I grew up in a reasonably liberal Orthodox Christian home, and I am Orthodox to this day. I don’t know if it has to do with my parents’ conservatism, or with their feelings concerning my choices and my right to choices, or even if they simply decided that because we were getting sex ed in school, it was unneeded at home, but somehow, they made the decision to refrain from having The Talk with me. To this day, I am profoundly grateful for that choice, as odd as it sounds – I don’t think I could face having that particular chat with my shy, quiet mother, or worse still, my traditional Greek dad. The thought is painful to contemplate! But I still had access to complete, accurate information (we had sex ed in school in grades five, seven, and nine, and I read most of the books in the public library on the subject).
It was never discussed in Sunday school, either (I suppose they assumed that our parents were talking to us about it), but I knew that devout Orthodox Christians were supposed to wait until marriage to have sex. It’s a choice that I question almost every day (with my boyfriend, you would too, believe me), but one that I know in the end is appropriate for me, at least for now. It is not a choice I wish to impose on anyone else, but I do wish that others would respect my right to that choice. Being as liberal as I am in most other aspects of my life, my friends are always stunned when they hear that I’m a virgin, and they immediately question my choice: have I not met the right guy, am I scared, is it a self-esteem issue, am I just not on birth control yet…?
I feel that this is an aspect of sexual education that is often neglected: it is absolutely crucial that every young adult receive accurate information about sex, contraception, STIs, pregnancy, abortions, and all the rest, but it is just as important that we make it clear that choosing to not be sexually active is equally valid, and not a sign of prudishness, close-mindedness, or conservatism. It’s just a different choice. I don’t question your choice; why do you question mine?
In my case, it’s a choice I made out of respect for my own body and out of respect for the person I eventually choose to marry. I’m still young enough to be a romantic at heart: I want my future husband to know that I loved him before I knew him, enough to save at least that for him and for us. I don’t know why others make the choices they do, whatever choices they make, but I respect them regardless. As expressions of sexuality become more openly accepted (and it’s high time they were!), the choice to refrain from such expressions needs to be equally accepted.
I plan to talk to my children about the importance of good, healthy, and safe choices, and about what those choices are, but I want to make sure that they understand that all the choices are equally valid. I can only hope that others will do the same.
–anonymous
So Thursday I have to give my fifteen year old cousin the “sex talk.”
I have to talk to her about sex because no one else will.
Not her mother, my Aunt, who believes you shouldn’t discuss those things. Not my mother, who barely even knows how to discuss sex and sexuality with me.
I have to to talk to her about sex so she doesn’t go through what I did in my early teens. I have to talk to her about sex so she knows how to protect herself — from an unwanted pregnancy, from an STI — and what to do in case either occurs.
I have to talk to her about sex because she needs to know what is right, what is wrong, in terms of being comfortable and not allowing anyone to go past her limits. That sex is not for making someone else happy, or because someone else wants you too. That sex is pleasurable, and can be a wonderful experience, when you are completely comfortable and aware of what you are doing. That being a sexual being is nothing to be ashamed of.
I have to tell her what no one told me, and what I had to learn for myself.
Any suggestions on what else I can say to her?
Since I’ve begun reading BBB, my mind has begun wondering about what I’ve grown up with and my experiences with “sex ed”. I realized, at my young age, I can’t quite remember one defining moment with my parents. More importantly, what I’ve come away with are examples. Role models that have instilled in my the knowledge to not only approach sex intelligently but my entire life that way.
My mother was born and raised in the South in the 1950’s and 60s. My father was born in a family of ten in Palestine in the 1940’s and 50s. (We won’t get into politics at the moment.) Although they grew up in opposite ends of the world, they were raised in similar households. Fairly Christian, fairly conservative, you mostly get married and have kids at a young age. Your life should be your family, and your family is your life.
And yet, my mother and father created a different road for themselves. Both the oldest children of their family, they created a life of their own first. The free spirited nature of the 1960s and 70s definitely rubbed off on my mother, and she spent a good amount of time living in different cities around the south with her best girlfriend and gay guy friend. My father used education as an escape from the realities of the traditional Arab life.
My father and mother were 42 and 32 respectively before they married or had children. They have never ever pressured my two brother or I about dating or marriage, even as we reached the “prime” marrying age around our neck of the woods. I look at both sides of our family, and our parents have silently (and vocally, at times) instilled values in my brothers and I based upon the “Learn from the mistakes of the people that surround you to avoid making the same mistakes.”
As I’m growing up, maturing, dealing with being an ‘adult’, and being separated from my family, I appreciate what examples my parents have set for me. The focus on living your life in an intelligent manner has set the tone for my lifestyle. No matter what I do, I try to keep sane. If the time comes for me to have a family, I will be more physically vocal about safe sex and education of our bodies. But I will always keep in mind the one thing my mother said recently when talking to myself and a friend of mine who was a teenage mother (and has done extremely well for herself) – “I don’t care if you’re having sex, just make sure you’re having safe sex!”
So, thank you mom and dad. Dad, for your strong, silent personality that kept me in line (almost out of fear) and mom for the cool, hippie spirit that comes through your motherly love and overprotection. You’ve taught me well and I will always value that.
Ever since my nephew was a little boy, I’ve watched him so my sister could do many of her daily chores, work and go to class. As his daily companion, I’ve answered hundreds of questions regarding everything from the nature of existence to the actions of the birds and the bees. My family has always been very open in its discussion of sexuality, though my parents used euphemistic terms.
When D was ready for preschool, he became very aware of babies, daddies, mommies, and all their differences. My brother’s wife was having a baby, and suddenly D had to know where they came from. Turning to me, he asked with beaming curiosity, “Where will Uncle H and Aunt J get their baby?
I don’t believe in lying about these things–I feel sure that demystifying sex leads to a healthier understanding of it and healthier practices later. So I explained to the best of my ability in terms this bright child could understand.
Several months passed, and I had agreed to substitute in D’s school for the day; his teacher was a friend of mine, and I was pleased to have a day with children, my favorite of all people. During nap time, D asked if I could read to him, and I happily nestled into his cot to read a book he had chosen from the shelf.
The theme of the week was Knowing Our Bodies, and the book he brought to me was filled with transparencies and rather graphic descriptions of intercourse. I read quietly to him, but when a little group began to gather around us, I said, “D, perhaps we should choose another book.” My feeling was that parents have the right to decide for themselves how much their three-year-olds know about sexuality. I’d be open to tell them all about it, in metered terms, but for a serious respect for others beliefs and approaches.
When I said this, one little girl, the one whose parents I most worried about insulting chimed, “Oh, don’t worry, D has already told us all about how a man uses his penis to put the sperm in the woman’s vagina, and when the sperm finds an egg there it fights its way in to make a baby.” I just about choked, but all the children just smiled at me.
Later in the week, I bumped into the little girl’s mother, a colleague of mine. She said sweetly, “Don’t worry about a thing. We’re so glad she understands. It just isn’t a problem at all, and we never would have known how to tell her.”
My kids are young, so I haven’t had to address this topic yet, but I’m laying the groundwork now by using the correct words with them. I have taught Bean that she has a vagina, a urethra, and an anus, and what comes out of each. I haven’t explained that something things go in those places yet, though. *uncomfortable chuckle*
She has noticed that her brother’s “vagina looks funny” (her words, not mine), and I explained that he has a penis and testes, instead. Every once in awhile, she’ll say something while I’m changing his diaper. “Why do you hide that in there, Mama?” I had to laugh at that. “I’m not hiding his penis, Sweetie. The diaper catches his pee when it comes out so the floors don’t get dirty. Once [Man Cub] learns to use the potty, he won’t wear diapers anymore – just like you!”
I did have a “private places” talk with Bean the other day. Now that she’s going to school one day a week, I wanted her to know what is appropriate and what isn’t. I think I’m sensitive about the topic because I had a few inappropriate experiences when I was a child; situations that weren’t wrong enough that I knew they were wrong, but wrong enough that I now recognize them as abuse. I don’t want Bean to suffer from that same confusion.
I told her that her body is her own and no one else’s. I told her that she can touch her body whenever and however she wants, but that others may not. I told her that it’s okay if she wants help getting dressed or using the potty, and that her teacher may sometimes help her with that if she wants help. But I told her that if anyone touches her in a way that she doesn’t like, she can tell them “no,” and she can tell me and I will see to it that they never do it again. I told her that no other children should touch her “private parts,” and that she should never touch anyone else private parts, either. Then I followed up with a statement to the effect that when she’s older, she might want to touch and be touched by others, but not until she’s much older and that we’ll talk about that another time.
I wonder how I’ll handle sex talk later. I want to be sex-positive, I really do, but I also know that I have my own hang ups. I want to let my children know that sex is enjoyable and something they should explore… but deep down, I regret “exploring” as much and as early as I did (starting at age sixteen), and I wish I had waited. In fact, I would say that I regret nearly every sexual experience I had until age twenty!
Luckily for me, I have time to figure that one out.
–Submitted by C from Leap and the Net Will Appear
In 1994, my parents divorced. I was nine.
It was winter, and we were in the middle of the biggest ice storm my town had ever seen. My mother packed my sister and I up, and we left to go stay with my Aunt and Uncle in the next town. I had always enjoyed visiting with my aunt and uncle. They lived in the country and let me roam around freely.
One afternoon my sister and I were home alone with my aunt. We both both followed her into the bathroom when she had to pee. My sister, four at the time, pointed at my aunt’s vagina when she sat down on the toilet. My aunt tickled my sister’s vagina and laughed.
I was standing by the sink. My Aunt leaned over and tickled my vagina. I remember it making me feel really uncomfortable that she had done that. When I finally returned home, I told my grandparents what my Aunt had done to my sister and me. They recorded my story.
My parents fought a lot about the situation, and one day I was told that my sister and I were not allowed to visit my Aunt and Uncle’s house anymore. We never discussed what happened again.
I had nightmares. My mother never believed my story. She said I had made it up. I didn’t make it up. It really happened, but thinking back on that day, 15 years later, I have to wonder if what I thought was wrong, if she was just playing. My grandmother had drilled into my head from a young age that if anybody ever touched me between the legs that was not her or my mom, that I should tell somebody.
It haunts me. Did I accuse my aunt of doing some horrible thing that was really an innocent action? I have not seen her since we left her house that February. I’ve often thought about going to see her. I’m afraid though; afraid to find out if I was wrong, afraid to find out that I was right, afraid of facing my past and letting in demons I had hoped would disappear.
–Submitted by C
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but the world isn’t such a nice place and it seems to be less nice every day. Discourse in our country is conducted in escalating measures of power-plays, swears, and various stripes of violence. And I’m only just referring to queuing up at Ben and Jerry’s on Free Scoop Day. If an alleged peace-loving tree hugger will step on your toe for a free scoop of Chunky Monkey, there’s no telling how close the apocalypse is.
As a parent, I often stand at the front step with a copy of Emily Post in one hand and a nail-impaled two-by-four in the other and wonder how I’m going to prepare my little girl for this rude, rude world. I’ve done more than wonder, in fact.
As a lesbian and by extension, Indigo Girls fan I’ve also went to the doctor (who laughed at me), went to the mountain (which ignored me), I looked to the children (Mabel, my daughter and resident “Children Consultant” happened to be butt-dipping/finger-sniffing at the time and really could not be bothered) and drank from the fountain (which was plugged shut with a wad of gum).
Needless to say, the pursuit led me to the local park district catalogue. This is what I found:
Manners and More! Learn social etiquette. Class is designed to help young ladies develop their social skills and self confidence. The girls will learn table and restaurant manners along with how to write a thank you note, make introductions and good telephone etiquette. Additional manners covered will be how to stand,walk and sit in a ladylike manner in order to make a favorable first impression. They will also learn the importance of good grooming and nailcare. The class concludes with a lunch at the Olive Garden where the girls can practice their newly-learned dining skills.
Strangely enough, the park district offers no corresponding course for boys. From this, I’m left to infer that boys (and by extension, men) are expected to conduct their affairs unfettered by the niceties of decorum. If they want to flick the bird at the world, fine. And if that bird has never known the grooming grace of the nail salon, so?
Nice is for girls, apparently. While our country careens like a mutinous pirate ship toward the waterfall that awaits us at the end of the earth, our daughters should sit in a ladylike fashion as they compose thank you cards expressing gratitude to the captain for allowing them on the ship in the first place.
As Ghandi said to the personal affirmation poster companies, “Be the change you’d like to see in the world”. I for one, I don’t want to be a party to a world in which little girls are held hostage at the Olive Gardens, manicured pinkies to the sky, unable to voice any objections they may have for fear of shattering that all-important first impression.
So, manners are for girls. I think I’ll be conducting my own golden gloves etiquette course.
–Submitted by Joan of Arkansas
For the third and (I believe) final time, my household finds itself in topsy-turvy tempestuousness with potty-learning passion.
I really should have a better grasp on how these things work by now. If I consider it rationally, I know that this is a normal progression which in a matter of weeks will be nothing for the boy (or me) but a memory.
Now, however, it is an excellent excuse for extreme histrionics. The theater will lose out on amazing performers if either my eldest or youngest choose any other career. “I can’t peeeee!” he screams from atop the throne. I relent; the instant he scoots off his wee tush the stream breaks loose all over the floor. The tears come next, the heartbreaking weeping of frustrated shame. I assure him that it’s fine, that it takes time for everyone to learn how to put the products of elimination where they belong.
I speak to him but really I’m assuring myself, because it seems now like I’ll be cleaning up hot puddles of urine into perpetuity. In sympathy with the struggle, his sister has managed also to regress. She now refuses to pee when asked, preferring to wait until like a wobbly balloon she cannot control it any longer, at which point she scurries to the bathroom and bursts over the same tiles barely dry from her brother’s baptism moments before. I fear for my sanity and grout in equal measure. Surely by now it must be saturated and nearly rotten from the daily drenchings.
“Point it down, honey,” next time the urge strikes I instruct him while watching from the bathroom doorway. He tries, oh how he tries to aim it toward the bowl (and not his chin), but the second he begins handling himself nature takes its course and back up it springs.
“Quit touching your penis! That’s what’s making it hard!” I’m tempted to shriek. I resist the urge. Living with the parent recently dubbed by the lot of them as the “Weirdest Mommy Ever” will give him more than sufficient material for years upon the analysist’s couch. He needs no more angst in the form of his mother’s frantic commentary on the state of his equipment. I watch instead calmly, the very model of smiling, confident support.
After a week of sodden floors, towels, pull-ups and clothes, I begin to see some progress. He’s independently worked out a way to keep everything pointing south without too much interference from his hands; I’m relieved he got this on his own, for what do I know of peeing penis positioning? Nothing. I know nothing.
But he’s getting it, so much so that he can now manage pull-ups almost on his own. Almost I say; yesterday terrified cries pulled me to the bathroom where I found him looking into his pants. “It’s coming off!” he wept, and after the moment it took me to reconcile the different views we both had of the situation, I could see why he was so terribly distressed.
Somehow he’d managed to hitch up the training pants with his little package pushed rudely off to the side. Peering down from the top he could see only a sliver of penis, a section of testicle. It never occurred to him to look on the outside for his junk. Junk necessarily is on the inside. The poor child.
He will remember his mother as The One Who Re-Found My Package. This is good, I think. At least it’s better than being the Weirdest Mommy Ever.
—Submitted by aag
My father’s side of the family is Finish. My father, though born in North America, was raised in a tightly knit and traditional Finnish community. The language and culture are his first language and culture. This, among other things, means we have a sauna at my cottage and I have been going in the sauna since before I was born (my mother spent a couple months of both her pregnancies with me and my brother soaking in the warmth). This also means I have been going into saunas the traditional way for as long as I can remember– naked. And I’ve never thought there was anything weird about it.
When it comes to the sauna, the Finnish people do not have the western sense of body shyness or shame. I have sat as naked at the day I was born with family, friends and even completely strangers (though always friends of the family) of all ages and sexes, and never felt uncomfortable. The sauna is not a sexual thing. It is a social, relaxing and cleansing custom.
So, there has never been a time when I have not known exactly what the human body looks like and the differences between men and women. I have always known the proper anatomical names for things and was never shy to use words like breasts, penis, scrotum, vulva or vagina. I grew up without a sense of shame about my body or anyone else’s.
Sadly, some of that has changed. Like most North American women, I have fallen victim to our culture of negative body-image. I feel I am fat and worry about what I look like. I wish I could return to my more innocent days when I took the whole spectrum of human body shape for granted.
As a child, I learned quickly that this was not the norm and that what my family did shocked most other people. I learned to just not talk about it so as not to make other people feel uncomfortable. Though I never apologized for it.
The sauna was just one significant element of an overall open and sex positive childhood that has allowed me to at least become comfortable with my sexuality if not the size of my tummy and thighs.
–Submitted by A.
“Dad are you wearing mom’s jeans?” the 10yr old son asks.
“No, they’re my jeans.” They are low rise stretchy denim with flared legs and I hike them up a bit to make sure my pink panties aren’t peeking out the top.
“I’ve seen him wear those before,” says the 17yr old. “They’re girl jeans. Don’t you think those are girl jeans?” He asks the new girlfriend. “First painted toe nails now girl jeans, mom is turning you into a woman.”
“And don’t forget he even had painted finger nails that matched his toes for a while last summer,” says the younger kid, pulling off a sock to show the new girlfriend that they’re not making it up. “If mom told you to wear a dress and a purple wig you would do it wouldn’t you?”
The new girlfriend is clearly rattled by the conversation and my pretty pink toenails. ♀ saves the day by announcing that dinner is ready.
I wonder if this is the best approach with the kids; letting them see a little bit at a time. It is possible that either of them could walk in on me and me see fully dressed en femme and that wouldn’t be so good. I could sit them down and tell them straight out that I’m a cross-dressing sissy and explain what that means. Though that could be difficult since ♀ are still exploring that ourselves.
Also, the younger kid is only with us part time. Would his mother haul my frilly ass back to court for deviant behavior?
When we picked him up from school on Halloween, ♀ told him she wanted me to go to the school dressed as a woman (for a costume), but that we’d ran out of time. She asked if he would have been embarrassed. He laughed and said no, he thought it would have been hilarious.
I don’t think either kid would be very surprised. ♀ & I have been painting each others toenails for years, they’ve seen some unusual clothing choices, they know I brush and braid mom’s hair every night. And neither of them expect me to be a ‘normal’ dad, what ever the hell that means.
If it was my dad and I was their age…hmmm…. I think I would probably accept it, but I think I would prefer not to know about it. The thought of my dad in a dress with fake boobies and a wig is not an image I want to dwell on.
–Submitted by Sweat Shop Sissy
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