“You can ask us anything,” we said.
“Nothing is off-limits,” we said.
“We will always be open with you,” we said, and, “It’s better to get accurate information from your parents than questionable information from your friends.”
This is the best policy. Talk to your kids! It’s what we do, and WE ARE THE BEST PARENTS EVER.
They asked us questions about penises. We answered them. Rigidity, wet dreams, vas deferens, sperm, ejaculation and where that penis can go. Oh, the places that penis will go! We answered them all.
Vaginas and uteri. Eggs and periods. Sexual pleasure and masturbation. We are an endless bastion of information.
Drugs? We talk about them. Pot. Meth. Heroin. The whole gamut.
Jesus? Him, too. Even the HARD questions and the ones we can’t answer.
We explored the world together when we talked to our kids, and it was awesome all the time! Until…
… Oh geez…
Until I was upstairs minding my own business and one of the third graders hollered from below, “HEY, MOM! WHAT’S SEX TOYS?” And then, “Mom? MOM! I said WHAT IS SEX TOYS?”
You guys. You guys. You guys. I did what any wise, experienced mama who’s committed to talking openly with her children would do. I HID.
I hid in the bathroom, and I prayed a little prayer.
“Dear Jesus,” I said, “please let my child stop asking that question. Or, barring that, Jesus, don’t let him find me. See how I give you choices, Jesus? Alternatives? That’s because I’m humble and not demandy, which is why you should grant my wish, Genie Jesus.”
And then Jesus betrayed me, because that kid came upstairs, found me, and said, “Hey, Mom, did you not hear me? ‘Cause I asked you what is sex toys but you did not answer. I’m glad I found you, though, Mom, ’cause, Mom? I think sex toys are toys you play with for when you and dad do sex, and what I really want to know is do you have sex toys and what do they look like and how do you use them?”
Since hiding was a bust and Jesus was just giggling in the corner at my predicament, I told my kid I had to poop. “I would love to answer that question,” I lied, “but I have to go poop, like, really bad, so you should get out of the bathroom,” which is when he reminded me he hangs out in the bathroom when I poop, all the time, and didn’t see why he should start giving me privacy now. “I am fine with talking with you about sex toys while you poop, Mom. That is fine with me.”
Of course he is. Of course he’s fine with that. So I told him I had to go the kind of poop where I make my I’m Pooping REALLY Hard Poop Face, and that he could have four pieces of candy in the candy basket if he would let me do it alone.
I’ve managed to avoid him ever since.
In conclusion, I have a brand new Parenting Plan: Quit Talking to Your Kids. I mean it. STOP NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN. It’s too late for me – he’s not going to forget that sex toys question forever – but you can still save yourselves. RUN, parents. RUN NOW.
Wishing you all the best, friends. All the best.
P.S. The first time I wrote WE ARE THE BEST PARENTS EVER, it came out WE ATE THE BEST PARENTS EVER. So if you ever wonder where the hell those Best Parents went, now you know. We ate them.