Let's talk about ....

Warning, this post is a little not work friendly. Sooo, read with caution coworkers.

Here's a song to accompany your reading if you choose to continue. Images will not be included: http://youtu.be/qzfo4txaQJA

I debated posting this story for fear it crosses a line of intimacy that should be kept in place between a mom and daughter. I decided I could tell the story if I share a little something about myself and stay vague about the details.

It all started when Mike realized someone had searched for something sexual on his tablet and clicked on a few sex-based sites. He asked if it was me, and it wasn't. It also wasn't Mike. Of course that left one person, who we both knew would deny it.

As soon as she denied it, we imposed a consequence of no electronics for a few days, regardless. Then, I created a bit of homework for her. I searched for the most clinical definition of sexual intercourse. I wrote that on a sheet of paper. Beneath the definition I created a list of tasks and questions:

• First she was instructed to copy the definitions ten times.
• Then she had to define all words I thought she might not know within the definitions. She had to use her dictionary to do so.
• Lastly, she had to answer a series of questions including: which adults do you feel safe talking to about sex and what questions do you have about it?

She completed the assignment pretty quickly. I learned she didn't feel comfortable talking with anyone about sex. A huge takeaway for me. I want her to feel safe approaching someone so she's well informed. It doesn't have to be me. I didn't push it though, I just said I'm always here to talk to her.
Honestly, I felt badly for her. When I was about 12, I was curious about "it," which is what I called sex then. Thankfully the Internet didn't exist, which helped me avoid embarrassing conversations with my mom.

My research expeditions were conducted in the romance section of B. Dalton books. In those ailes, I learned to look for the books with the white crease in their paper binding. I let the marked paperbacks fall open to the most steamy of sections, usually denoted by that telling white line. That's how I answered my own adolescent questions about sex. Since I was smart enough to not bring the books home, my mom was seemingly unaware of the bodice ripping adventures that provided my first foray into "it."

Now back to Rose. A few days after the assignment, she asked me if I meant it when I said she could ask me questions about sex. I said, of course. Then she began to ask questions that made me blush. After all, I am a WASP raised in a household where sex was left on bookshelves. Thankfully, Mike walked in, and I was able to defer to the next day. I regrouped, and over breakfast answered the questions.

I even used my phone to search for a clinical diagram of the female anatomy to accompany the questions. I didn't blush. I spoke as calmly as the Biology of Women professor in college. I didn't got into extreme details in my answers. She was satisfied, and she hasn't had questions since. I felt like I won a little something.

Days later, I had the good fortune of stumbling on the female anatomy picture on my phone. I turned beet red as I closed the screen as quickly as possible (no one was around, that's just how WASPy I am). Whoops. Next time I'll need to remember to close those screens.