When we were kids, our parents used medical terminology about our bodies. I don’t remember whether it was always that way: I remember when I was very young, about four, watching a TV programme with nobody else around and then proudly bursting into the room declaring that I had learned the “proper” names for genitalia. Whether that memory reflects reality or not, I don’t know.
One day, when I was six– I can place it quite well, because I remember the classroom– I was allowed to choose what reading books I was reading. And I picked out a book called The Body Book, which at the time looked quite fascinating. I remember my teacher wrinkling up her nose in thought as to whether I should be allowed to take a book with naked people on the cover home, and my mother telling her it was all right.
Anyway, so I devoured this book. It had a lot of information in it about such interesting things as emotions and death, but then I got to the page about sex. In case you didn’t bother to look, it explains that boys and girls have “baby-making bits”. A boy’s “baby-making bits” are named as “a penis”. However, not only is the vagina the only part of a woman’s equipment whose existence is acknowledged, but the book even affirms that its name is “a baby-making hole”. Being a knowledge-thirsty kind of kid, I soaked up this information and forgot that I had previously been aware of any other words.
Now, a few months later, it happened that we were doing some Disney songs in the school choir, including the song Twitterpated from Bambi. When we were waiting by the front door getting ready to go to school one morning, my brother (a year younger than me) got bored and decided to pass the time by parodying the song. He sang:
Things begin to happen when a boy meets girl,
The boy puts his penis in the girl’s vulva.
(Somehow he managed to get the second line into the metre. I don’t think we learned about scansion at school.)
Anyway, I turned on him and said, “He doesn’t! He doesn’t!”
My mother fixed a steely eye upon me. “Really, Thomas?” she said. “And what does he do?”
“He puts his penis in the girl’s *baby-making hole*,” I said proudly.
To her credit, my mother kept a straight face.
–Submitted by Thomas
“Lookit, Ama!”
“What, baby?”
“My penis comes out.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And it goes back in.”
“That’s awesome.”
These are the things one learns from their three-year-old boys in a clothing-optional household. Or in a house that doesn’t cut the penii of the children in it. Or in a house that lets the children explore their bodies with an innocent freedom. Or in a house that allows the children to masturbate to shows such as SpongeBob, Phineas and Ferb, Cars – or whatever else happens to be on and the penis is in reach. Or in a house that — well, you get the idea.
I love raising my boys. I love staying home with them. I love the freedom they have to discover their bodies — to explore them. I love that I have the opportunity to raise them without shame.
This was not the case when I was growing up. Bodies were hidden by clothing at all times, unless when bathing. And even then, doors were closed, boys and girls bathed separately, and one made sure the towel completely covered all parts that should never be seen by the opposite sex. I never saw my mother in anything less than a full-length slip. I never saw my father without an undershirt on — with sleeves, never without — and certainly not without pants of some kind or other. And with the exception of being very young (under three) and bathing with my brother who was one year younger than I, I never saw my brothers without a fair amount of clothing.
I would say it was because my parents believed that our bodies were sacred and special. But it was because of the version of Christianity that they believed in, and still follow. Our bodies were sacred alright, and should not be shared with anyone — ourselves included — until we were married. Really.
Which meant that I didn’t see what the opposite sex looked like. While I knew that boys were different than girls (because one needed both boy and girl parts to have a baby), I didn’t know that the outside sex parts came in different shapes and sizes. I didn’t know that it was normal to feel desire, or to want to touch myself, or to explore other bodies, or to have tingly sensations every now and then. I didn’t know because I wasn’t allowed to know. Not from my parents and not from a class in school. Remember, not until I was married.
I was in my teens when I discovered the books that my mother and older sister read and tried to hide in their closets. I learned a little then. I was an older teen when I was asked if I was a virgin — and then had to ask my best friend what that meant, because I didn’t know. And I was sixteen when I let a boy touch me in the seat of the school bus — and I got to touch him back. Yeah, I learned a lot then. And I learned that I craved that touching.
I don’t know how much of the freedom I allow myself and my children can be attributed to the denial I grew up with. But I do know that I couldn’t raise my kids with the thought that their bodies were something to be ashamed of. I couldn’t put the restriction of “not until you are married” on them. I couldn’t expect that they would adhere to that, and not try anything else. And I really wanted them to be ok with what their body looked like, felt like, and did.
And they are.
My baby boy, at three year old, is excited to share with me what he has learned about his penis. My six year old is not ashamed to change in and out of his suit at the side of the pool. I can only hope that this openness will continue as they get older. Not that they should share with me the latest and greatest trick their penis can do, but that they are able to come to me with questions or share what they have learned in general.
And yes, I hope their confidence about their bodies that they have now, continues to grow and be strong as they get older. I hope their freedom to just be who they are, does not get hindered by restrictions that make no sense at all.
Honestly I don’t remember a lot about how I learned about sex growing up. I remember that it was always held as something special in my family – not necessarily for marriage (although that was ideal), but for someone who you really “love love love”.
I *do* remember sex ed, though, in sixth grade. It was called Family Planning or something to that effect.
It was taught by our lesbian P.E. teacher; she was very no-nonsense and I liked her.
At one point, on the overhead projector, she put up a diagram of the male body, including the genitals. We were given a handout or some such with the same drawing and additional information. She asked, “Is anyone embarrassed? Don’t be afraid.” I raised my hand – you bet I was embarrassed. Sixth grade? Diagrams of a naked adult male? Yes.
But… I was the only one who raised my hand! Now I was REALLY embarrassed.
I knew everyone else was lying. They had to be. Right? I couldn’t be the only one embarrassed to be learning about this, could I?
I have never forgotten that moment, and I am kind of proud that I was able to stand up and admit that the subject matter was new and embarrassing for me. I like to think I’ve taken that approach through the rest of my sexual life, a kind of openness that has made sex fun, never too serious, but special.
We have some interesting conversations around here. This was from the other day in the car between my 12 1/2 year old son and I.
Basically went a little something like this:
Me: “I don’t know if I should tell you this story (about a fighter pilot friend’s call sign) because it’ll only lead to questions and answers I’m not sure you’re ready for.”
Him: “Maybe we should wait until I reach puberty.”
Me: “I thought you said you were already getting hair…”
Him: “Hair?”
Me: “Yeah…hair…”
Him: “Hair?”
Me: “Hair…down there.”
Him: “Down where?”
Me: “I thought you told me you were getting fuzzy nuts”
Him: “Oh yeeeeaaaaaaahhh. I remember now. Yeah. Totally.”
Me: “Dude, you’ve reached puberty.”
Him: “So, can I hear the story now?”
Me: “I’m still trying to decide. Cuz, really, it’ll lead to questions about sex and, while I want to be open and honest about that, I think some of this might be a bit more than you need to know.”
Him: “Yeah. I’m still working on the fuzzy nuts part myself.”
It’s not that I don’t feel my son shouldn’t know this information. In fact, I think it’s important he know it and know it RIGHT, get it from a reliable source.
But how do I explain oral sex to him? Should I start the lesson a bit more broadly, approaching from say…that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond when Marie takes up sculpting and her statue obviously resembles the vulva. I explained that to my son. He blushed mildly but didn’t turn away. That’s a good show to bring up and use to ease my way into the discussion, I think. And that’s likely how it’ll happen.
I think I’ll use my time with him this weekend to broach the subject, let him think it over, and then he can ask questions when he’s ready before he goes back to his dad’s house. I know the answers won’t come from there. Or maybe he’ll be brave and ask his dad a few. Either way, I want him to be educated by people who know and not some kids at school who are repeating something they heard from Two and a Half Men, although that’s an excellent source of fodder for sex ed, albeit a slightly more advanced sex ed.
Any suggestions are greatly appreciated.
After my oldest son’s first week of kindergarten, he came home and asked me a very special question.
“Mommy,” he says very seriously, “Conner said that boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas. Is that true?”
After I picked up my chin which had fallen all the way to floor (leaving quite a noticeable bruise, I might add), I looked closely at my son. He still looked like he was only five. I considered his friend, Conner. Conner was the youngest of three boys. My son was the oldest of three boys. The youngest of a set of three of anything learns things at a much younger age than their older siblings.
I pulled my son to me, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Yes, Scott, what you heard is true, but listen closely, because this is important. Boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas, but NOT UNTIL THEY ARE TWENTY.”
My mother died when I was eleven, so I feel fortunate that everything I had needed to know was explained to me well before that.
She was always quite open to talking to me about anything – even before I even knew there was anything to talk about. I remember her and my father sitting me down and telling me that it was time for me to consider wearing a bra. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind yet, but I just shrugged and said OK. It was simply no big deal.
One day when I was about eight or nine I guess my Mom decided that it was time to answer any questions that I had about sex. Perhaps she thought I was too shy to bring it up myself? Honestly, I think I was just a bit too innocent. I never thought about sex or wondered where babies came from. In retrospect it seems a bit unnatural my lack of curiosity.
My Mom sat me down at her friend’s place with a book, and told me about sex. She explained that a man put a penis in a woman’s vagina and that’s how babies were formed. She also explained about menstruating and what to do, and why it happened. She used all the correct words and didn’t sugar coat anything.
I was astonished by the whole thing. I simply had no suspicions that such an act ever occurred. I had a bit more idea about the period thing since I had seen her supplies around the house–but it just seemed like a grown up thing, and I didn’t fuss about it.
I’m glad that I had it all explained to me while I had the chance to absorb it, with the opportunity for follow-up questions. I didn’t get my period until I was twelve and she was gone – so at least I didn’t have to burden my poor father with my ignorance.
All in all, I think I had the best possible experience with “the talk.”
Having said good bye to all my friends as Sex 2.0, I headed to my car for the long drive north. It was Mother’s Day weekend and I wanted to be home with my children when they woke up that next morning as I have always been these past years. I would have hours on that drive home to think and process all I had learned that day at Sex 2.0 and all of the people I had met.
By the time I arrived home it was late and I was totally worn out. I found my son still awake and in the kitchen as I walked in, so we spent time chatting and catching up on his weekend. Lugging my stuff into my bedroom I reflected on how different my life was now than just a short year ago. So many things had changed for me and one of them was the way I viewed my relationship with my children. I was now the mom who handed her son the NYC condoms and lectured him on the importance of safe sex.
It was the sound of my phone ringing a few hours later that woke me up. Upon answering it I heard those dreaded words “Mom, you need to come outside.”
“What? I’m sleeping” I replied. I told him I would talk to him tomorrow.
But the next reply scared me even more. “Mom, you HAVE to come out here.”
Out of bed I climbed and made my way outside to find my two sons sitting together. Confusion started to set in. They were both alive, sober (or semi-sober) and I didn’t see the police anywhere around.
As I sat down the older one looked at me and said “Eric has something he needs to tell you.” If you are a parent you know how these are the last words you ever want to hear, especially in the middle of the night from one of your children.
I turned to Eric and encouraged him to talk to me. Looking me in the eye he said “Mom, I’m bisexual.”
Huh? Is that all, I thought to myself. Then I looked at this child of mine. This child who has been struggling to come to terms with his sexuality. I thought back on the past year or so of his life and the signs of his struggle and unhappiness. I looked at this child who was now opening up to me finally and looking for my acceptance.
It was then I thought of all the people I now have in my life. I thought of the ones who have struggled for acceptance from their families and at that moment I could not for the life of me understand how their parents could not accept both them and their lives.
I looked at my son with happiness and love and said “I will love you no matter what,” and “I don’t care if you like boys, girls or pineapples; it will never change who you are,” and “These are your life choices and I will support you in them no matter what,” and “All I want for you is happiness and a clean room.”
As I sat with my two children in the late night cool air talking about all of this I thought to myself if only they knew where I had just spent my weekend. See, my children are still not fully aware of the life I lead now but that night they fully benefited from it. We talked about being bisexual and the thoughts people have about it. The old question of whether men are really bisexual or just one step away from gay.
None of this conversation surprised me. Thinking back I always “knew” this about him. When the conversation turned to telling his Dad it was no surprise to me when he said he would not tell him and did not want me to either. Growing up with a conservative Republican Dad has made if difficult for him to be himself around him.
As the night air grew cooler I bugged my two sons to move inside to finish our talk. It was now very late, cold and I was exhausted. As we all curled up on the sofas together, the conversation moved to the condoms I had given them. One son complained that they were too small. At that point as I tried to stay awake the conversation moved between my two sons and why one could fit into these condoms and one could not. I started to hear numbers with the word “inches” after it and wondered how did I end up in the middle of this.
How did I end up late at night with my two children cuddled on the sofa while they discussed the size of their respective manhoods? Who was I now? And then it came to me. I was a mom and I was Diva. I had learned so much in the last year and I was now sharing that with my children. This new person I had become with all the knowledge and understanding that they needed at this point in their lives.
I looked at them and thought back to all the years we had these moments together alone. I thought about the difficult changes they were going through in this family now and how much I had worried about them because of it. And then I saw our future together. A future of us together late at night discussing sexuality, condoms and penis size along with their need to clean their rooms. Happiness surrounded me at that moment with the love I had for my children.
I turned to my son who had chosen that night to come out to me and said with humor in my voice, “You know some children give their mothers flowers for Mother’s Day,” thinking about how ironic it was that Diva’s son would come out on Mother’s Day.
My children have benefited from my online life and friendships. The next day I was able to share this with my friends and look to them for help. I asked them for books, resources and support groups for my son as he worked through accepting this about himself.
Mother’s Day has become even more special for me now.
I knew before my children were born that I wanted to be the kind of mother that they could trust would tell them the truth. I never talked “baby talk” to them and always tried to judge what age appropriate information for them was. I also never would assume that, “Not MY child! My daughter/son would NEVER do that!” Parents like that are just fooling themselves. Why do they think their kids won’t do the same or worse than they did?
Sometimes my philosophy worked very well. When my daughter was about the age when she was figuring out Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real guys, I told her that when children become a certain age that Santa and the Easter Bunny let mom, dad, older brothers and sisters, take over the duties that they performed for the smaller children. I further told her that was the way we could always keep the magic of Christmas and the fun of Easter going forever. Now that she was getting older it was a big responsibility to keep the secret going and help Santa and company. She LOVED it! She talks about it to this day. I was Queen Mom with that pearl of wisdom.
I treated my son the same way. I did request that his father take over the actual “sex” talks with him. My son became aware of his penis very early in his life and like all men, it became his BEST friend. Since my son was five years old, he has never let me see him naked. I sent his father in a couple times over the years to question him and make sure his junk was okay, in proper order, etc. His father did this with much anguish and I think the last time I did this, my son was about fifteen. After his father had asked him the torturous questions, my son stormed out of his room and told me that his plumbing was fine, did what it was supposed to, and worked correctly and to STOP HAVING HIS FATHER CHECK ON HIM!!! He further informed me he knew about sex and how to protect himself and any future girlfriends. “Jeez, MOM!” Those were his last words on the subject.
So, I let them come to me with questions. I answered honestly and as the years went by, the questions about sex became less and less. They still come to me with questions about a variety of subjects but never sex. My job on that topic was over. They both had been told about birth control, pre-marital sex, virginity, oral sex and so on. Whew!
Now that you know I was always up-front with my children about everything. And I do mean everything, imagine my surprise when I found out *I* didn’t want to know EVERYTHING about them!
On a recent evening, his father and I were going out to dinner. My son was in his room. He usually has the door closed and locked. I went out to the car while his father went to ask him if he wanted to join us. When his father came out, he was laughing. I wanted to know what was so funny. His father, bless his sick little heart, told me. Apparently our son, my sweet little baby boy, was jerking off to internet porn! His door was locked but not closed tightly and when he knocked, the door opened. His father (I would have paid money to see the look on his face) was confronted by the sight of wild monkey sex on the computer and his son wanking away blissfully.
My appetite was gone. Some things a mother doesn’t want or need to know.
At my school, we were given Sex Ed in grade seven. It was a fairly comprehensive program covering the anatomy and reproductive cycles of both the male and the female, the general mechanics of sex, pregnancy and some time devoted to topics of pleasure, relationships, masturbation and anonymous Q&A sessions.
During one class when we were learning about menstruation and the laundry list of symptoms that accompanies this monthly cycle, my teacher told us “The body is mourning the loss of a potential baby”.
I remember instantly disliking what she had just said. There was something about that statement that grated against me like nails on a chalk board. But I couldn’t tell why. For several years, whenever I thought about that class, I would flush in anger. I felt there was something fundamentally wrong and insulting about the comment, but I couldn’t put my finger on what bothered me so much. I eventually put it out of my mind.
Many years later, when I was in university and hanging around with friends in the Women and Gender studies program, and blossoming with my own ideas of sexual liberty and equality, I recognized that statement for the misogynistic bullshit that it was. I was able to finally put into words exactly what it was about that statement that bothered me so much — how it suggests that a woman can not be complete or truly happy unless she is pregnant. That her entire purpose is to carry children because even her own body demands it and “weeps” when it is denied every month. It represents the manipulation of biology and science to justify social inequality and misogyny (similar tactics have been used to suppress other minorities as well).
I am sure that was never my teacher’s intention, who for the record was a woman herself. However, those words represented my first encountered with institutionalized sexism and how we as a society can so easily perpetuate this type of inequality and ridiculous social attitude, even against ourselves, by what we say or do not say.
I will always be proud of myself for being bothered by those words, even if I didn’t understand why. I was able to recognize that there was something wrong and I was unwilling to accept sexist bullshit.
When I was a child, I was taught that a baby comes out of its mother’s urethra. I couldn’t believe that a baby could fit through that tiny hole. I decided not to have kids, but didn’t tell my mother about that.
Later, after laughing like crazy, an adult told me that wasn’t true: babies come out of a much larger hole between the urethra and anus. I was so glad!
I didn’t change my mind about having kids, though.
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