet or otherwise. That was in 1966BP (Before Pantyhose), and one year away from the fabulous fashion arrival of tights, so back then nylons required as many mechanisms as an auto body shop. There were the snap garters, the girdles, the roll-up garters (which never failed to roll down at the most inopportune times).

But the garter belt – well, it just sounded dirty.

Still does.

Bert and I both were forced to wear white anklets or knee high socks. She was a good, Catholic girl. I was not.

All I really knew was that once I possessed those black fishnet nylons – worn by all the chic, Twiggy-thin models in the fashion magazines – I would rise to the highest junior high level of popularity attainable anywhere in the Universe.

My skin would clear up. Boys would want to hold my hand as we rode the Ferris wheel together at the Turtle Days Festival. The neighborhood bully would quit pulling my ponytail and spitting on my little brother. I would suddenly grow a bosom … or two. I would be invited to all the cool cats’ parties. The lunch lady would quit throwing potatoes au gratin at me while cursing, “$#% Hold yer tray up!” Micky Dolenz of the Monkees would show up on my doorstep and we’d run off into the sunset singing, “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees…” I would be able to flawlessly perform the Twist, the Shake, the Mashed Potato, too. Any old dance that I wanted to.

Life would be oh, so good. But first – I had to get a pair of those black fishnet nylons.

One Saturday I donned my new mod, psychedelic A-line dress and traveled with Bert to downtown Fort Wayne on the Greyhound bus. At Stillman’s, in the glove and hosiery department, I emptied my saved accumulation of allowance monies onto the counter. The silver-haired saleslady smiled as she told me the fishnet hosiery was on sale and I had enough money for TWO pairs.

On the way home, sitting in the bus with our finery, Bert and I oohed and ahhed over the silky black nylons with the criss-crossed threads. I told her I planned to wear them to a ballgame that very night.

We both looked at each other meaningfully. This would be no easy task. Fortunately, I – and a number of my classmates – excelled in parental aversion techniques.

Every morning a group of girls who, like me, were forbidden to wear nylons or miniskirts or mascara, would enter the Girls restroom, where we would change from our juvenile cotton socks into glamorous silk stockings with lace garters. We would roll up our knee length skirts at the waist until they were thigh high. The more brazen would carefully apply contraband Dark Eyes mascara, blue eye shadow and Pretty in Pink lipstick.

Our parents sent us to school as fresh-faced Pollyannas and we emerged from that restroom looking like eighth grade Ladies of the Night.

Later, I put on my new hosiery and told my family goodbye while shuffling quickly to the black door. The school was only a block away, and the door was ooooh, so close …

But I forgot about being part of a large family. I could not even floss without elbowing a sibling.

As I entered the kitchen – on my way to the back door – one of my brothers yelled, “Ugh! … Why are your legs all crackly?” This caused numerous other young siblings to run into the kitchen and stare at my legs. “Ooohhh!” “What is that?” “Are your legs sick?” “Is your head turning crackly, too?” “Will you die?”

Mom and Dad entered the kitchen. My dad was scowling. Really scowling.

And then – he flipped his wig, went ape, had a cow.

He ordered me to remove the fishnets at once. He demanded I give him both pairs and then marched out to the backyard burn barrel and torched both pairs – all the while muttering something about “cheap, … bawdy … trash … not my daughter …”

Mom and I stared at each other – speechless. I had done some stupid – very stupid – things and would continue to do even more stupid things in the years to come, but we never again would witness my dad losing his temper like he did that day.

The hose had caused him to bust a frontal lobe.

Years later, I would wonder: Did he have a mean aunt who beat him with fishnets? Was it a painful memory of a sadistic saloon girl in Korea? Or, some morally corrupt trollop from the Bayous of Arkansas?

We would never know.

All I knew was that I would never, ever wear fishnet nylons again.

On a good note, I did finally learn to do the Twist, the Shake, the Mashed Potato, too – but it was in a pair of very uncool white cotton socks.

(Viv Sade has trouble remembering her four children’s names, but can remember the four hairs that grew out of the mole on her second grade teacher’s neck.)

By Viv Sade

I couldn’t think of a better time to run this column that has been circulating on the Internet for the past few years:

WHY GOD MADE MOMS

Following are the answers given by second grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

1. She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.

3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.

2. They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?

1. We’re related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mom like me.

What kind of a little girl was your mom?

1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.

2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot.

2. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

1. Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.

2. Mom. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.

3. I guess mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between moms and dads ?

1. Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.

2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friends.

4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mom do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don’t do spare time.

2. She says she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mom perfect?

1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2. Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

If you could change one thing about your mom, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.

2. I’d make my mom smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it, not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY TO ALL MOTHERS EVERYWHERE!

(Viv Sade, mother of four, considers children a true miracle and blessing from God – even more so after taking her daily dose of anti-anxiety medications.)

Generations of mothers.

Viv's four.

Scribbles n’ Giggles

By Viv Sade

Raising children is like trying to free yourself from a giant python that has wrapped itself around your entire being and is squeezing the very life out of you, and at the same time, enjoying the warmth and closeness and being awed by the beauty and wonder of the creature itself.

As a four-time mom, I used to dream – actually fantasize – about spending time in a bathroom by myself.

I would often picture myself soaking and relaxing in total solitude in a hot, bubbly bathtub surrounded by flickering candles without small people (i.e.: children and/or pythons, depending your frame of mind …) who constantly charged into the room or banged on the door, yelling things like:

“Mom, what are you doing in there?!”

“Mom, can I take a bath with you?”

“Mom, I haffta go potty – NOW!”

“Why is it dark … did the lectrickity go out?”

“Mom, do you need a flashlight?”

“Why do you put that stuff on your face?”

… or the worst one I ever got:

“Mom! There’s a man at the front door with a tie on and he’s coming in to talk to you.”

This constant invasion of my privacy occurred not only in the bathroom, but seemingly anywhere and everywhere I went.

In the kitchen:

“Mom, what are doing in here?!”

“What are you eating?”

“Can I have some?”

“Why can’t I have ice cream for breakfast?”

“I’m hungry, can I have a snack?”

“We never get anything good to eat.”

“Can I have a bite of yours?”

“Ben spilled my chocolate milk on the couch … can I have more?”

“The cat just threw up something gross on the rug and Stacy stepped in it … she’s gagging.”

“Mom, Chris is eating cheese puffies and making orange handprints on the wall.”

“Geoffrey hid all the potato chips in his room and won’t let me have any.”

In my bedroom:

“Mom, What are you doing in there?!”

“Why is the door locked?!”

“Mom, is Geoffrey supposed to be on the roof?”

“Why are you in here reading all by yourself?”

“Is Ben old enough to play with matches?”

“Mom! I’m bleeding!”

“Hey mom, the dog is having puppies on your new chair.”

“Will you read me that book or maybe Calvin and Hobbes?”

“Are you in time out?”

After all the kids were tucked in for the night:

“Mom, what are you doing out there?!”

“Chris is sticking his stinky feet in my face!”

“What are you watching?”

“Can I stay up for longer, maybe just 40 more hours?”

“Mom, is Geoffrey supposed to be on the stairs, playing with G.I. Joes?”

“I haffta go potty – NOW!”

“Is that popcorn I smell?”

“I’m STARVING.”

“Grandma always lets me stay up all night and watch movies and eat cheese puffies and ice cream.”

“Mom, did that movie just say &#%$ ?”

“Mom! Ben just said &#%$!”

“I did not say &#%$, you did!”

“Are you watching a bad movie, mom?”

“Can I watch it, too?”

“Stacy always gets to stay up late and I never do.”

“You like (fill in name of any sibling) better than me.”

“When I grow up I will always let my kids stay up forever and ever – as late as they want.”

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

There’s a reason – actually, two – that I never became a smoker.

1. I never quite learned how, and;
2. I am ADD.

Throughout my teenage and adult life, I have tried, with serious intentions, to smoke.

I stopped smoking my four cigarettes a year cold-turkey ten years ago and never looked back.

I would like to say I do not smoke because I realize it is a harmful and life-threatening habit that is disgusting and extremely addictive.

But the truth is, I don’t smoke because I never figured out how to smoke.

I’ve always had a problem paying attention – something now termed ADD which is treated with strong narcotics. Back when I was in school, they simply smacked you on the top of the head with a yardstick and said, “Pay Attention!” and then when you got home from school, your parents smacked you on the head and said “Pay attention when the teacher tells you to pay attention!”  But, I digress … oh yes, every time I would try my best to light up and puff a cig, I quickly became bored and my mind would start to wander.

My oldest daughter and son still reminisce about growing up in a household of charred furniture during my trial years of trying to acquire new and more damaging habits than the ones I already had.

Even thought technically, there were no smokers in our household, every piece of furniture we owned had a burn mark on it.

Because quarterly, I would decide to forge a new addiction.

Shortly after I would light up, and then puff and hack what I thought was an admirable imitation of a smoker’s phlegm-filled-lung cough, the phone would ring or there would be a knock at the door or my toenails would appear to be in need of a sound clipping. Something always came up that made me forget I had lit a burning piece of paper wrapped around burning leaves and I would begin a new task, and just walk away and leave the damn thing burning wherever.

I didn’t smoke, so naturally we owned no ashtrays, so I would just set the quarterly cig down wherever I happened to lose my attention span … television sets, chests of drawers, kitchen counters, a pile of newspapers …

Things would suddenly burst into flames, and I never really connected the odd habit of my quarterly smoking and the random spontaneous combustion of various furniture in our household.

Now, as a former smoker of sorts, I have no patience for messy smokers who throw their butts wherever.

I do have respect for smokers who use real ashtrays and dump them in appropriate places and don’t burn down their homes.

Imagining being able to adopt such a benevolent attitude at the same time you are busy trying to kill all of your healthy blood cells – wow – that’s perseverance.

(Viv no longer tries to smoke, although last year she did drink three vodka gimlets in 15 minutes and then try and light the pilot light in her electric stove.)

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

It’s my favorite time of year – time for the unbelievable, incomprehensible Darwin Awards. Named in honor of Charles Darwin, the father of evolution, the Darwin Awards commemorate those who improve our gene pool by removing themselves from it.
Here we go … hang on to your hats, folks …

Charles Darwin

• DoubleMint Delicious (Dec. 5, 2009, Russia) - A 25-year-old chemistry student a student of the Kiev Polytechnic Institute had acquired the peculiar habit of dipping his chewing gum in citric acid crystals while he worked, presumably to add a zesty flavor. He was hunched over at a computer in his parents’ house in the northern Ukraine city of Konotop when, whether by intention or inattention, the student dunked his gum into an unidentified chemical and popped it back into his mouth. A loud pop was heard coming from his room. (News reports really said that.) Putting aside the question of what he was doing with chemicals at home, the student was well aware of the need to keep chemicals away from food. But there he was, deceased, the lower part of his face blown off. Police found packets of citric acid and a similar-looking unidentified explosive material, and think the student simply confused the packets.

• DUO Wins Double Darwin (Sept. 26, 2009, Belgium) – Two bankrobbers attempting to make a sizeable withdrawal from an ATM in the city of Dinant died when they overestimated the quantity of dynamite needed for the explosion. The blast demolished the building the bank was housed in. Nobody else was in the building at the time of the attack. Robber One was rushed to the hospital with severe head trauma; he died shortly after arrival. Investigators initially assumed that his accomplice had managed a getway, but the second bungler’s body was excavated from the debris twelve hours later. Would-be Robbers One and Two weren’t exactly impoverished–their getaway car was a BMW.

• High Flying GPS-less Celibate Visits Boss (April 20, 2008, Atlantic Ocean) – A Catholic priest recently ascended to heaven on a helium host of party balloons, paying homage to Lawn Chair Larry’s aerial adventure. (In 1982, Lawnchair Larry attached 45 weather balloons to his lawnchair, packed a picnic lunch, and cut the tether–but instead of drifting above Los Angeles babescape as planned, he was rocketed into LAX air traffic lanes by the lift of the balloons! Astoundingly, Larry survived the flight, inspiring the movies Up! and Deckchair Danny and Adelir Antonio, 51.) The priest’s audacious attempt to set a world record for clustered balloon flight was intended to publicize his plan to build spiritual rest stops for truckers. But as truckers know, sitting for 19 hours is not a trivial matter even in the comfort of your own lawn chair.  The priest did take numerous precautions, including wearing a survival suit, flying a buoyant chair, and packing a satellite phone and GPS. However, the late A.A. made a fatal mistake. He did not know how to use the GPS. The winds changed, as winds do, and he was blown inexorably toward open sea. He could have parachuted to safety while over land but chose not to. When the voyager was perilously lost at sea, he finally phoned for help — but rescuers were unable to determine his location since he could not use his GPS. He struggled with the unit as the charge on the cellphone dwindled and died. Instead of a GPS, the Priest let God be his guide. Over the next few weeks, bits of balloons began appearing on mountains and beaches, indicating that God had guided him straight to heaven. Ultimately the priest’s body surfaced, confirming that he had indeed paid a visit to his boss.  This is a Double Darwin – Catholic priests take vows of celibacy. Since priests voluntarily remove themselves from the genepool, the entire group earns a mass Darwin Award.

• Train Sucking Really Sucks (Dec. 15, 2009, Germany) – A U2 subway driver found a body laying besides the underground tracks in Berlin. Because there was no video surveillance camera at that location, it took police two days to reconstruct what had happened. Apparently Yasin A., 22, was alone in the subway car when he decided it would be a brilliant idea to destroy one of the windows. By swinging feet forward from a handrail into the window, he not only managed to burst the glass but also succeeded in being sucked out of the moving train, and was left dead on the tracks. He was alone in the compartment at the time; if an observer had been present, perhaps the young underground rider would not have engaged in destructive nonsense that led to his senseless death.

Here’s the good news – none of the 2010 nominees was from Indiana or Arkansas – which seems to be the case in recent years.

And the best Happy New Year greeting I can offer is, “May you have a great year and not end up a Darwin Award nominee.”

For more untimely deaths by lack of brain cells, visit the Darwin Awards site.

Scribbles & Giggles

By Viv Sade

Our society and culture is obsessed with sex – note the recent article on our Arts & Entertainment page – but we sure don’t like talking about it. We are one uptight country full of repressed individuals who, ironically, are constantly assaulted with sexual imagery and messages 24-7.

Sexuality just sounds dirty – albeit not as dirty as the root derivative – SEX. Come to think of it – root derivative sounds even dirtier.

Anyway, if there’s one area I was pretty squeamish about as a single parent, it was the S word. Strange indeed for the oldest of eight and mother of four.

I remember vividly the time I tentatively approached the subject with my oldest son and daughter, armed with “Sex and Your Changing Body,” and nude Barbie and Ken dolls.

“We need to have a talk,” I began, while my 13-year-old daughter groaned and buried her head in her hands. Her brother, four years younger, casually asked me what I needed to know while bending Barbie and Ken into compromising positions.

My daughter was so shy, it was torture to even mention the word sex around her. Especially with her brother in the same room, who had a tendency to ask the most sexually implicit questions and demand accurate and anatomically correct answers. None of that “down there” or “privates” innuendo.

And I … well, I was a coward.

I began sneaking into their rooms and leaving books with titles like, “Why Does Alexandria’s Body Need Supportive Underwear?” and “Why Johnny Went from Soprano to Alto Even Though He’s Not in Choir.”

Years later, with my two youngest it was no better.

When the boys were 10 and 12, I decided to have The Talk as I was preparing dinner.

As I was explaining that pasta should always be cooked al dente, I casually peppered the conversation with words like “condiments,” “stuffed breasts,” “succotash,” “hoagie buns,” “kumquat” and “rump roast.” I also threw in the Village of Intercourse, Pennsylvania for good measure.

The boys immediately got that deer-in-the-headlights look, jammed their fingers in their ears, jumped up from the table and ran screaming from the room – just as I was about to embark on the benefits of macerating versus marinating.

Several times after that, I tried in vain to have The Talk with the boys. It was hopeless, so I went with the same ploy as with the first two kids. I began leaving books with titles like “What Happens When Girls Aren’t Icky Anymore?” and “Is My Brother a Werewolf or Just Hairy in Weird Places?”

Viv's Sex Ed Formula: Girls With Too Much Skin + Boys With Too Many Hormones = S-E-X = Baby - Responsible Parents

The day it became apparent I had greatly neglected my parental responsibilities was when they became teenagers. The Older One – 16 at the time – began seeing a girl he liked (insert tired sigh) and one day I walked into the living room while he and The Girl were watching television.

Pretty Coquettish Girl was reclining on the sofa – draped across my son’s lap like an after-church Sunday smorgasbord. Reckless Teen Son gave me a sheepish – but proud – grin.

I wedged in between them and grabbed the remote. “What’s on?” I asked, forcing The Shameless Girl to a sitting position with my elbow. They both got up and headed into the dining room, TOWARD THE STAIRCASE.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Upstairs to my room to watch a movie,” Hormones-Gone-Wild Son said.

Annoying Baby Son, sitting at the computer, snickered.

My head began to spin around counter-clockwise and I spewed vile, green liquid … no wait, that was a movie, but that’s exactly how I felt.

I controlled my vile spewing and said sweetly, “I prefer you watch the movie in the living room – DOWNSTAIRS.”

Which they did, but the next weekend, they were back AT IT.

I walked into the living room and there they were – entwined like the trunk of a trumpet vine and locked in a lip embrace.

“What are you doing?” I asked loudly.

This One and Only Daughter had never quite mastered the art of the well-executed lie, which Oldest Son and Youngest Son had mastered to perfection, and he replied, “Kissing. What did you think?”

Geesh. What did I think?

Well, for one thing, I thought That Girl’s cute little belly was hanging out of her too-short shirt and too-low pants and showing too much skin.

I thought I should have earlier invested in the book, “Why Young, Limber Semi-Nude Girls Who Know the Smorgasbord Yoga Position Can’t Be Trusted.”

I thought I’d go into another room and at least pretend to trust him. But first, I slid the Young, Sly One two, crisp $1 bills with whispered orders to to stay in the living room and keep an eye on his brother and That Girl, because obviously, she too had missed out on The Talk.

Later the Baby Sly Spy came to update me on the situation.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Nothing, really,” he said, shrugging, then brightened up. “Boy, is she hot! In two years, when I’m 16, if they break up, I’m going to ask her out!”

I took my $2 back.

I needed it to buy more anti-anxiety drugs.