It’s official: motherhood bites.
Sure, there’re those rare instances when the diaper’s full and it’s Dad’s turn for KP duty, but eventually Lady Luck packs her bags and hightails it south where breezes carry the scent of tropical blooms, not Lysol spray. Such is life. I choose to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.
So, here’s the deal: Co-Def 1, in an unfortunate moment of unfiltered tween one-upsmanship, informed a group of classmates that he’d had sex. Yep, you read that right. Thankfully, it’s not true, therefore he’s still alive and I’m not sporting a jumpsuit of some ghastly shade of neon orange.
Notified by phone, betwixt the curb-side convo with Co-Def 2’s teacher regarding sorely lacking self-control and canine, indoor (on the carpet, of course) Montezuma’s revenge, I barely restrained my Oh, shit! and opted instead for my quasi-Japanese AIYAA!
I love going to the Principal’s office. It feels so cozy, familiar…you know, like home. And nothing, absolutely noth-ING, beats running into one of those kids’ moms on the way inside. After offering the sincerest of apologies to her, she asked What. Has. He. Been. Watching?
Back up the Blame Bandwagon, DramaMama. What’s he been watching?!? Well, hmm, let’s see, uh National Geographic because we had to cancel the Playboy Channel on account of the bad economy and all. WHAT’S! HE! BEEN! WATCHING?!?
I’ve always been honest with my kids about all things body and sex related. They ask and I’ll give an age-appropriate answer. At age 5, Babies come from God was sufficient. Yesterday, I wasn’t too certain where the little shits came from, but I bet dollars to donuts it’s probably got a fairly hot climate.
I’m also a stickler for proper names or terms.
- It’s penis, not tallywacker.
- They’re testicles, not tenders or nuggets. Ten bucks says you snicker the next time you’re in the Golden Arches drive-thru…and no, anabolic steroids don’t shrink them until they disappear–this isn’t vanishing deductible from Geico.
- Hasta la vista, hooha and coochie. Hola, vagina.
As sex-crazed as American society is, you’d think parents would pull that stick out of their collective posterior and get down to brass tacks. You think I’m joking about 13 year-olds giving birth or 15 year-olds with chlamydia? Go ahead, call my bluff.
I firmly believe God created sex specifically for a married couple, couple in this instance meaning one man and one woman, to enjoy together until they drop dead of unbridled exhiliration or old age. Fine, great. But, you’re not off the hook by simply saying It’s sacred and special and we’ll talk about it when you’re older. Wake the hell up, already! You want to believe Sex, what’s THAT? go ahead and knock yourself out. I hope the view up your behind is divine. But, fair warning here: Christians get STDs and they can, oopsies, get pregnant, too.
Part of my parenting job is the privilege (no, I’m not joking) of making myself available to answer those questions that make me long for the day when the only thing coming from that kid’s mouth was slobber. At age 12, there’s no glossing it over and if it’s as special and sacred as God intends it to be, then my answers had better be just as thoughtful and thorough. I just wonder why Dear Hubby’s never around for these teachable moments.
My only regret, is that another parent’s privilege to introduce their child to such a sensitive topic was preempted by my child’s thoughtless comment. Not okay.
So, what’s he been watching?
RIO, that movie about a blue macaw on the loose in Brazil who, I’d like to point out, was sent there by his owner for the express purpose of procreating. If you let your kids watch this movie, congratulations, you’re a bad parent just like me. Welcome to the dark side.
Where’d my son learn about sex?
From his PARENTS.