Tuesday, December 30, 2008
My SoN: THe PeRV
I don't know how it happened. One minute you were wearing a different Wiggles's shirt Every Single Day for an entire year, the next you were asking me what s-c-a-n-t-i-l-y-c-l-a-d spelled. One day we were cuddling together reading Clifford The Big Red Dog, the next you were in the bathroom for half an hour with the Victoria Secret catalog. You used to draw superheros. Last month we found that you had filled an entire notebook with boobs.
You are Seven. Which is like three, in Mommy years.
I complained to my friends who told me the problem was--as it usually is--Me and the Parenting Decisions I Have Made. Apparently, all the other boys in your class have known about the Birds and the Bees for at least a year now, while I was leading you to believe that babies came from hospitals.
Once my friends clued me in to the fact that everyone else in your class knew the Facts of Life, I became worried that you would learn an incorrect version of them from one of your buddies on the playground--I could just picture Dominic telling you that girls got pregnant from eating meatballs-- so I took the next opportunity-which happened to be a 45 minute car ride-to tell you EVERYTHING. I just blurted it all out in a matter-of-fact way from the front seat, and let you know it was ok to ask any questions, anytime. And you asked: CAN WE WATCH THE SCOOBY DOO DVD, ALREADY?
Maybe I told you TOO much, because the other day you announced that you were the "Go To S-E-X Guy." A Seven Year Old Dr. Ruth. Classmates were lining up for playdates with you.
"That's enough," I said firmly: " It's ok to ask questions, but you need to stop being the Sex Guru with your friends. It's not appropriate. You need to stop. WE NEED TO NIP THIS IN THE BUD."
You turned to me, eyes wide and said
"Mom... did you just say NIPPLE?"
I'm still hopeful that you'll turn out ok.