Jesus and I have a complicated relationship. 

The first of many men not to listen to me. 

To be fair, I know he had bigger things to worry about than little old me praying that someone in my family of 11 people would notice that I was choking on a Life Saver or begging him to help me not over pluck my eyebrows in my first attempt. (Thankfully, they did; and sadly, I did.)

But it would have been nice to have received some kind of sign that asking for things was no reason to feel guilty… and in most cases, a necessity.

Eight Siblings = Unconventional Hopes & Dreams

When you grow up with eight siblings, personal space is a fantasy. 

My siblings had no problem making it even harder. Like, they actually got pleasure from it. 

From my sister making my 5 foot, 8 inch ass sleep on the top bunk (every morning was the looming threat of getting a concussion) to my younger brother hiding behind my curtains while I changed and calling me a bloated cow (I had an awkward body, weighing 90 pounds with a bloated belly like a blowfish)…

I was on high alert every morning and every night.

My older sister and I lost a lot of sleep when my brothers went through a phase of sneaking into our room, whispering the commercial jingle, “Chiilliii’s… barbecue sauce,” farting, and closing the door. 

And yet, I felt guilty even thinking about asking my parents for my own room. Or, at the very least, asking for a cot so I didn’t have to sleep on the top bunk.

The Sex Talk I Missed (and Everyone Else Got)

I never officially got the sex talk. The closest I got was my older brother cackling and running around the house after he got the sex talk, yelling, “Slip it in the slot! Slip it in the slot!”

When I asked my mom what he was talking about, she said, “We were talking about how babies are made.”

That was it. No other context. 

I had to piece the rest together as I got older. I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t truly get the whole picture until I was in college. (And no – I wasn’t some young genius in grade school. I was 18.)

Hell, I didn’t even know the thing moved until I sat on my first boyfriend’s lap. Felt like a puppet. I yelped, jumped up, and ran…

For years, I shrugged off the fact that I never got the talk and attributed it to my parents just being uncomfortable with the subject…

Until I found out that every single one of my other siblings got the talk.

If I went to public school, I totally would have been the kid who was never picked in dodgeball. 

But it hurts a little bit more when you’re not picked by your parents.

In my mom’s defense, she did give me one of those pamphlets from the doctor’s office that explains the woman’s anatomy… using grad-school level medical jargon and lots of pink blobs that would have made some scary Halloween masks. 

When I had my first period, I thought I was dying. And no one ever clarified that I wasn’t. My mom simply handed me a pad and said, “Put this in your underwear.”

When I got my first pubic hair and told my mom about it, she just said, “Ah man, already?”

You think I would have pushed for answers. Like, “Is this a genetic thing? Am I turning into a man? Am I dying? Do I accessorize? Are we getting six more weeks of winter?”

But I felt like it would be an inconvenience (you know, taking 10 minutes to answer the questions of a dumb, terrified adolescent who should somehow already know these things). 

Meanwhile, my brother had no problem asking questions like, “Are you making babies in there!?”

Thanks for reading, heathens.

If you’ve ever asked Jesus when you should have asked a doctor, consider this a safe space.

We meet weekly. There’s no premium or deductible (other than the deduction of brain cells). 

And I solemnly swear this will be the first and last reference to Chilli’s barbeque farts (maybe).

Watch me talk more on this sad, somewhat interesting topic in the video below.