Memories of my uncle -- the speech I gave at his memorial

In times of grief, it is sometimes so hard to let the happier feelings through. Yes, we have to dance with the grief, let it wash over us and feel it. But right now I want to focus on the gratitude. I want to thank my Uncle for so many joyful memories.Uncle Johnny was the youngest of what my father affectionally called, “The Original 5.” He was the youngest of the 5 siblings, and the last of the four brothers to leave. When my father passed and my five year old son was at a loss as to how to make anything better, he looked at Uncle Johnny and thought the same thing all my cousins have thought over the years, Uncle Johnny and their Uncle Sandy looked alike. My son asked Uncle John so innocently, “Would you be my Apo since you look like him then we can all be happy again?”

In the original 5, there was a gap between my Aunty Dinay and my Uncle Nofre of 10 years. Then Uncle John came along 2 years after that. A young teen when her brothers were little, my Aunty Dinay was often babysitter for them, thinking of them more as her kids than her siblings. As a kid, like his brothers, my uncle was involved with sports. He played baseball, basketball, and football. Did you know that he was an All Star Running Back 1959-1960? Just in case you were one of the few people in Hawaii not to hear him say that he was an All Star Running Back 1959-1960. My mother recalls going to the Waipahu High School football games as a newly minted Bolosan with the rest of the extended family. When my uncle or one of his fellow players would miraculously make it into the endzone with the football, my grandmother would jump up cheering, “Homerun!!!”

My older cousins and my brothers talk about Uncle John as the cool young uncle, good at sports and and an outdoorsman by all accounts. But just because the nieces and nephews thought he was cool, didn't mean that Uncle John had any game.

My Aunty Snuffy met Uncle John because her best friend Lydia Cadang was cousins with those boys. Her sister Leatrice was a mother hen of sorts, always baking goodies and cooking. What teen aged boy doesn't need food? – my Uncles John & Onofre were always over at their cousin's house. At first, Aunty Snuffy wanted nothing to do with Uncle John. She only liked hapa boys – forget those pinoys. But somehow, the sweet demeanor and kind heart got through to her. Maybe it was his smile or his voice. Or maybe the way his palms sweat so nervously when he reached for her hand. It softened her heart, made her appreciate his kindness and give this Filipino boy a chance. She knew he was the one after 2 months. However, it was an additional 2 months of dates when predictably, Aunty wondered if that boy would ever kiss her. His palms sweating and his heart probably beating out of his chest, he parked the car, told her to look out the window. “It's the Little Dipper.” As they both leaned forward to gaze up at the stars, he leaned over and kissed her.

They were married just shy of 46 years. Seven years after they wed, they got the phone call for Shamayn and were told to go to the hospital to see if they wanted to adopt her. So big and encompassing was their love, they could not imagine anyone saying no to that cherubic face. The minute they laid eyes upon her, she was inextricably their daughter.

With Shamayn, my uncle tried to relive his glory days in sports. Despite his long work hours at Wahiawa General as the manager of the Diagnostic Imaging department, a career that encompassed 37 years, he'd come home and insist on Shamayn practicing sports with him for 2 to 3 hours after school from the time she was 7 or 8 years old. She recalls his unorthodox methods to get her over her fear of getting beaned in the face by a ball. He had her sit with her hands behind her back and then threw a ball at her face over and over again. His rationale was that if she just felt what it was like to get a ball to the face, she wouldn't fear it. This kind of reminds me of my father “teaching” me to swim by throwing me in the water and saying, “now, swim.” Hey, we both survived our Bolosan daddies and we're stronger for it, right? But he supported all of Sham's athletic pursuits – sacrificing to buy her sports equipment and showing up for her games dog tired, sometimes (embarrassingly) snoring in the bleachers. Maybe that's just how he cheered Sham's team on.

When I asked her what the biggest lesson her dad imparted to her was, she said it was perserverence. It takes a kind of bravery to persevere in the face of whatever crosses come our way. So teaching her to not fear getting beaned in the face by a ball – it was a way to teach perseverance. She came out the other side willing to deal with the scary things that life would throw her. Eyes wide open and with the faith that she'd make it.

When Sham was about seven years old, her parents decided to grow the family again. This time the process was aided by my mother Norma, and my Aunty Lydia Bolosan, who knew of a girl who wasn't ready to be a mom. My Aunty Snuffy got the call that her son had been born and had the joyous duty of telling my uncle the great news. Usually people give news of the birth of a child this way, “It's a girl or boy, so many pounds and ounces, and so many inches long.” Aunty called Uncle John at the hospital and got through the sentence, “It's a boy,” when she heard the phone drop and my uncle yelling down the hallways, “It's a boy! I have a son!!!”

By the time Jaron was going through school, Uncle's illnesses had started catching up with him. He wasn't able to put Jaron through the paces like he did Shamayn. The focus of Jaron's activity with his father was fishing. I'm reminded of the stories of my grandfather taking all the grandkids and his children to go fishing and crabbing at the Campbell Estates. There is a direct line from father to son, the passing on of wisdom from my grandfather, to my uncles and dad, to their sons. Fishing imparts patience, teaches you to be observant of nature, and in an almost primal way, teaches you to provide for your family as a man. In these recent years, Jaron did so much to take care of uncle, policing Uncle’s diet, ensuring he’d taken his meds and went to his doctor’s appointments. But still, when there were things that needed mending or when Jaron needed advice, he turned to his dad.

How blessed Uncle was that he got to be there to see both his daughter and son marry. That he got to meet their respective husband and wife. That he was given the gift of knowing his grandbabies. They were his life.

Kona, his eldest grandchild marvelled that even though his Papu was in a wheelchair, he could still beat him at HORSE. But that was okay because Kona could always beat him at “hangman” or best him at “I Spy,” taking advantage of his colorblind grandpa. Shaynie struggles with the loss of her Papu, grappling with the eternal question of “why?” Davyn says his best memory of his Papu is playing ball with him. I'm guessing he wasn't old enough to get beaned in the face yet. And Kalyssa rightly claims that she was her Papu's baby. Sometimes Papu would help the kids with their homework. And at those times, the homework needed to be redone. Always redone.

Queen Elizabeth once said that the price of love is grief. We all certainly are paying that price. But I want to amend that statement to say that the price of gratitude is suffering. And Uncle had more than his fair share. It would be hard to talk about Uncle John and not mention how he struggled with illness. How each challenge seemed to make his physical body less able to withstand the assaults of disease. It would have been so easy to give in to despair. But no, that’s not what I saw when he was ill. When all of us believed that he would succumb, he’d fight back and come out alive on the other end. We joked about his catlike 9 lives, shoots, 18 lives. But there was no luck there -- just sheer willfulness and stubbornness. I have to admit that even in this last struggle, I thought that there was a chance he had one more miracle in him. Against all hope, somehow he’d do it just one more time. And in a way he did. A couple of days before he died, he was awake and lucid. We got a glimpse of him before illness. In that window of lucidity, he asked Aunty Snuffy to sing with him – Dahil Sa Iyo. So perfect that this be their last duet. He loved her voice and was her biggest fan. So proud he was of his wife's talent. Despite his constant struggle with illness, his joy was intact, and I believe strongly that it is because of his faith in God and the love of his family.

In Uncle John's own words, “...the Lord never forsaked me and he carried me.

...In 1995 when I lost both my kidneys and I started dialysis, I spent four and a half hours on dialysis three times a week. I was in deep depression … and felt like I was going out of my mind.

(My friend) Paul told (me) to pray for him (because) he had cancer and (he) was smiling. I couldn't understand why he wasn't sad and worried. He said if you can't handle it, give it to the Lord.

So I prayed and gave it to the Lord and found peace and comfort...”

Sure, as illness decreased his physical abilities, he found other avenues of joy. How can we ever forget his conga playing or his beautiful voice. He really could make a joyful noise unto the Lord. Before the Bolosan brothers started leaving the stage, the five siblings would get together once a month for lunch. I remember laughing at the thought of the four brothers in a car together. Uncle John in the driver’s seat as he was the youngest, but he could barely see. My dad, with his hearing loss and resistance to wearing his hearing aids, would spend the time saying, “What? What?” Uncle Nofre, Uncle Morris and my dad would all tell Uncle John where to turn, to avoid the pedestrians, and to slow down because they were approaching an intersection. Nothing shakes your confidence in your driver more than him asking, “Hey, what color is the light?” See, that’s the thing I think about too -- imagine what it is like in heaven right now. I kind of think the four brothers are laughing it up. I think they’re singing over beer and poke. Harps have nothing on ukes and congas playing.

So yes, I will try hard to concentrate on the gratitude along with the grief. I thank you, Uncle John, for choosing my Aunty Snuffy -- how blessed I am to have her in my life. She’s given me unconditional love and so much laughter. She’s another sister for my mother. I thank you, Uncle John, for choosing my cousins Sham and Jaron. How did you know that they would make our family complete? You’ve given me life long friends in them. I thank you, Uncle John, for being my uncle, for being that tangible connection to my father, because when I looked at you, it was impossible not to see my father’s face in your features. Thank you for agreeing to be a replacement Apo when my little boy needed it.

I'd like to end with a prayer that Uncle John wrote for all of us.

“Lord, heavenly Father, I want to thank you for all your blessings and thank you for carrying me through my trials and suffering. Now please bless all of us here for we are getting older in age and we need your help to carry us through our trials and sickness, Through Jesus Christ, Amen.”

Why would you eat that?

Esteban:  Don't try the lavendar milkshakes. They taste like urinal cake.

'Cess:  How do you know?

Into the Wild

This past weekend, I took a Wilderness First Aid class from the American Red Cross. It was a full two days of instruction and an eclectic mix of humans signed up for it. There were three scout leaders including myself. The two BSA leaders were the life of the party; they were like a vaudevillian act -- a regular Abbot & Costello. There were two girls who were in college and taking this class to work as wilderness or river guides this summer. There was one gal who works full time at a local summer camp and is also an American Red Cross instructor; and another who was the first aider for those historical reenactments -- think Civil War and stuff like that. The guy who was my partner much of the time was a motorcycle enthusiast who last year logged over 6,500 miles over the summer who plans on visiting his daughter who works in Africa. Our instructor is a long time firefighter, now a full time instructor for the Red Cross. He intends to get into Nursing School. He was on a waiting list last year so his hopes for admission are good this year.

Whenever I take an American Red Cross class, I try too keep it on the down low that I have my BSN. The minute the instructors catch wind of that, they teach differently. The other members of the class start to ask me questions and sometimes they defer to me. So unless they ask directly, I don't say anything. When the class is asked a question in general, I wait to answer unless everybody is stumped. Invariably, I'll say something that outs me. Usually some knee jerk medical or anatomical term that outs me -- like who in everyday speak says, "distal to the injury?" Apparently, me. This time it was in conversation with another student when we were talking about telegraphing how scared you are to the patient. That you should never let them see how freaked out you are. And I said, "ah yes, the nurse face." I didn't tell the story of the patient who had untreated breast cancer who was in her final stages and had never let anybody see her chest save her doctor. After building a trusting relationship with her, the nurse who was relieving me of her care and I were allowed to see her chest. Both of us maintained our best nurse faces when she lowered her gown, but when we left the room we both were shaken. I'm sure if the guy from "Lie to Me," saw us, he'd have seen the micro expressions of horror and helplessness we certainly were feeling when we saw the tumors that covered 60% of her chest, but we kept our faces still and passive.

I made it almost through the entire first day without being outed. At first, when the instructor asked me, I tried to be evasive and said that I had some training. But when he asked me directly, "are you a nurse?" I said that I was but hadn't practiced in 15 years. The second day the instructor started asking me questions directly. The other students started asking me questions too. And this is why I try to keep that stuff on the down low.

Because here's the thing, I suppose when it comes to sussing out what might be wrong, how the body would react to what kind of trauma, what kind of illness might be at play, I do have an advantage. But as far as:  we are in the middle of nowhere, there is snow on the ground and more snow coming, and we're about 2 hours away from help so what should we do -- I'm not so good.

Some of the stories these guys shared were really interesting but almost all of them ended in some kind of fatality. Scary stuff happens. Worse that all the stories were real.

I suppose there is something inside of a person that makes them raise their hand when asked, "will you help?" And these folks were all of that ilk. Maybe it is because they have witnessed some scary stuff in their time in nature. But maybe that's the point. Discontent to live with the helplessness of ignorance, they seek out ways to be helpers. I think it is telling that at one point during the class, all the men's cell phones went off in an alarming way. They all sounded like Emergency Alert sirens. Turns out it was an Amber Alert. They all had them on their phones.

Yup, helpers.

I had a lot of fun pretending to be sick and broken. When one of the BSA guys came over to help me and put his hands on me before identifying himself, I screamed, "Who are you?! Don't touch me?! Why are you touching me?!" Heh. It was fun.

Also amusing was how insistent our instructor was about my male partner not doing a sternal examination on me. He must have said it 3 or 4 times. And then when it was my turn to do my male partner's exam, the instructor came over to tell me that it would be perfectly okay to examine my partner's sternum. I get it. Boobs. It was funny.

All in all, I enjoyed our class. I told everybody there that we'll do a reunion in 2 years with our same classmates because it was such a fun group dynamic.

LIFE85 mini reunion

Initially, I was calling it, "Hey, Melanie and I are going for drinks. Wanna join us?" But no, I had to label it as a reunion and that was, well, awkward. Especially because only 3 of us made it.

For those of you not in the know, when I was 15 years old my high school Sacred Hearts Academy asked me to go on a retreat for student leaders. There was a mix of us -- the athletes, the student officers, the best students, and the ones they hoped against hope would become nuns and priests. I kind of think I was in the last category for them. I'm not really sure why they asked me to go. Most kids applied for their rising senior summer, not their rising junior summer. That had been my intention. But my best friend got in for our rising junior summer and I thought it might be fun to share that experience with her so I applied against my initial plan.

Looking back, it was a transformative camp. It's called, "Living In Faith Experience," and has been given by the Marianist order for years. There was an intimacy and vulnerability that we allowed ourselves -- so different from the usual high school experience of just trying to fit in. I suppose kids who went to summer camps could have similar experiences.

Anyway, this thing that should have been kept as, "Drinks with Mel & me," was in itself a transformative experience. The retreat happened in the bay area and a few of the people that were important to me then still live there. Ernesto was my "journey partner," my dyad buddy -- that's retreat speak for the person you got to process things one on one with. We found each other on Classmates years ago and exchanged emails -- caught up on each other's lives. It was so wonderful to renew that friendship. Melanie was a friend who became closer even after the retreat. She was a prolific writer of letters; I think I got one every week or two. She and Ernesto even came to meet me at the airport when I flew through on my way to Seattle from Hawaii during college. Both of them visited me in Hawaii after graduation. Jolyn was a fellow delegate from Sacred Hearts. Like with Mel, after the retreat she became an even closer friend. She was so nurturing; I remember her scolding me for using my teeth to bite stray thread off of my shirt because it would damage my teeth. Greg was a delegate from Ernesto's school. I was madly infatuated with Greg and on a moonlit night in the middle of a field at the camp, he gave me my first kiss. *le sigh*

So when I got a hold of Melanie and we decided to go out for drinks when I was in town last week, she thought it would be a hoot to invite  our fellow LIFErs. And I did. All except Greg.

I will freely admit that the fifteen year old girl inside of me was terrified to see him again. Not because I hold any residual attraction for him, but because I was so sloppily infatuated with him as a teen. I didn't know how I'd react. I hadn't had  a proper conversation with him I think ever; not a single conversation that was unclouded by a terrifying and confusing hormonal storm.

But last week, I decided not to be the jerk who would exclude one person from the invitation list. I invited him. And he said he could make it.

Crap.

I did the thing that any irrational middle aged woman would do -- I got physical therapy on my sprained ankle so I could wear the high heeled shoes that make my legs look longer and more shapely. I brought 3 different outfits so I would have options. I brought both the curling iron and the hair straightener because of obvious reasons. I went so far as to bring liquid eyeliner. Liquid. Eyeliner. I get points for that.

He offered to be our designated driver so Melanie parked at my brother's house and got to spend time with me and my family before Greg arrived. She helped me choose the right outfit and watched as I franticly freshened up my makeup. Parking is a hassle at my brother's so when Greg texted that he had arrived, Mel and I went outside to meet him. It is the modern day equivalent of honking the horn in front of a girl's house.

Conversation was surprisingly easy and comfortable.

Well, except for one thing.  I was asked when I was going back to Hawaii next. I told them it was next month. The usual murmurs of, "oh, how lucky..." and "wish I could go to Hawaii," followed. I told them that it was for my uncle's funeral. Said that my father and my uncles had conspired to ruin the two most joyous holidays in our faith -- Christmas and Easter. Then Greg, now a firefighter, talked about the bombing in Boston & the fertilizer plant fire at West Texas. He talked about his work in peer support for PTSD for first responders. That he's emboldened his faith in part because of what he's had to see in the line of duty.

Seriously, I had to stop Greg at that point. Because if we continued talking about such sad things, I was certain that I was going to start sobbing and be deep in my cups later. Drinking for solace versus drinking for celebration is an entirely different thing. The former is usually accomplished by high octane rot gut because why would you need to taste it?

I thought maybe I would tell a funny light hearted story. Talk about how my husband thinks I'm a cat person trapped in a dog owner's body. I love my dog to the point of madness. I have hundreds of pictures of my dog on my phone -- this despite having human offspring.

Then Melanie said, "You're going to feel like sh*t if I tell you this, but... I had to put my dog down today. I begged my dog to die naturally, but it didn't happen."

Crap.

But at that point, it was actually pretty funny.

I was surprised with the ease we spoke to each other. And it wasn't the booze (which was AMAZING -- Bar Agricole, seriously go check it out). I think it was LIFE. Something like that leaves an indelible mark on your psyche. We caught up on each others lives, talked about our families & kids, even our faith. We steered clear of politics on Greg's request but I'm pretty sure we all were fairly liberal, at least that's what I'd like to think. I hate it when I have friends who are wrong about their politics, and by wrong I mean don't agree with me. I didn't revert to fifteen year old me and that was a relief. But I did allow myself to care about these people again and acknowledge that our shared experience was an important part of the people we are today.

Maybe next time I'm in town, I'm thinking 2015, I'll throw another, "Drinks with Mel & me."

I'm never calling anything a mini-reunion again.

The girls I've known since puberty

Yesterday was my third mammogram. But if you want to add the additional images, then it as also my fourth and fifth.

The facilities at Swedish are absolutely serene and lovely. If not for the painful mammograms,  you might think you were at a spa. There is a private waiting room where all the ladies are wearing those awful hospital gowns. It does level the playing field -- changes us all into the vulnerable older women we are; no social standing or careers to hide behind, just chicks with tatas.

Last year, I decided to go to this annual torture fest with a friend of mine. We made our appointments together, went shopping afterwards, had lunch and even a couple of beers. A fun time was had by all despite my friend getting called in for extra imaging. Extra imaging is what happens when they see something on your films that warrants an additional trip through the breast flopperizer. If even that doesn't clear things up, they do an ultrasound. When my friend was called in for her extra imaging, it really freaked her out. She later said that it was so good that I was there because she could have really lost it without my support.

This was the first time I got called back for extra imaging. Unfortunately, my friend got called back at the same time. We couldn't help each other through because we were both in it.

They crank these plates onto your breasts with a ratcheting knob. Imagine Nigel's amp on "This Is Spinal Tap." It goes up to 11. This mammogram machine goes to 12. I'd even say 13. Actually, the levels are more accurately described as this, uncomfortable, painful, and I'd cut a bitch. The second time I went in, the tech went to I'd cut a bitch levels. I was bruised for days afterwards.

Each time I reentered the waiting room, less women were waiting. Ostensibly, they had gotten their imaging, been cleared, and cleared out. Not me. Oh no. And the time it takes for the wizard behind the curtain to read the film is all the time it takes for me to come up with a plan.

By the time I was lying on the table awaiting my last imaging -- the ultrasound, I had a treatment plan in mind. Go ahead, cut off both boobs but try your best to keep the nipples. Please keep them innervated because what's the point of nipples that can't feel anything. Then rebuild my breasts with my belly fat, leaving my abdomen flat as a board. Any extra fat beyond that can go on my ass, because that's the place my body is flat.

The doc came in and assured me that she didn't see anything too concerning. She did the ultrasound and said that the spots were likely from recent weight loss. She did give me the okay to claim psychological stress from the day's ordeal to earn a dinner out as opposed to having to cook. She also said that if I ever have to get a needle biopsy (a relatively minor thing which causes as much discomfort as a shot), I should go home, lie on the sofa and moan every fifteen to twenty minutes to earn at least a few days of dinners out. I am just going to put that in my back pocket for another time.

Just me and my girls. And to quote Lana from Archer, "Ow. Well, now they're droopier."

Dogs heal

My uncle is very ill. The doctors say that there is a strong chance he won't make it through the week. He's my dad's last brother. It's been a roller coaster these past few weeks because he was admitted to the hospital for a pretty serious medication interaction, but the underlying problems have become overwhelming. We had hoped that as soon as the first problem cleared, the others would follow suit. That has not happened.

But this isn't about that. This is about something that I pursued that I didn't even know was possible and I think would help people in the end.

My uncle's family dog is a Jack Russell Terrier. Fonzi is a clever dog who essentially trained himself by simple observation. He learned that when Uncle would ask someone to pass him the remote, he was referring to that black thing with all the bumpy chewy things on the one side. He learned that when Uncle would ask someone to get his slippers, he meant those soft fluffy things for Uncle's feet. After a while, Uncle just started asking Fonzi for those items and the dog would fetch them. He was Uncle's constant companion at home.

The past few days, things have taken a turn for the worst and it weighed on me that my uncle and his dog might never see each other again. My aunt said that the dog would sit in Uncle's chair and that she had explained to Fonzi that Uncle was sick in the hospital -- that Fonzi must understand.

Thing is, in the past, Uncle always came home after being in the hospital. How could Fonzi possibly understand?

So I set to work. I talked to my aunt at length about bringing Fonzi to the hospital. I think she was skeptical. I begged my mother to advocate for the dog visiting but my mom doesn't really care for dogs. I don't think she sees the point of them. Her loss. And I tried to get a hold of my cousins but I initially couldn't get through. So armed with a little bit of information I started making phone calls.

I contacted the charge nurse at the hospital. We had a long conversation and I told her that I didn't think it would be long so there was an urgency to this being arranged. She told me that they had a policy for animals visiting but it was rarely used. She wasn't fully familiar with it but she promised to work with the family to make this a reality.

I called Fonzi's vet and asked if they could give him a health certificate. Unfortunately, they have to have seen the animal within 30 days so that was a no go. I luckily got my cousin on the phone at that point and told him what the process was, who he had to contact at the hospital, but it all hinged on getting the health certification. My resourceful cousin was able to find an appointment for the dog for that very afternoon and today Fonzi was in my uncle's hospital room.

I don't know if Fonzi knew what was going on. From my brother's account of the visit, Fonzi was freaked out and barking when he arrived at the hospital. It was a strange place; lots of bright lights and odd machines. He was very agitated. But when he entered Uncle's room, his behavior changed. He calmed and was let onto my uncle's bed. He licked his master's hand and Uncle was happy to see his little friend.

I want to believe that this gave Fonzi a little bit of closure. At least he knows where Uncle is. Perhaps he doesn't know that Uncle is dying but maybe he does. Maybe he senses that this could be his last time with him.

But here is what I know in my bones. I know that if I were dying or grievously ill, I'd want my dog. I know that when I'm feeling a little sad she'll find me and curl up in my lap or in my arms. She knows the value of simply presencing me.

And I know that today, I gave my uncle a small comfort. Better than flowers, I did something from these two thousand miles away that was just as real and tangible.

I helped get him kisses from his dog.

My princess and puberty

She's turning 12 pretty darned soon; she's my middle baby, my first girl. And it doesn't come without its challenges. I'm not one of those moms who cringe at the idea of having "the talk." In fact, my kids might complain that I'm too frank about the birds and the bees.

There was a recent podcast by Dan Savage, the very popular sex advice columnist, that made me think that maybe I wasn't as open and frank as I thought I was. I thought I was incredibly open about sex and what is involved. I had pretty much written and rehearsed my script for the talk about sex having real adult consequences so make sure you're ready for those before engaging in sex -- of any variety:  safe, oral, or otherwise. But recently Dan, a father himself, talked about the parents' responsibility to cover the stuff they don't talk about in sex education classes. Sure we can talk about the mechanics, the diseases, and the dangers but have we ever given thought to the pleasure, the kinks, the exploration, heck -- the joy of sex. Maybe that's why they wrote the book with all those weird 70's era pictures, because there isn't a discussion about the joy of sex when you're in class at school.

So with another birthday fast approaching, I decided to go ahead and drop some knowledge on my daughter. All the kids get uncomfortable when I try to blast them with some knowledge. I think that is probably normal though. As I never had any kind of discussion with my mother, I wouldn't know how to be on the receiving end of such a talk. And because I'm pretty sure my husband takes the same tack as my mother does in this regard, it falls to me.

I've talked to my older daughter about the impending period coming her way over a year ago. That went fairly well. I insist that she carries pads and tampons with her at all times. We've had the talk about sex in so far as the "special hug," where the penis goes in the vagina and sometimes ends up with babies. We've talked about mucous membranes and disease transmission.

But lately, I've realized that I don't know how to broach the joy of sex. Not at all. Dan Savage says you have to do some of this like a "download." You talk, the kid listens. Sounds like something I could do.

Instead, my daughter rolls her eyes, puts her fingers in her ears and says, "lalalalalalalala," until I stop. During the pauses, I yell things like, "oral sex still counts as sex!" And, "please wait to do anything like that until you're much older." And, "boys in high school don't know what they're doing so you'd be better off waiting at least until college." That last sentence took a couple of breaks to go all the way through.

This may take a while. Thankfully, I'm starting relatively early.