This is a piece I wrote as an entry into a writing competition that I did not win. Needless to say, I spent a few days contemplating my asinine writing aspirations before realizing that I can't win everything. That's a tough lesson at 34.
My first introduction to sex was the traumatizing experience of walking in on my parents having intercourse. I was 7. Our suburban rambler wasn’t equipped with locks on any of the doors, including the bathrooms, and there was never really a need. My dad bathed with the door open in order to shout requests for a new bath bar or a clean towel, all of which he somehow never planned to use until he was submerged in water. While we understood the sanctity of one another’s privacy, there was little need to lock someone out of any particular room. As kids, we understood that if our parent’s door was closed, it meant nap time. My mom never napped, but my dad was an avid believer in sleeping at least 15 hours a day.
The day of the incident, all three of us kids were wandering around the house screaming for mom. Our parents bedroom door was closed, but we were bound to find mom hanging clothes on the clothesline outside or sewing in the dining room. We trekked through the entire house, all of us searching different areas until it was clear that she had gone missing. I made it to the end of the hall and in front of their bedroom door with the intention of informing my dad that mom had been kidnapped. I swung open the door and procured an image that continues to be burned into my soul. I have no memory of the day I learned to ride a bike, what my kindergarten teacher looked like or what I got for Christmas when I turned 12, but this is an image that keeps on giving. With no blankets in sight, I witnessed my dad jump up completely nude, revealing my mother’s petite frame underneath. His penis swung from side to side as he ran towards their bathroom. They were both yelling for me to close the door, but I was stunned into paralysis. After a 20 second span that felt like decade, I jumped back and slammed the door behind me. I needed to know what was happening in there. It was also imperative that I let my siblings know that something more treacherous than a kidnapping had occurred to our mother.
“I found mom.” I screamed.
They both came running towards me and I shuffled everyone across the hall to the bedroom my sister and I shared. Being the oldest put the responsibility on my shoulders to clear up the confusion, but I was too shocked to do anything except lie.
“They are taking a nap, so we need to be really quiet and stay in here.” I informed them.
I think it was clear to everyone involved that the napping story wasn't true, but until I got the gory details of what was really happening, I had nothing.
The next day as I was helping my mom do laundry, I asked her what they were doing on top of each other with no clothes on. Naked wrestling? It was the first of many sex talks that I would subject my mother to. I was completely enthralled with the details of genitalia and naked bodies. I asked too many questions and felt that conversations needed to continue for an absurd amount of time. Every sexualized moment I saw on TV was another opportunity for dialogue that my mother could have lived her entire life without having. I needed to know everything.
When I had children of my own, I wasn't thinking about how to talk to them about sex. I was worrying about whether or not they would latch on to my nipple and if I could handle another shitty diaper without hiding in a closet with Mr. Vodka. As my daughter got older I realized that we were similar in many ways except one. Sex talk, intimacy on TV and kissing between her parents embarrassed her to no end. She got angry and attempting a conversation about any of it was impossible. She hit fifth grade and was eligible for maturation class, which consisted of a film roll tutorial circa 1954 about abstinence until marriage. While we can all agree that abstinence is a noble idea, I wasn’t going to bet my daughter’s adulthood on someone else’s sexual ideals. When I was her age, I was barraging my mom with questions about blow jobs and birth control. One year I used my birthday money to purchase Love and Sensuality, which I read cover to cover numerous times. Sex didn’t embarrass me, it intrigued me. I was concerned that she wouldn't get enough information until it was too late to really need it.
I found my opening one evening sitting on the end of her bed wishing she was still toddling around in poopy diapers. I told her that we needed to talk about sex and that I was sorry if it made her uncomfortable. She began fidgeting and I gave abstinence-only a second thought. Perhaps she could weather the storm of adolescence without her mom’s birds and bees talk. There is no guidebook that details the perfect age to explain sperm or when you should talk to your kids about masturbation. My mom was thrown into it by a strange child who was born with an unnatural interest in sex. I wasn’t going to have it that easy. We got through the penis into vagina spill and she finally asked a question. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
“So if boys don’t want to have babies, how do they do that?”
How do you describe a condom to a 10 year old? I hadn't gotten the memo on that either, so like most things in child rearing, I winged it.
“Well, there are these things that cover up a boy’s penis called condoms. They are like Saran wrap for your privates.”
When it came out of my mouth I felt like a genius and a moron all in the same moment. The genius part because it seemed pretty accurate and a moron because I immediately imagined her substituting a roll of Saran wrap for a box of condoms. Her face scrunched up and her eyes looked like they were liable to pop out of the holes in her skull.
“That is gross, Mom.”
“Well, it’s not really Saran wrap. I am just trying to give you an idea of what it looks like and how it works.”
She then informed me that she knew all she ever needed to know about sex and that I was welcome to leave her room at any time. The sooner the better. In my attempt to keep my daughter from being a teen mom, I had traumatized her in the same way I had felt traumatized by seeing my parents boning. My hope is that at the very least it opened a dialogue between us so that she can get the real deal on premarital sex and not a heap of bullshit from her uninformed pals at school. Thankfully, the lock on our bedroom door will keep her from living with a visual of naked, aging parents for the rest of her life. I still don’t understand where those blankets were.
No comments:
Post a Comment