At 15 years old, you’d rather set your hair on fire than spend one minute talking with your parents about sex or anything remotely resembling the topic of ‘relations’ as grandmother used to call it.
Girls of my generation didn’t have to fear that the topic would arise at impromptu times, or at all for that matter. We were more likely to have an educational pamphlet strategically left on a bedroom dresser for our private discovery. Translation – ‘We shall never speak of such things with each other. Good luck.’
Sexuality was and is a taboo subject that makes for the most squirm-worthy encounters between parent and child. Much to my youngest daughter’s mortification, it is my parental mission to demystify the topic.
Our conversations began harmlessly enough when said 15 year old acquired a boyfriend.
“If you’re old enough to be in a relationship, you’re old enough to talk about it.” I told her.
Benign topics were introduced first with the utmost care to lure my daughter into the safe space of my good intentions. We, or mostly I, talked about respect, companionship, loving yourself….all the ingredients of basic attraction. When it came to the conversation titled ‘What makes a girl a slut?’ poor Peach couldn’t escape the conversation fast enough.
At family dinner, Peach’s older sister – having survived her own version of ‘the talks’ years prior – mercilessly opened the can of worms.
“I heard you cornered Peach in the car today.”
Silence.
Husband, unsuspecting soul, took the bait and asked why. Giggles from one side of the table met with groans from the other as sisters anticipated what would follow.
“Don’t,” Peach begged.
Sorry sweetheart, I must. How could I live with myself as a parent if I failed to enlighten my girl and prepare her for all that lay ahead?
“Sex,” I blurted out. “We’re talking about sex.”
Varying degrees of regretful reaction erupted around the table, abruptly ending dinner and sending Peach off to hide, again. Now that the ‘talks’ had been exposed to the masses, there was no sensible option other than full-on assault. It was open season on the Birds and the Bees.
Husband cued up his bluetooth speaker with the song Let’s Talk About Sex and blared it throughout the house, effectively reaching any hiding space in which Peach sought refuge. A song became a sing-a-long which became a dance party which ended with the ‘adultish’ family members in a fit of maniacal laughter.
We had abused the topic of sex with a level of extreme irreverence, hoping to push a reluctant teen past her squeamish barrier. Only the tiniest bit of guilt washed over me. I might have been inclined to doubt our guerrilla tactics if Peach had shown signs of PTSD. But in character with the resilient third child, she emerged intact without any mortal wounds to her psyche.
We all bear battle scars from adolescence. I’d rather have my child wounded by information than by ignorance. Besides, what fun would it be if she didn’t have a horrifying story to share with her own children someday?
Chaos & Clarity 