I write sex books

My older daughter, Athena (not her real name) in her first week in an American school made a new friend. The friend’s mom was volunteering for playground duty, and upon meeting Athena asked her what myself and my husband did for work. My husband’s job is innocuous–he’s a programmer.

“My mom writes sex books,” Athena tells her.

Fast forward to last week. I meet the mom for coffee–it’s my first time hanging out with her and I’m hoping to make a good impression. The story comes out after I said I write romance novels.

I am mortified.

That afternoon I shared what I’d learned with my daughter, and asked why she’d said that. I wasn’t angry with her, I just wanted to know why.

“That man is naked on your cover. He’s not wearing a shirt.”

She means RJ.

I asked her what she thought sex was.

“I don’t know.”

Cue my buying Sex is a Funny Word from Amazon, and asking her to say I write books, or I write romance books instead of sex books.

My friends have found this whole story hilarious. I am moving from mortification to amusement as well.

Writing while parenting

**I’m in the hospital, so this post was written in advance. Comment approval and response will be delayed. **

When people ask me what the biggest obstacle to writing is I tell them my children.

IMG_8690 Not my children, obviously.

Enjoy a picture of a humpback whale I took off the coast of Maui, early December 2015


When you are a parent, particularly when you are the primary caregiver, parenting takes up a lot of your bandwidth on a day-to-day basis. There’s the normal things-picking them up from school, overseeing homework, refereeing fights. There are the things I do during writing time instead of writing such as grocery shopping because it goes about six times faster without my kids than it does with them. Finally, there is the emotional toll–there are many night when, once they’re finally asleep (during the writing of my last post, I had to stop and put Ms 4 back to bed no less than five times) all you want to do is collapse in front of netflix and chill…and not in the #netflixandchill sense.

Part of this is the natural ebb and flow of parenting. My two are still quite young, so they need more from me. As they age, they’ll need less and will be able to do more for themselves.

go away

The thing I can solve, though, is that I often don’t honor the time I’ve designated as “writing time.” I use it to grocery shop or take a nap or spend an hour on twitter discussing whether I like the DC or Marvel tv shows better (MCU movies, DC tv shows, for the record). Once I’m out of the hospital (I know, again–no one is more over my being in here than me) I want to honor writing time better than I have in the past.

Fellow parents–how do you balance writing and kids?

My kids ruined my plans for tonight

Today started off so promising.  I was feeling a bit boring and stuck in my clothing rut of shorts and a tank top (not the sexy ones you’re thinking of, sadly)–so I decided to wear a thong.  Then I put on my bracelet which carries the subtle engraving of the word “slut.”  That lifted my spirits, and inspired some sexting between myself and the husband.

Then…within the space of 60-90 minutes…

The not quite 4 year old threw  huge tantrum over dinner.  I had the nerve to serve chicken and rice–clearly I should be arrested for torture.

The not quite 4 year old pounded on the door while I way trying to pee.  No, no going to the toilet alone for you, Mommy.

The 1 year old tried to chew on a shampoo bottle while I had them both in the tub.  I sprayed myself with the detachable showerhead as I lunged for the bottle.  Again, not in the sexy wet-t-shirt way.  In the half drowned rat way.  Also sprayed-a big chunk of my bathroom.  FUN!

The 1 year old screamed bloody murder when I dared to remove her from the bath and put clothes on her.

The 1 year old protested at the top of her lungs when I had the temerity to put her in the crib so I could finish bathing her sister.

I took the 4 year old into her room and discovered she had colored all over her mirror.

Also–my 4 year old has decided that rather than call me Mommy, she prefers “Mother.”  Sigh.

By the time my partner came home, all I wanted to do was come into my bedroom, turn off the lights….and listen to loud rock music or watch West Wing.  Not so much with the interactions or the touching or the anything.

Maybe with an hour or two of alone time and loud music I’ll be ready to go find my bracelet again.  Or go to sleep.  Either seems likes a reasonable conclusion to my day.