Just Let Me Know

Hey Ember, fun fact, I am currently a young adult. You are almost 2 years old. I like to think that because of our not extremely significant age gap that I can keep up with what the cool kids are doing, but of course I’m sure all parents think that.

So last night was one of my best friend’s 21st birthdays. I definitely monitored some alcohol intake and made sure everyone got home safely. His parents knew what was up, my parents knew what was up. Everyone was aware of proper alcohol consumption intake safety guidelines. It was a fun yet responsible evening.

I’m not sure what kind of things you’ll be into when you’re a teenager, but I think I have general knowledge of all the bases. And what I don’t know, I’ll just friggin look up.

I know firsthand that the last thing a lot of teenagers want to do is talk to their parents about what’s going on in their lives. I know that you’re gonna be doing some things you think or know that I don’t want you to do.

But I’m telling you right now, nothing you could do would ever make me reject you. You could never piss me off so bad that I’d do anything drastic. You’ll never be kicked out of the house, you’ll never get cut off, me and your dad will always be there for you.

But please please please, just tell me what you’re doing.

If you’re only 14 and you’re trying to drink, tell me. If you think about smoking, tell me. If you get your hands on weed, tell me. If you want to start having sex, tell me. Just let me know. If you’re about to get a tattoo or piercing, let me know. You don’t even have to go into detail about anything, just let me know. I swear to you, ask anyone and they can tell you how laid back I am about a lot of things.

Nothing makes me more paranoid than thinking you’re doing (potentially dangerous) things behind my back. I don’t care how uncomfortable a talk we might be in for. Of course I’ll probably lecture you a little bit, but that’s because I’m your mother.

In my time, I’ve disappointed my parents a lot. Regrettably. Unintentionally. But I did. I kept a lot of secrets, and I’ve realized that not talking to them probably made things a lot worse. It’s already too late for a lot of things, but I’m starting to talk to them more and it’s helped.

Growing up I wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things. Me and your uncle and our cousins, there were just a lot of things our parents just barred us from for various reasons. So we would always say to each other, “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission” just to get through our teen years.

I don’t want you to ask me for forgiveness for anything. I want you to tell me about it beforehand so that you won’t have to. I swear, no matter what it is you may do or want to do, I’ll understand. We’ll talk about it. I’ll help when I can. And I swear to you now that if you tell me things beforehand, I won’t get mad. I might take a moment or two to calm down and think about it, but I’ll do my absolute best not to raise my voice at you.

I respect your autonomy, and I’ll talk to you reasonably.

You know, my parents were actually the last people to find out that I was pregnant with you. Because I was scared. I thought the only people I could talk to were the ones my own age. I knew my parents would yell (and they certainly did) and just thinking about that prevented me from saying anything to them until the very last minute. They were the last to hear a number of things actually, because I would have rather sprung things on them than have them yell at me beforehand.

I can’t even imagine that. It definitely breaks my heart thinking about how I’ve broken theirs on several occasions, but there’s nothing I can do about the past. I can only speak up moving forward.

A lot of people my age keep secrets. I don’t know how old you are, I don’t know if you’re 10 or 15 or 20 when you read this, but even if you’re only 4 I know you’ve still got a secret from me. You’re not even 2 yet and you lie to me about when you poop because you don’t want me to change your diaper.

I don’t care if you took an extra cookie from the cookie jar, spilled water on my laptop, or got pregnant. Just for Christ’s sake, tell me about it.

No matter what it is, I’ll be there for you. I’ll listen to you. Give me as much detail as you want, or as much detail is necessary for us to talk about it.

Even if you come to me and say you want to vote Republican, I’ll talk to you with a level voice. I swear it. Joking aside, I need to know what’s going on in your life so that I know you’re okay. So that I know that if there’s a potential for danger, I know about it and I’ll do something about it. Don’t get me wrong, just because I want to talk about it and hear you out doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. But I know that I can’t stop you from doing certain things, so I’d rather know about it than have you keep me in the dark.

A lot of parents say they want to be their kid’s parent and friend. And I really do. But let’s talk to each other and set the limits.

Just talk to me. Trust me, and I’ll trust you.


No Sick Days

I had a HORRIBLE fever for the longest time. It started about 11 days ago, and it was the worst I’ve felt since I had mono like 4 years ago. High fever that didn’t break for almost 7 days, a migraine that absolutely would not go away, muscle aches that left me bed-ridden, and a cough that made me feel like my ribs were going to crack.


I kept a medical mask on like literally 24/7.

Shortness of breath. High fever. You name it, I had it. I was so sure it was the flu, but no, just pneumonia.

As a kid, I know I would have loved being that dreadfully ill if it meant not going to school. But of course, adults have it much harder.

I was not only freaking out about all the school work I would be missing out on, but it was stressful just thinking of how I would take care of Ember when I could barely take care of myself. I could barely carry my water bottle without my arm wanting to fall off, so how could I carry a 30 pound squirmy baby?

Thankfully I had the help of my family and of course my baby daddy, but it wasn’t enough. And by that, I mean a mother’s work is never satisfied.

Wearing the surgical mask 24/7 made me realize how much time I spend with her. I couldn’t give her kisses, couldn’t blow on her belly to make her laugh. I couldn’t eat the pretend food she made me, or share my food with her. I couldn’t bite her toes or let her feed me her leftovers, and I’d wear it in my sleep in case she might try to wake me up with good-morning-kisses.

Even though the mere act of standing up made me want to pass out, I kept finding myself automatically getting up and peeking into the other room just to see how Ember was doing. All I wanted to do was sleep, but when she wasn’t near me I felt anxious. I really had to go almost an entire week spending virtually no time with her out of fear of her getting sick too, and I really missed her even though most of the time she was just downstairs.

The thing is that it’s one thing to have help watching your kid. Everyone needs a sitter from time to time. But, just not all the time. I barely got to see Ember all week and it made me so depressed. It just wasn’t noticeable because I was dying of lung infection.

Going on Day 11 and I just finished my round of antibiotics. My cough is virtually gone and I haven’t had a fever in 4 days. I’m hoping I’ll be back at full strength by the end of the week, so I can say goodbye to the mask and play with my sweet baby again.

How I Named My Ember

YOU ARE 1 NOW!!! (Plus a few weeks).


You in your birthday suit! Get it? Because it was your birthday. And you’re naked. Hilarious.

Sorry I haven’t written anything in about 2 months, but between you and school and etc I’ve been incredibly busy. I know I say this a lot, but I really will try to write more here. Even if it’s just once a month.

I like to think of this blog as my way of talking to you, Ember, in like 10-15 years down the road. To let you know how things were.

Right now you are 1 year and 2 weeks old. You can:

  • Walk
  • Play peekaboo proficiently
  • Sing (your favorite songs are Johny Johny, Head Shoulders Knees and Toes, and Elmo’s World)
  • Dance (mostly just shimmying)
  • Eat regular foods (you like eggs and french fries, but mostly cookies)
  • Give kisses (mostly just biting my face)
  • and sort of talk! (you mostly just say “clap” and then do it, but you can also say “hi” and “buh bye” and a few other select words. You can quack, but that’s not really a word.)

You have curly brown hair like your dad. You’re paler than me but darker than him. You’ve got his square face. You have my small nose but it looks like it’s getting pointy like his. You have his eyebrows but my eyes. Smile is kind of up for grabs, but I say it looks like mine. You look so much like both of us that no one can tell who you take after more (kind of like North West tbh).

You are so smart and lovely and happy and I’m so proud of you everyday!

Anyways, what I wanted to talk about today is your namesake. A lot of people (pretty much everyone) has asked about how I chose your name, Ember Nadine. I keep giving short sort-of explanations because there was A LOT that went into it, so here’s the full story.

It was a long process. Actually for the duration of my pregnancy, I had my heart set on naming you Gwendolyn, but your dad hated that name. Your dad wanted to name you either Claire or Autumn, but I wasn’t really feeling those names. I also sort of wanted to name you Hinata after one of my favorite anime characters, but pretty much everyone shut me down on that one (they’re no fun). But since it was largely my choice (since I was doing all the heavy lifting), you were almost Gwen Hina D-J.

Now, here is where the story gets longer. I have another blog, that I started back in middle school when I got very depressed, and my username was Ember. I just liked that word. It was calming to me, it was a soft light in a dark place to make me feel better. Writing on that blog helped me release feelings that needed to get out. But I really didn’t think to name you after that for a long time.

I didn’t even consider naming you Ember until by fate I saw Danny Phantom (an old cartoon) on TV. Now, don’t hate me, but there was a villain named Ember. I honestly for the life of me can’t remember if I got the username Ember for my old blog from this show, but that’s a possibility. If it helps, she has a really awesome catchy theme song.


Here she is, your name inspiration. Ember McLain. At least she’s really cool-looking though.

The most memorable lyrics of her theme song are, “Ember, so warm and tender. You will remember my name.”

And I loved that. You are amazing. You are affectionate and loving and already so empathetic. You will be remembered for amazing things.

That song was definitely a push in the right direction for naming you. Here was the final thing that made me choose your name.

There was a slam-poem called “To the Boys Who May One Day Date My Daughter” which always makes me cry a little. It’s a man talking about how much he cherishes his daughter. Good stuff. At one point, he goes on a rant about how his daughter must always be respected and how he has raised her to be strong, and he ends the stanza with this line:

“You can’t make fire feel afraid.”

That line spoke volumes to me and sent shivers down my spine. It’s totally getting tattooed on me in the future. That was when I put the pieces together. (Remember? Ember. Fire –> Ember. #Yaaaas)

One day I was at my friend’s house, and this was when I was near the end of my second trimester with you. We were painting this little shelf for you (hopefully when you’re reading this you’ll still have it) and I said I wanted to paint your name on the side. My friend said, “Are you sure? You don’t seem very solid about her name.” And at the time it’s true I was a little shaky, but I could feel something. I painted the name “Ember Nadine” and I just knew it was right.

Oh right, about your middle name. My birth name was Maria Bianca Nadine C-D. But when I was I think just entering high school, your grandma had it legally cut down to just Bianca C-D. So I gave you my middle name that I lost, because I think that it’s a beautiful name. It means “princess”, and that’s what you are to me.

If Ember = fire and Nadine = princess, does that make you Flame Princess?


Flame Princess, another character from a cartoon (Flame Princess) I used to watch. I swear I didn’t name you after cartoons on purpose that was purely happenstance.

So Ember, that’s the full story of how I named you. If one day you choose to change your name, that’s fine by me. But I hope you love your name, because I do.

Fight or Flight

One thing I’ve learned in several different classes is that humans have this instinct known as “fight or flight”, which means that when we face a struggle we must choose to either fight it or run away.

Ember, you are just over 10 months old now and you are starting to walk! I am so proud of you! You were crawling around 7 and 8 months, and now you are up on two feet!

Okay this is a really bad quality picture of you standing up by yourself but you did it and I'm proud!

Okay this is a really bad quality picture of you standing up by yourself but you did it and I’m proud!

I guess I’m not writing in a very coherent order right now, but I’ll try to explain what fight or flight has to do with this post.

So I recently started school again after a year of a few online courses. The thing is, it’s not the classes that are bringing me down, it’s my inability to socialize.

Coming in, I had this image in my head that I could be more outgoing and I could socialize and talk to people and join clubs and make lots of new friends. I thought I could be different than who I’ve always been, but it’s hard. My social anxiety takes a huge toll on me, and I’ve almost been reduced to tears several times already, and we haven’t even started the third week of school.

On the first week, I went to the first meeting of the Filipino club. Because hey, I’m Filipino, sounded like a good place to start. I walk in, see the room is jam-packed and nearly overflowing, and I freeze. Right in the middle of the room. I look around, desperately trying to get my legs to move. Desperately trying to think of something to say, for someone to say something to. I stand there for at least 5 minutes (though it felt like 5 hours), frozen, wanting to leave and go home and cry at my own weakness.

But, sure enough, I find my way to a table of girls and introduce myself. My heart is racing and I feel like passing out, but I do it, and I made friends with them.

The next week, I heard there would be a dance workshop over the weekend. I drag your dad and one of my other friends with me, thinking, “Oh, I love dancing this should be a fun way to make friends.”

As soon as we get there, I freeze in front of the door, and I start to panic. I sat at a table outside and hummed to myself and played on my phone, wasting time while my friends waited for me to make up my mind on whether I really wanted to go in or not. Of course I wanted to go in, but there was this nervousness and anxiety that prevented me from doing so. I probably paced around the door looking in for 20 minutes, on the verge of tears, before finally getting pushed in. As soon as I was in I thought, “Okay, not so bad…” But after we started I was gone after the first 10 minutes.

Yet another example of how anxiety was holding me back.

My last story is of this past weekend. I hear that there is another dance workshop over the weekend, but it’s with the Filipino club. I think, “Okay, I can do this, I can do this I’ll stay and I won’t leave I’ll make friends and be happy I can do this.”

The morning before leaving I think about just staying home and being a weenie, but I force myself to go, and I had a really good time! This time when I went, there was very little hesitation. The group I was with was very small which helped a lot, and I did dance and I did make a new friend and I felt really happy afterwards.

I guess what I’m trying to say about these stories is that I exposure-therapied myself? Which means I kept forcing myself to go to social gatherings, and I gradually became more okay with them.

During my gap year, I spent most of my time at home by myself. In that time I gradually forgot how to talk to people, and all the progress I made overcoming my social anxiety during my freshman year in college was pushed aside as a new wave of fear overwhelmed me.

Okay, now it’s time for a change of scenery and mood in this post.

EMBER, YOU ARE WALKING! Okay now to try and tie these stories together:

You love to be chased and tickled, you think it’s hilarious. Your Lolo keeps making scary sounds, and you laugh and you run away and it actually gets you to walk!

You somehow use your sense of flight to make you stronger. But I guess it’s not truly flight because you’re not truly scared, you’re just playing around.

I’ve spent most of my life in flight. Only since I’ve hit college have I started choosing to fight. By the way you constantly tackle me and bite me and slap me in the face, I can tell you are already a fighter (and I mean that in a nice way).

I don’t want to keep running away from people. I want to make friends and enjoy my life. I don’t want to keep holding myself back, and I would never dream of holding you back.

I hope that as time goes by we can fight together.

New Year New Me??

Apparently I haven’t written a blog post in 2 months, which is awful. I have ideas constantly running through my head, but I find myself lacking the time and/or energy to write them out.

Anyways, I’m 20 now! Yay me!

I came out to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.

I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.

The title of my post is usually something said during New Year, but I’m applying it to my birthday. New year, and technically new me?

If I went back in time and told little weeb 14 year old me that in the future I would chop my hair off and walk around wearing green lipstick, I would not believe it. If I told myself I could give a presentation without shaking or crying, I would not believe it. If I told myself I could go shopping and talk to employees and ask questions without first pacing around the store for an hour filled with anticipation, I would not believe it.

But shit, I never would’ve believed I’d have a baby at 20, so everything else seems so…

Ember, since the moment I found out I was pregnant, you have changed me. For the better, sweet baby.

Every moment before I had you was full of horrible paranoia. I talked about my depression and anxiety, but I cannot stress enough how utterly miserable I was.

Every minute of my life was Where am I going to school? What if I don’t like this major? Will I have to start over? Can I switch schools? How much does living in an apartment cost? What if I fail these classes? What if I can’t make any friends? What if I’m the first person to show up at that meeting and I have to stand there awkward and alone? What am I going to do after college? Will I ever defeat the patriarchy? What if I fall into crippling debt? Do I kill myself? How should I kill myself, so that it will be fast and painless and not too inconvenient to clean up? Where do I kill myself? Will tomorrow be better? Will next year be better? What am I waiting for? What do I have to look forward to?

When I say my heart was devoid of hope, I meant it.

But you. You, Ember. You’ve changed me more than I can ever say.

You’ve taken that hot mess and transformed it into When will Ember walk? What will her first words be? I hope it’s Mom, I didn’t carry her in my tummy for 9 months to let Zach have the satisfaction of getting called first. Okay, I’ll take this one semester at a time and graduate as soon as I can, and I’ll get a good job so I can buy Ember whatever she wants. Anything. I wonder if she’ll like school. I wonder what her favorite subject will be, or what her hobbies or interests will be. I will be the most loving and involved parent; I’ll look up everything she likes so I can talk to her about it. I have the rest of my life to love her.

Not only have you changed the way I think about my future, but you’ve changed the way I think about myself.

I talked about how I was picked on because of my skin. My eczema, my discoloration. People called me ugly, and I believed them. My lowest point was in high school. My skin was acting up, it was bleeding and oozing and I was in so much pain. I felt so disgusting, so horribly ugly, that during lunch that day I looked down at my food and thought, “I don’t deserve to eat. I don’t deserve this food. Eating is for beautiful people.”

I always remember that day. And I wish I could go back in time and hug myself and tell myself that I deserve so much more.

I read an article one day that really changed how I looked at myself. (I can’t seem to find it, but if I do I’ll link it here.) It was a woman talking about how women always put themselves down and criticize their bodies (because hell, everyone else is) but in doing so they’re setting the example. Their daughters will look to them, see their mothers hating on themselves, and think, “Oh, well I need to start hating my body too.”

I will not be that mother. I will not plant the seeds of insecurity in your beautiful little heart. I will fill you with nothing but confidence and self esteem, because you deserve nothing less.

Now when I look in the mirror, I think

  • Eyebrows on fleek
  • Lipstick cute af
  • Highlight / contour game strong
  • Eyeshadow perfect as always
  • Eyeliner sharp enough to kill
  • Hair on point
  • Clothes on point
  • Pretty eyes pretty nose pretty lips
  • Cute tummy cute thighs cute hips
An example of my looking 200% cute.

An example of me looking 200% cute.

What took me so, so, so many painful years to see, is that I am beautiful. With or without makeup, I walk around with my head held high like I run this shit, because I do.

I’m sitting on my bed typing this and you are sleeping in your crib next to me, and I can see in your not-yet-developed facial features that you are beautiful and you are a goddess and you are perfect, and you must never let ANYONE convince you otherwise.

There are people in this world that cannot tell the difference between confidence and cockiness, between self-love and immodesty, but their ignorance is not your problem. Love yourself shamelessly, love yourself before anyone else. Because you are so wonderful and magical and beautiful and worthy of love. You already have all the love in my heart.

Ember, you’ve given me the gift of confidence. You’ve given me the ability to love myself. Because if I was able to create something as beautiful as you, then how bad can I be?

I still have a long way to go, but seeing how far I’ve come lately, I know I can do it.

I’m not going to be a mother that can’t make a phone call. I’m not going to be a mother that can’t talk to people in public, or cry whenever I do. I’m not going to let social anxiety take over when I have so much to do.

Ember, I’m going to make you proud of me.

What We Learn

High school was a wild ride for me to say the least.

Here is visual proof:

Me in 2011. I look so dorky omg, I was in hardcore weeb mode and I wouldn't be saved for another 2 years at that point.

Me in 2011. I look so dorky omg, I was in hardcore weeb mode and I wouldn’t be saved for another 2 years at that point.

Here is how my average senior year daily schedule would look like:

  • 6:15 AM – Wake up and get ready for school
  • 6:45 AM – Drive to school and do nothing until class starts
  • 7:30 AM – 2:10 PM – Stumble through the day, pretend to be fully conscious, mingle, take notes, learn
  • 2:10 PM – 3:30 PM – After-school clubs
  • 3:30 PM – 5:00 PM – Get home, have a snack, take a nap and relax for a brief moment so I don’t go insane
  • 5:00 PM – 1:00 AM – Homework and study, with approximately 2 hours some time in there to eat and shower
  • 1:00 AM – 6:15 AM – Sleep

Let me tell you now why the education system is messed up.

Of the approximate 16 out of 24 hours I would spend every day doing school work, I retained nearly nothing. Pump-and-dump isn’t just an expression used to describe what nursing mothers do to their milk after a night of drinks, it’s what I had to do with all the information I learned just to keep up. It’s no wonder why America is ranked 14th in education, 2nd in ignorance, and 24th in literacy.

The funny thing is, the stuff I do remember from high school had nothing to do with the lessons, but everything to do with the teachers.

I can’t remember how to find the slope of a line, and I can’t tell you what a derivative is. I don’t remember the plot of Heart of Darkness or how to do a citation in MLA format. I don’t think I can name more than 10 elements on a periodic table, and I remember the formula d = m/v only because the “m/v” part looks like a heart when I write it out. The main thing I retained from history is that FDR was the man and the New Deal was a big deal.

What I do remember are my math teachers staying after school with me for countless hours and helping me until I understood something. I remember my English teachers praising my work and giving me confidence, and editing the crap out of my papers so that I would get even better (it was the only subject I was good at). My computer design teacher Mr. B becoming a good friend to me, staying after with me for hours letting me do work I was really passionate about, and helping me grow in my skills and as a person.

One moment I can never forget took place in my AP US History class when I was a junior in high school. Lord knows I’ll never remember what the actual lesson was about, but my teacher Mr. O started talking about babies. He asked the class if we need doctors and professionals to help us every step of the way when it comes to raising our kids. The 16 year old me sitting in that classroom thought about it, and was the only one to raise my hand and dissent with the group. “Yes, I think we need professionals.” He politely rejected my statement, and said something to the effect of:

“When you’re a parent, you know how to do things. Evolution prepared us for this. When you’re a parent, you know what your kids need. Believe it or not, their cries all sound different, so after a while you know what they need. Oh, there’s a hungry cry. Then that’s a poop cry. That’s an attention cry. You just know.”

At the time, 16 year old baby-less me couldn’t fathom how that would be possible. A cry is just a cry, right?

Nope. Of course, Mr. O was right.

When my baby cries, I just know. Oh, she’s hungry. Whoops, someone needs a new diaper. Oh no she’s scared. That’s a sleepy sob.

In my opinion, the best teachers don’t give you the facts and just the facts. They give you a real talk, with things you take outside the classroom and carry with you forever. I never thought I’d learn something about parenting in my high school history class, but here I am.

Every day should be “Teacher Appreciation Day”, because these people are not only over-worked and under-paid, they give us the #real and mentor us not only about school but about life. I’ll never be able to thank all of my teachers enough (or apologize enough for the times I dozed off during lessons).

To all the educators doing their best, thank you.

The Talk

You know. The talk. The talk.

The birds and the bees up in them trees. Making babies. P in V. Eggplants and peaches. Doing the do. Getting down and dirty. The motion in the ocean. Haha and then what? 😉

However you phrase it, it’s the talk that all parents dread.

The sex talk.

From my maternity shoot! I had an outie by the end of my pregnancy, it was weird af.

From my maternity shoot! I had an outie by the end of my pregnancy, it was weird af.

**WARNING: NSFW text ahead**

My boyfriend and I agree that a sex-positive style of parenting is important. Because not only will our daughter learn these things regardless of whether we talk to her about it or not, but she will do things. And we want her to be able to come to us with absolutely anything.

When I say my family made this topic taboo, I really, really, REALLY mean that. Not once in my life — and understand, I have a baby already — have my parents ever talked to me about sex. When I was in the 5th grade and FLE (family life education) started, I was the only one who’s parents opted them out. Of all the kids in my school, I was the only one sitting in the hallway drawing, wondering what was going on in there. I had no idea where babies came from until my older cousin finally told me when I was 12, which is ridiculous when you think about it. He literally pulled up a diagram of genitals on our desktop (ha, desktops) and gave me the basics.

I have no intention of letting that happen to Ember.

Every time I asked my parents where babies came from, they’d just tell me things like “They come out of the mommy’s tummy” or “You’ll have a baby when you’re married” and vague stuff like that.

When Ember asks me where babies come from, the first thing I will tell her is they come from eggs inside the mommy. Simple enough.

When she gets older and inquires again, I’ll give her the basics.

When she hits high school, I’ll not only give her the real talk, I’ll give her the #realtalk, which I implore all parents with daughters to do.

And now, here are 3 things about sex I highly insist all parents teach their daughters at some point:

1) Your first time is not supposed to hurt.

You heard me. Everything you know is a lie. The cherry does NOT pop. The hymen does NOT break. While your first time may be uncomfortable because of the new sensation, it should by no means be painful.

If it’s actually painful, it’s because the guy did not do his job and he did not arouse you. If it is actually painful and you do bleed, it is because of a tear inside of you due to a lack of sexual arousal and a lack of natural lubrication.

Christina Aguilera can summarize my thoughts towards this here.

2) Sex does not end with the male orgasm.

Let me start this off with a quote from Elizabeth Olson:

“Women’s sexuality is something that I’m obsessed with. I think it’s weird that teenage girls know more about giving blow jobs than they do about masturbation. It makes me sick to my stomach that so many young girls think sex is just about a guy finishing.”

Can I get a resounding #preach from the audience?

Unfortunately, 71% of women cannot / do not orgasm with just penetration. So fellas, if you think you’re Hercules in bed, lemme give you some #realtalk too: she is straight up fakin’ it.

Just because the guy finishes does not mean sex is done. God gave men hands and mouths for a reason, and if they don’t use them, we’ve got a problem. If he doesn’t value your orgasm, he probably doesn’t value you as a person either.

3) Sex does not make you impure.

This may be the most important thing I can teach my daughter about sex. It is my duty as a mother to let her know that sex is a natural thing and that it doesn’t make her bad or dirty in any way whatsoever.

If a man thinks sex makes a woman dirty, he should take a look at his hands.

I’m also under no impression that you should wait for marriage to get jiggy with it. If you want to and you feel that you’re ready, go for it. It’s all about communication and trust with your partner, and if you both think you’re up for it, then by all means. Have a blast. In no way does it make you less worthy of respect as a human being, and it in no way decreases your value as a person.

There are many many many more things I want to add to this list, but this will suffice for now. I was compelled to make this post after I saw this online.

I am surprised and disappointed by how many of my female friends I have had to teach about their own bodies. In high school, I had to sit back and watch boys draw dicks all over the school, but no one ever draws labias or vaginas or ovaries anywhere. We live in a society where everyone knows about how guys pound their meat before anyone tells a girl about her clitoris.

When the time comes, I’m going to talk to Ember about everything. She’ll be the most informed person in her school regarding sexuality, and I’ll be so proud. When she comes to me to talk about these kinds of things, I’ll sit there and listen to her and respect her as a woman and a sexual human being. I’ll buy her condoms, I’ll talk to her about being safe and being respected.

It’s a talk no parent wants to have because it’s awkward and society has made the topic taboo, but when that time comes I’ll be hype and I’ll be enthusiastic and I’ll tell her anything she wants to know.