By Susan B. Townsend
Occasionally, I wonder if human beings are born with a selective hearing device designed to prevent extinction. If we had really listened to our parents and found out exactly what we were getting into, we might have thought a little longer and a lot harder about becoming parents. The truth is, I love being a mom, but maybe I should have picked up a few tips from Mom and Dad before I jumped headfirst into the gene pool.
It's difficult to look into the angelic face of a sleeping infant and imagine yourself seventeen years later, facing someone twice your weight and a foot taller than yourself, saying, "If you're going to live under this roof, then you're going to live by the rules." Yes, I said that, and as the years have passed, the evidence has steadily accumulated. I am turning into my parents. I have been heard using the phrase, "when I was your age," and the day I caught Gabe drinking out of the milk carton, I launched into the scripted, time-honored lecture that goes something like, "That is so disgusting. Get a glass."
I never factored in the hormonal thing. I didn't realize the puberty aliens would abduct my real son and leave me with a moody, angst-ridden stranger. Last Saturday morning, I got up about an hour after he went to bed. I sat down at the computer and realized he had forgotten to close his browser. Lucky me. I was presented with the opportunity to read some riveting tales in the sex story section of a "fan fiction" writing site.
I enjoyed my share of sexual curiosity growing up. When I was twelve, my best friend, Christine, and I used to read her brother's stash of "Playboy" magazines, but I wallowed in ignorance. I thought sperm could travel through denim. My mother handed me a book called "A Doctor Talks to 9-12 Year Olds." I devoured the slim volume, but ended up with more questions than answers.
The naiveté created in part by my parents' reluctance or inability to discuss sex was no healthier than the overdose situation kids face in today's world. Sex portrayed by the media is perfect. The people having sex are perfect, and even the orgasms are perfect. It's been turned into a sporting event of Olympic proportions with points awarded for technique, style and difficulty of maneuvers.
Later that day, I called Gabe into the computer room. I told him about my discovery that morning and said that I understood his curiosity and desire to check out sexually oriented sites on the computer.
"I don't look at that stuff," he said.
Of course you don't, I thought. Little elves erased the history on the computer every night. "Okay," I said. "So you don't look at that stuff. I'd still like to tell you a few things."
Gabe rolled his eyes, sighed, and slumped in his chair. "Do we have to talk about this? You've already told me all this." His tone of voice suggested he would rather be seen with his fourteen-year-old sister at the mall than discussing sex with me.
I paused for a moment and checked my overworked short-term memory. Was he right? Had we talked about this? No, I decided. This was new material.
"Yes, we have to talk about this," I said. Another sigh from Gabe. His body language and words had pushed the appropriate buttons. My voice went up a notch, and I started waving my hands around like some manic marionette. I gestured to the computer screen. "Those aren't real women. That stuff you read is fiction." Now I knew how my mother must have felt. I couldn't find the magic words. "I just don't want you to get the wrong idea," I said.
He sat straight up and shot me a smug look. "I don't have the wrong idea. Besides," he added, "I told you I don't look at it, and I don't read about it, either."
"Real women get zits," I said. "Maybe their left breast is bigger than their right breast, and they don't moan in ecstasy every time you touch them. Hopefully they'll moan once in awhile, but they also might just say, 'No, I don't feel like it.' Real life is more than admiring the packaging. It's knowing when the person you love has had a bad day and holding them. It's waking up with someone in the morning and loving that person more by the end of the day."
When Gabe began to glance around the room and shift in his chair, I realized that the sands in my parental guidance hourglass had almost run out. The next stage would be the glazed look and then I'd be wasting my time. One last shot, I decided. "And you know what?" I said.
"What?" he replied. Wow, I thought. I still had him.
"You don't have to be some kind of superhuman stud. Just be yourself." I smiled and gave him a nudge. "You're pretty terrific exactly the way you are, you know. If you treat someone you love with respect and dignity, if you treat that person the way you want to be treated, the rest just kind of falls into place."
"Oh," he said. "Okay. Are we having pasta and sauce for lunch?"
I shook my head in disbelief. "Did you hear anything I said?"
"Yeah, sure. You said something about zits, right?"