A few years ago, a relative told me she moved her 15-year-old son’s bedroom to the basement.  That’s a bit harsh, I thought. The kid will be out of the house soon enough. Does he really have to be kicked downstairs?

And then my kids became teenagers.

While everyone always laments the demise of their sex lives when their children are young – they’re too exhausted, the kids interrupt them and other assorted excuses – no one ever mentions this dirty little secret:  it’s impossible to have sex with teenagers at home.

Just when you finally catch up on your sleep and are able to think about getting your life back, the privacy vanishes. Once they hit a certain age, they’re awake long after you are and they’re hyperaware of what you’re doing. The thought of them hearing or knowing what you’re up to is mortifying to everyone.

It’s true that teens tend to go out a lot. But if you have more than one child, their social lives may not be in sync. Or you may think the coast is clear, only to be interrupted by a phone call to go pick someone up or deal with a crisis.

The bottom line is that even though your teenage or adult kids don’t need constant attention, you still can’t do as you please.  They may want to have nothing to do with you, but they’re still in your face.  And just for the record, if you show up at breakfast and they can’t look you in the eye, it’s time to remodel that basement.

I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, while my mind was elsewhere, it appears that coconut oil has taken over the world.

Apparently there is no limit to the uses one can make of this miracle product. Forget about just using it for baking or sautéing vegetables. That’s for amateurs. Coconut oil is being hyped for all kinds of benefits.

On the beauty side, it’s being touted as a makeup remover, skin moisturizer, natural sunscreen, age spot lightener, and lip balm. Rub it on your perineum after giving birth! Use it to get rid of pimples! Try it as a shaving cream and to help get rid of varicose veins!

But that’s not all! Coconut oil is being promoted for its myriad health benefits too. It’s supposed to ease arthritis, help heal ear infections, aid weight loss, speed recovery from UTIs, boost circulation and hormone production, and even help those with autism.

People swear by it. They even emulsify it and use it in their coffee in place of cream. Seriously?

It used to be that we were advised to avoid coconut oil due to its high levels of saturated fat. Now we’re told that it’s actually beneficial and we can’t shovel it in or smear it on fast enough. It reminds me of Woody Allen’s Sleeper, which takes place 200 years in the future when steak, cream pies, and hot fudge are thought to be health foods.

And by the way, what’s wrong with olive oil? It’s healthy and tasty. You can spritz it, pour it, cook with it, eat it straight out of the bottle, even smother lice with it (yes, this actually works). You can use it as a moisturizer, defrizz your hair with it, and smoothe it on your feet to soften your calluses. Plus it always tastes different, depending on the country and region of origin.

So if you’re like me and you haven’t yet hopped on the coconut oil bandwagon, hold your horses. There are plenty of healthy options out there. How about a kale smoothie?

My verbal expression often includes profanity, so I was a bit taken aback several years ago when a friend of mine told me she was trying to avoid swearing. “There are better words you can use,” she told me.

Here’s the problem: Sometimes there just aren’t better words. Sometimes you just have to punctuate your statements with a rousing curse word.

I was raised by two teachers who must have heard it all. I doubt that anything that came out of my mouth shocked my parents. They occasionally used profanity, and consequently, so did I. No big deal.  When I learned Italian, I swore freely, because 1) it just didn’t carry the same weight in another language and 2) I was desperate to increase my vocabulary.

When my own kids were small, I tried to clean up my act. But they inevitably heard things, and not always from me. Is it appropriate for a three-year-old to ask for a f***ing cookie? No, but it’s not the end of the world. Their non-native speaking grandparents said “shit” so often, I think they were under the impression it was the same thing as saying “darn.”

Don’t get me wrong. I discouraged my children from using profanity outside of our home or in front of other people. But the truth is, I really didn’t give a f*ck if they swore occasionally, especially as they got older. I believe in picking your battles, and cursing was just not one of them.

Notice that I’m less inclined to swear (those timid ***!) in print. That’s because the written word is somehow different. Unlike spoken language, it doesn’t go away. An errant “f*ck” vanishes quickly when you say it, but forever remains on the page.

So if you’re inclined to swear when you speak, let it fly. I won’t mind. And by the way, saying “freaking” is the same f***ing  thing.

Spring is in the air and you know what that means: It’s time to celebrate either Passover or Easter.

Religious beliefs aside, let’s talk food, because after all, what’s more important? If you celebrate Easter, you get to eat peanut-butter filled chocolate eggs, jelly beans, and peeps. If you celebrate Passover, you get to eat a huge bowel-blocking, fat-laden meal, plus you must forego bread for a week in favor of a giant, dry, tasteless cracker. But what about matzoh balls, you ask? Sure, they’re fluffy and delicious. But consider the fact that what Jews view as a treat, other people use to treat the flu.

I like to think of the sweet, delicious treats of Easter versus the tradition of reliving a tale of slavery and suffering as an opportunity for a life lesson.

Let’s face it: Life isn’t all chocolate bunnies and cream-filled confections. It can be challenging, somber, and austere. You can’t always win and you don’t always get what you want.

In a way, the takeaway message from the Passover/Easter dichotomy relates to the suck-it-up school of parenting to which I subscribe. Stop whining and spend some time appreciating the blessings in your life. Remember that this too shall pass. Remind yourself that even though the horseradish will make your eyes water and burn your mouth, eventually you’ll get to the chocolate-covered matzoh and macaroons.

I have a friend whose mantra is: “Boys are dumb.” So what happens when they grow up? They’re still dumb (with the exception of my husband and my father, of course).

I think what my friend actually means is that boys, and later men, are often oblivious. And for some reason that really pisses women off. So I’d like to offer a word of advice to my female friends: Adjust your expectations and tell your man what you want/need.

Here’s an example: I like when my husband tells me he loves me. He, on the other hand, knows he loves me and doesn’t feel the need to say it as often as I’d like to hear it. Do I get angry that he doesn’t say those three magic words very often? I confess that I used to resent it. But I’ve developed a much more practical approach that’s so simple:
Me: You love me.
Him: Yes, I do.

There. Mission accomplished! He doesn’t have to wonder what he’s doing wrong as I stomp around the house in not-so-silent fury, because I’ve let him know what I need.

Some of you might still be annoyed because you may be operating under the delusion that you shouldn’t have to tell your man what you want him to do. He should just know. He should open his eyes, see that you’re upset or overwhelmed or in need of a compliment, and step up to the plate. Ladies, it’s time to face facts. You do have to lay it on the line, spell it out, and draw a map. If boys are dumb, it’s up to us to educate them.

Remember how when you were young you were really grossed out about the idea of your parents having sex? The very thought of them entwined in one another’s arms was enough to make you throw up in your mouth. In fact, it was so unimaginable that you might have actually thought they only did it the number of times corresponding to the number of children in your family. I know I did.

It turns out that the idea of your parents having sex isn’t really that bad when you think about it. What’s really disgusting is the thought of your kids having sex.

It’s a visual we all try and avoid. But when you’re faced with evidence of their adult activities – a package of condoms left in a drawer, for example – it’s hard not to let your mind go there.

When our daughters were little, I used to enjoy tormenting my husband by casually mentioning that I hoped they had satisfying sex lives one day. I would drop that bombshell and watch the ensuing fireworks. Later, when they were getting ready to leave for college, I thought I was the epitome of cool because I bought condoms for them while on a Target run. They squirmed, and I laughed, loving every minute of it.

But it’s actually not that funny now that I consider the idea of them, their friends, and my friends’ kids as sexually active human beings. What was I laughing about? Just as I prefer to think of my parents in an Ozzy and Harriet world of twin beds (which they never had) and chaste pecks on the cheek, I prefer to think of my kids holding hands and slow dancing with clean cut young men who take them on actual dates.

So please, don’t interrupt my G-rated fantasy. Let’s pretend to ignore the fact that birds do it, bees do it….and yes, our kids do it, too.

Our kids are away at college and my husband and I certainly miss them, but not as much as you might think. Luckily we have someone else to praise, scold, cuddle and fawn over in their absence. Someone who has, in effect, replaced our children: Our dog, Otis.

Don’t get me wrong; Otis never suffered from lack of attention. He has been showered with love and affection since the day he arrived almost 13 years ago. But something has changed in our family dynamic now that our nest is empty. Apparently we are not quite finished being parents. Our nurturing roles are so ingrained that we automatically focus on our dog.

With the kids out of the picture most of the time, there’s nothing Otis does that escapes our scrutiny and delight.  We gang pet him while he is trying to take a nap, sing to him at odd moments, and worry over his every misstep. We gaze adoringly at him as he snores on one of his four dog beds – two are orthopedic because he has arthritis – and tell each other over and over how cute he is. Instead of tucking in the kids, I now find my husband crouched in front of Otis at night to give him one last pat on his sweet furry head.

Is it weird that we took more photos of Otis while on vacation at the beach than we do of our kids?  Probably. But Otis doesn’t seem to mind and our kids are probably relieved to escape our clutches. It’s a win-win…at least until they come home on break.

The conventional wisdom is that the college years are the best years of your life. In many ways, that’s true. Assuming you’re lucky enough to have parents willing to foot the bill, you have the freedom of living away from home – and the parental scrutiny that goes with it – minus the hassle of paying for it. Without the burden of worrying how you’ll pay rent or where your next meal is coming from, life is totally carefree and full of possibilities. 

The problem with this scenario is that while there are plenty of lighthearted and fun aspects to the college years, there are also some serious expectations.  Between the tender ages of 18 and 22, you’re expected to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life.

Those of us well beyond the college years make it seem easy: Take a bunch of different courses until something strikes your fancy! Do what you love and the money will follow! But what happens if you don’t know what you love or you dabble in different courses but still have no clue as to the direction you want to take when it’s time to declare your major after just two years in college?

No wonder why college kids party all the time. They have to get good and drunk in order to forget the fact that they are at a pivotal moment in their lives. They’re essentially buying – or asking their parents to buy – what will probably turn out to be the most expensive thing they’ll ever purchase (apart from a house) and they’re not even sure what they’ll be getting for their money! If they’re unsure and change direction too many times, it will cost even more.

So we should all tell our kids: Have fun at those football games, fraternity parties, and bars. As you stumble home in the wee hours of the morning, try not to think about the fact that you have no idea where you’ll be living in a couple of years (please don’t let it be my basement), much less how you’ll pay for it. Drink up! And by the way, welcome to adulthood.

Here’s something you don’t realize until it’s happening to you: The older you are, the longer it takes to get ready for bed. Let’s review my bedtime routine:

First, I peel my contacts off of my eyes, which are apparently drying with age. Next, I put in Restasis, to moisturize my dry eyes.  I found out I needed this medicine when I went to the eye doctor because I couldn’t see. I thought my prescription was changing, but no, it couldn’t be that easy. Instead of getting a new pair of glasses, I have to put these drops in for the rest of my life if I don’t want to feel as if there’s sand in my eyes.

Next, it’s on to hair growth. I apply some drops to the top of my head to help my hair grow and different drops to my lash line to give me fuller, thicker lashes. While we’re on the subject of hair, I may whip out the tweezers and grab a few chin hairs, go over my mustache, and check the mole on my cheek that likes to sprout hairs.

Now we’re on to flossing. As we get older, our teeth wear away. As a result, the space between them increases, and more food gets caught in there. I view it as a midnight snack. I wonder how many Weight Watchers points the food stuck in my teeth counts for. Zero, because I already counted that food! It’s like a freebie!

After flossing my teeth, I brush them with toothpaste for sensitive teeth because my gums are receding. Then I wash my face and moisturize the hell out of it, because it too, is drying up. I also apply a special cream to my eyes, in the vain hope of minimizing wrinkles and puffiness.

You may think I’m finished now, and I am, but only in the bathroom. Once I’m tucked in bed, I have to take my blood pressure medication and put lubricating drops in my eyes.  While I’m at it, I apply Aquaphor to my lips. Then I have some options: hand cream? Yes. Something to help me sleep? Perhaps. Some lotion for my dry and cracking feet? Why not? Do I have a glass of fresh water at the ready in case I wake up with a troublesome tickle in my throat? Check. Now I’m finally ready to turn out the light, but this whole routine has taken so long, it’s practically time to wake up.