Max: Mom, just so you know, sometimes, at night, I play with my weenis.
Me: Well, sure, honey, that's normal. It's natural to want to do that. It feels good.
Max: (incredulous) But, how would you play with a vagina???
Me: You can! With your fingers.
Max: Do you play with YOUR vagina?
Me: Yep.
Max: Cool.
To be fair, I only posted Max's first sentence as the status, because I'm all about the funny, and honestly, I was a little embarrassed to admit how the conversation played out. My recently graduated from PI school friend sleuthed it out of me, and it didn't take *much* arm twisting to admit the rest of the conversation. The 36 comments that followed were a mix. I got everything from the *actual* definition of weenis, to being called a stripper, to being called (repeatedly) the best mom ever. Honestly, I felt like this all was part of a larger conversation...and that was what brought me here, to the blog I've all but abandoned the last 6 months. And for the 6 months before that.
I struggle all the time with parenting. Having been raised by 4 incredibly different parents, with 2 auxiliary parental figures, plus the rest of my "village"...I've got a lot of parental baggage to manage. There isn't time in the world to walk through my therapy needs when it comes to sifting through all that craziness, so I'll stick to this particular issue. Firstly, I usually feel like I'm a terrible parent. It's not in any way what I expected. I wanted to be a mom, a stay at home mom like the moms in the books I read growing up, like the shows that I watched, for as long as I can remember. What I didn't really realize, was that they were fictional. I've watched and been responsible for more children than some people have spoken to over the course of their lives. I've been a camp counselor, a child care director, a teacher, a mentor, a camp director...very little of which actually prepared me for the reality of my children. I thought I had a battery full of tools in my arsenal. Good, solid parenting tools which would help me navigate through every new situation and issue which might come up with my own children. The day I realized I was wrong is one of my strongest memories. Magnolia was 18 months old and we had our first throw down. It was after the 90 minute battle that I realized I had no idea what the hell I was doing, no matter what kind of experience I had under my belt.
I was raised (by large measure) by 3 relatively conservative Latinas who gave me a lot of outdated and bizarre notions about sex, many of which were reinforced at Catholic school. I didn't really have any friends, so my actual sex ed came from 1. a nun, and 2. books like Flowers in the Attic. Also, we had cable. It was a bizarre educational experience. I remember setting the table when I was 14, and my mom nagging me about the napkins (totally out of character for her to care) and my response was - "Don't have an orgasm!", an expression I'd read in a book with NO concept of it's meaning. Her reaction sent me looking for a dictionary, I'd never seen anything like that. Obviously (to anyone who has known me more than 10 minutes) I got over all the lack of knowledge, and even most of the shyness about sex...but as much as people may not believe it, there is a friendless, shy, naive, Catholic school girl buried inside me...and I mainly have to fight with her to be me. As a parent, I struggle between wanting to be "appropriate" and knowing what the hell that means.
I fight with myself all the time. Intellectually, would I think a conversation about masturbation with my 6 year old is a good idea? Probably not. But he watches movies that have violence in them (Disney), that have evil in them (Harry Potter), and I struggle with the idea that sex is forbidden and wrong and shouldn't be discussed. The American Puritanical "notion of sex" and the fact that it is to be kept quiet and not discussed FEELS right, but I KNOW it isn't. Interestingly enough, the thing that got me thinking about this a LOT was the movie "This Movie is Not Yet Rated", talking about the mpaa and the rating system for movies, and how absolutely fucked up it is. How can I allow my child to watch a movie where a parent is trampled TO DEATH (thank you, Lion King) and not let him know that playing with his penis is natural? I mean, I'm not suggesting I buy him a box of Kleenex and a bottle of lotion just yet, but I don't want him to have shame in it. I'm sure the time will come when I have to give parameters about appropriateness of where one does things and such, but as of yet, he's kept it private. And above everything, I want my kids to feel they can come to me and ask whatever they need to ask. I don't want to give them shame about their urges.
Last night, a friend called me hippie dippie. She does that a lot. But it's really inaccurate. I struggle with my decisions every day. I hope to Bertha that I am making the right ones, and am not screwing them up too badly. I overanalyze and consider pretty much everything I do and say and often than not snap then I say and do things I regret 5 minutes later. But sometimes I do it right...and I have to say, as squeamish as I feel about the conversation Max and I had, I think it was the right thing to say. I give my kids shame over treating another person badly, or not doing their best, not being good to Mama Earth, not cleaning their room, or beating each other up...but I will not pass on totally misplaced shame we as a society in general put on the issues of sex. I just won't. This doesn't make me the best mom ever, but I'm working on it.
