HOSTING TEEN SEX?

No, not a nasty website nor some sort of spam aspiring to induct me into the marvels of barely-legal playthings, but a title on the front cover of that mostly sensible publication, Brain, Child.

So of course I bought it.

Not because I'm interested in sex. Though I manifestly am. Not because I'm intrigued by teen sex, because I'm not, particularly.

But I do have three children, the youngest of whom is still a teen. They're all sexually active.

Though I have never -- since my own teenage years, at any rate -- had any moral qualms about premarital sex, nor about sex, at least for older teens, being a mother has taught me that it is one thing entirely to have an intellectual stance on teenage sex, and quite another to have it happening under one's own roof.

My first must've picked that up out of the ether, because, though we never talked about the possibility of her bringing a boyfriend home, she never did. At least, not when I was in the house. When my son became sexually active, roughly four years after his sister, it did happen in the house. Discreetly, not too often, but definitely under my roof. The girlfriend was slipped into his basement bedroom after I was in bed, and slipped out again early in the morning.

I knew it was happening, of course, but opted not to say anything because:
- he was being duly respectful of my comfort level (and probably his own) by behaving in such a way that I could pretend it wasn't happening
- the girlfriend was a lovely young woman and their relationship was respectful and positive.

It was a matter of personal honesty, of putting my money, as it were, where my mouth is, of behaving in keeping with my principles. If I am not opposed to pre-marital sex, so long as it's positive, loving, respectful and mutually desired, then how could I espouse the familiar "not under MY roof, young man/woman!" strategy? That just smacks of a distinct lack of parental integrity.

Okay, I know I can't take the high road here on my parental integrity. Pretending it wasn't happening is a weaselly way around the dilemma. You learn as you go in parenting, and at this point, though I felt a bit sheepish about my less than 100% integrity, I was grateful to my son for allowing me the out.

And really, though in a very real way I would like to have done so, I could not think of one good reason to prohibit it. "You can't because it's gross!" is not a good reason, and thank God for that. My youngest still thinks it's a bit gross that I have a sex life. I'd have gone decades without. DECADES, I tell you, and I wouldn't have one yet.

My youngest child has pushed the envelope still further by entertaining her boyfriend in her room while I am awake and around the house. When he spent a few days with us over Christmas, they forgot to close the guest room door, making it abundantly clear he had not spent even a small portion of the night in that room.

They are reasonable about it. They don't kiss at the door and scamper direct upstairs to entertain the household with groans and giggles and rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. They visit with Matthew in the living room, they chat with me in the kitchen, they do homework at the dining room table. And then sometimes, but not always, they head to her room and close the door. Sometimes the conversation continues in her room, unabated for hours, and sometimes it gets very, very quiet.

And, while I am mostly at peace with this -- he is a fine young man, intelligent and kind, sensitive, respectful, interesting -- there is still that squeamishness. And I wonder about it. Not many of my friends know my position on this, and of those who do, not all approve.

"I would never let them have sex in the house! That's like condoning it."

Well, I guess I do condone it, don't I? I don't think it's morally wrong unless it's coercive or abusive. I don't believe that teen sex is by definition damaging. I don't believe that virginity should be saved for marriage. I do believe that sex is best experienced between people who care for each other... and that is what is happening here.

So why, I wonder, the squeamishness? I don't let my emotions call the shots, but I do respect their input. Does the squeamishness indicate there's some important factor my brain has missed that my emotions and subconscious are trying to push me to see?

So I bought the magazine, hoping for some insight.

The article proved to be a debate, with one essay on the "Yes", and one essay on the "No". I was particularly hoping for insight from the "No" side, some clarification of the reasons behind my reluctance, some explanation of the ick response.

I didn't find it there. Instead, the arguments on the "Yes" side all rang true, while those on the "No" side were not compelling at all.

On the "Yes" side, I particularly liked this: "I sometimes want to ask those of my friends who know their kids are having sex but who don't want it to happen in their house ... Do they really think it's wise or helpful to add the burden of furtiveness and guilt to something that might be emotionally complex enough as it is?"

To which I would add: and if your teen knows you have that degree of discomfort with it, are they likely to come to you with any problems that may arise? Or have you, by catering to your squeamishness, proven yourself unworthy of their trust? Are you letting your children swim those waters without the security of your safe harbour?

And on the "No" side? The author argued that letting it happen in the house removed layers of mystery and stripped your child of their rightful privacy. To which I respond, Um, no. Unless you're in the room with them, they have as much privacy as you do when you have sex with your spouse.

The argument that carried the least weight though, was this:

The author, as a child, had overheard her aunt and mother in conversation. "'I'm bored by sex... It was so much more fun when we did it secretly in our folks' basement.' And she swept her hand around her room in a dismissive way to indicate that her queen-sized bed was a total downer."

Wait, now. You were forced into furtive sex as a teen, and so marital sex has no spice. And this is supposed to be an argument in favour of prohibiting sex in your home -- i.e., making it more furtive? If you're going to draw any conclusions from that single example, the more obvious one would be that if you'd been allowed to have legitimate sex as a teen, your legitimate adult sex would be equally intense.

Or, as my husband noted, "If she believes that, then what she's really saying is that the 'not under MY roof!' school of parenting is precisely calibrated to not just make sex more attractive to teens, but, when they have it, actually better. What she should be saying is 'if you really want to take the pizazz out of teen sex, make it legitimate'."

It was the "Yes" writer who gave me the insight I was seeking, when she wrote,

Don't get me wrong. I understand that there's a fairly hefty 'ick factor' here. About the only thing more uncomfortable than imagining your own parents' sex lives has to be imagining your children's.

It was the juxtaposition of the idea of your parents' sex lives with that of your children's that gave me the key. The 'ick factor', I suddenly realized, is nothing more (nor less) than the incest taboo -- a highly useful, profoundly ingrained, social pressure that prevents us from wishing to have sex with either our parents (ew!) or our children (ew! ew! EW!). Because incest is bad for the gene pool, because it is bad for the propogation the species, because it increases the likelihood of birth defects, and because, well, ICK!

So, no, we don't like to be made too aware of the sex lives of our close relatives. But that is not because it's morally wrong for them to be having sex, only that it would be wrong for us to be having sex with them.

Allowing my child to have sex in the privacy of her room with a young man who treats her very well is not "involved" in her sex life, any more than she is "involved" in mine when her stepfather and I have sex in our room down the hall from hers. And so, powerful though it is, the incest taboo is irrelevant. It does not apply. It can be ignored.

I was thinking I might come to a different conclusion when I picked up that magazine... but I'm happy to have resolved that one last niggling uncertainty.

Yes, I let my teens have sex in my house. And no, that doesn't bother me.

Yeah, I'm a little surprised, myself.

"I recommend... walking around naked in your living room..."

"Thanks, Alanis. I'll do that." It seems that at sixteen, Emma approves of in-home naturism. "Though it would help," she muses, "if you lived alone."

"I'll say. It's happened now and then that Matthew and I will be sure we have the house to ourselves for a while, and decide to make out downstairs, and then someone will knock on the door. Last time, we had just -- just -- gotten back upstairs when Alex (her youngest stepbrother) walked right in the front door."

Emma blinks. "Alex? When was that?"

"Last weekend."

"Ew! I'm not sitting on that couch any more, ever again!"

Mwah-ha. Teenagers are so predictable sometimes. And what is the point of having these predictable, so-conservative bodies around if you can't push their buttons, just a bit? I grin at her.

"How do you know it was the couch? How do you know we didn't use the dining table?"

"EW! You DIDN'T!"

I let my grin grow wider.

"EWWWW!"

She pauses mid-gross-out as the initial revulsion fades and a different thought strikes her. "But at least wood wipes up better than upholstery. I don't have to worry about sticking my elbow in the wet spot."

She grins back as I shout with laughter.

Yup, she's her mother's daughter.

Series of tweets from a young mother:

Baby just tossed himself off of bed and onto hardwood floor. Am worst mother, ever.

Seconds later: (He's fine. I'm not.)

Six minutes later: 6 and a half months old. Husky fella, but still: BABY

Two minutes after that: It was a high bed. Will berate myself forever.

Four minutes pass, then: Thanks, all, for the reassurance that I am not, in fact, the worst mother ever.

It does occur to one that the trauma could not be oh-so-bad if she could turn her back on her baby and occupy herself with her invisible friends in the computer. One could even be a bit scathing about emotional aggrandizement/grandstanding and self-indulgence, if one were of a cynical turn of mind. (And an unkind one.) You would also be missing the crux of the messages.

It's the last tweet that reveals the core reality. Did she truly think she was the worst mother in the world? No. She is an intelligent woman. (She is. Highly.) She knows there are vastly worse things a parent could do (and have done) to a child than a mere moment's inattention.

Was she, however, shaken and in need of reassurance?

Verily.

And she got it. In spades, within seconds, and from a variety of sources. For all its flaws, the Internet can be a good and kindly place.

Which is why we're all here, right?

Great excitement in the Irreverent household today! Bekah and I finally got around to trying out the cookie press we bought at the Pampered Chef party a month ago.


(Note to self: Do NOT take enthusiastic and social teen to party at which one might be tempted to spend outrageous amounts of money on luxury goods. Enthusiastic and social teens are so damned appealing that it is very hard to say "NO. No, we will NOT be purchasing the cookie press at $41.50, and we will even more so NOT be purchasing the $40.00 deep dish pie plate, even if it IS in a very pretty cranberry and even if you DO love pies and even if you WILL make pies yourself -- AND clean up the kitchen, mum, really!!!" It is very difficult to say NO to all that sweet and sincere enthusiasm without looking like a total wet-blanket drip of a mother in front of a room full of completely besotted adults. "Isn't she cute? My 14-year-old is never so sweet and enthusiastic.")

So we haul the cookie press out from under the counter. We mix up the recipe included with the kit. We ooo and aaaah over all the different shapes.

We learn a bunch of stuff, too. We learn that you need to set the press flush against the cookie sheet. Flush. And press the handle once, and only once. We learned that it is wise to scrape the exterior surface of the disk after every couple of cookies. We learned that if you tip the barrel up, you will get air bubbles in the batter. We learned that when you change disks, you need to tap the barrel to get the dough to settle against the disk again.

We learned so very, very many things!

Then we set the three dozen cookies into the pre-heated oven. And within three minutes, we have learned another, VERY important cookie-press lesson. When you are preparing cookie-press dough, you may not (NOT!) substitute margerine for butter:


Ahem.

Twenty-two years ago. I was in the final trimester with our first child. We didn't know the sex, so we had to choose contingency names. The boy was easy. Adam. We were agreed on that. Simple, basic, masculine, virtually impossible to shorten to something stupid and/or cutesy. But the girl?

I wanted Zoe. He wanted Jennifer. Now, there's nothing wrong with "Jennifer". I didn't mind it. It's a perfectly nice name, and in fact, I rather liked the way "Jenny" felt in my mouth.

"Jenny, lovie, come here! Mummy wants you!" Jenny would have long, shoulder-length brown hair and bangs, an open face and a big smile. She would run to me through a field of daisies with the sun bouncing off her silken locks. (This was my first child, recall.) I could deal with Jennifer just fine -- except that his sister, who was due to give birth any second, had told us that was one of the names they were considering. She had told us this months prior, well before our nameless bump was conceived.

But he was determined. Our child would be Jennifer. His sister, he was sure, wouldn't mind. His sister, I was sure, would be pissed -- and I would completely agree with her! Big brothers can be so oblivious. Besides, these babies would be cousins who'd see a lot of each other. It was just silly. Two girls, the same name, born within weeks of each other. But I couldn't get him to see it my way reason, and ours was not the kind of relationship where I had anything like the last word. If he didn't change his mind, our baby would be Jennifer.

And I would be pissed, and his sister would be pissed. (Why didn't I just ask her? I'd been instructed by The Husband not to, and at that point, though I chafed, I was still young and In Love and attempting to live by some pretty farcical -- but very sincerely held -- notions of what constituted husband-wife relations. So I didn't. I look back at the woman I was then with no little mortification, I tell you that.)

Oh, well. Maybe we'd have a boy. Maybe they'd have a boy!

They had a girl. Jennifer.

And then, I was in labour. It was not easy, it was not gruelling. It was sixteen hours of textbook first-baby labour, at the end of which, they held my baby out to sweating and euphoric me.

"It's a girl!" crowed the doctor.
"What will you name her?" asked the midwife.

And, as they handed this wet, warm, wonderful baby, this whole other HUMAN BEING I had just expelled from my weary, disheveled, aching and blissful body, I gazed into her slate-gray eyes, then glowed at the room.

"Zoe! Her name is Zoe!"

That was that. Zoe she is.

And you all know I'm no longer married to her father ...

Bekah's iPod was stolen from her locker a couple of weeks ago. She hadn't secured her combination lock sufficiently it seems, and a brisk shake was enough to loosen it. (This, at any rate, is the theory of her two older siblings, who have more recent experience than I with high school lockers and combination locks -- which, evidently they're not making as well as they did when I was in school ...)

So, the girl has no iPod. She loves, loves, loves her iPod. Listens to it all the time. Is never without her music. So, not surprisingly, she asks for one for Christmas. The new one. The iPod Touch. Which, having seen one owned by one of Daniel's friends, is a very snazzy gadget indeed. One can see the appeal. Hell, seeing the thing has me, who has never owned any kind of MP-3 player, wanting one, just for the extreme coolness of the thing. So sleek, so well-designed, so very clever.

However, a little quick research tells me it costs $330. Before taxes. Which puts it solidly outside my Christmas budget. I might be able to manage that for one, but not for all three of them. Bekah suggests a compromise: "It can be my only present, and I don't need a stocking." I try to picture a Christmas with one gift the size of a thickish credit card and nothing - nothing! - else. Besides, I've already bought stuff, so it's too late anyway.

We sit on my bed and have a Serious Talk, in which I explain why her suggestion, generous as it is, doesn't really resolve the difficulty, and how I just don't feel I can spend that much more on one child than I would be on the other two. I ask if she has any other ideas. At this point, however, she is mute with despair. Possibly anger. Definitely mute.

"Well, love, I'm going to go do the dishes now. You think about it, and in a little while, we can do some brainstorming." Perhaps I got a nod, but perhaps that was just her head wilting a little closer to the bedspread.

As I do the dishes, I suffer. I want to buy the damned thing for her. I have a couple of ideas, in fact, as to how it could be managed, but I'm keeping them to myself for now. I don't want to leap in and solve this problem for her. I want her to face the reality that satisfying this desire of hers would result in injustice to her siblings. I want her to wrestle with it.

But I don't want her to suffer! And I have a possible solution or two! And I could just run up there and fix it for her right now! And I sternly tell myself to Knock It Off, and I finish the damned dishes. And tidy the kitchen. And clear the dining table. And sweep the floor. And mess about with bits of paper on the end table. All the while one ear is cocked to the upstairs bedroom. I don't hear any slamming of doors and drawers. I don't hear any sobbing. Is this good or bad?

Just as I am about to pop with maternal angst, I hear her on the stairs. She swings round the newel post to face me. Her face is not blotched, though her eyes are a bit puffy. And she is smiling.

"I have decided I don't want the iPod." And she proceeds to lay out her new idea for her Christmas gift, a clever, creative, grown-up one. (Which I will not describe at the moment, so as not to distract the flow of the narrative.) And the iPod? "I can save up for one and buy it in the new year. If I get any Christmas money, I can use that towards it, too."

Imagine. A fourteen-year-old, denied her heart's desire, does not scream and rage, does not slam doors, or hurl things about her room, nor even stomp on the stairs; she does not rail against the injustice and hate me for not making enough money and her siblings for stealing resources that might otherwise be hers. Instead, she faces facts, changes direction, and comes out with a different, creative solution.

I am so proud of her.

I do not understand my husband's ex.

She's ultra-religious. To church twice on a Sunday, and in various church groups through the week. Most of her friends are church folk. Now, no faith-bashing, Christian-mocking here. I consider myself a Christian. I was even 'born again' as a teenager, though my beliefs have changed a helluva lot since then.

The ex-wife is what Andrew Sullivan terms a 'Christianist'. She doesn't have much in the way of a genuine, vibrant, giving faith; she seems to have no Christian principles at all, certainly not in her dealing with people she doesn't like. (I am counted among that number.)

What she does have are a lot of Rules. (Rules which only really count when someone whose opinion she values is watching, mind you. Which does not include her ex, and certainly not me. However, it seems not to God either, who, one would think, is always watching...)

So. The Rules say, "No sex before marriage."

Which had been no problem for the eight or nine or so years following her divorce, because there were no takers for Her Bitchiness. Meantime, her ex (my sweetie) and I were shacked up without the blessings of Holy Matrimony. The self-righteousness that came our way via the children and various comments and emails for the first year or so were sickening in their moral superiority.

And then - wonder of wonders! - she found herself a boyfriend.

After two or three years of steady dating, they are still not having sex! We know, because the children assure us of this fact. Their mother has told them so. They are not having sex. Even when they go away for weekends together. Even though they spent an entire week at his cottage last summer. Imagine the self-control! Even though mom's boyfriend not a Christianist, even though they each have their own home, even though they have every other weekend child-free -- the relationship is platonic.

We don't argue, obviously. One doesn't undermine a parent to the children, and there'd be no point in it, anyway. They wouldn't believe us.

However, the mother does believe that sex before marriage is wrong. (Which justifies lying about it to one's children, because of course, lying isn't a sin...)

So, when her children get to be sexually mature, ready for dating, she of course impresses upon them the importance of modesty, caution, self-restraint.

Well, no. Those are Principles, and this is the Rule Lady.

I must explain for those who've just popped in for this one post. I am not opposed to adolescent, pre-marital sex, providing it's respectful, loving, and they take appropriate precautions. It makes me a bit nervous, of course, because teens are young and make stupid mistakes. But I don't think it's a sin. I don't think it's a moral evil. It's just sex.

So, the Rule Lady tells her kids:

1. Pre-marital sex is wrong.
2. Don't ever come home telling me you're pregnant, or the girlfriend is.

That's about it. Useful guidance for a teen who's sure he/she has met the love of their life, but is under legal marrying age, don't you think?

I understand all that, though. Despite the hypcrisy of her position, it's consistent with a life lived guided by Rules and other's opinions rather than by principles and internal integrity. I've seen lots and lots of people like her.

But here's the part I don't understand.

Her just-turned-seventeen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend. They've been going out three weeks or so. He's nineteen, a university student. With his own apartment. When she was out with him earlier this weekend, she phoned an hour after she was expected home, asking if she could spend the night. We said no.

(We refused because:
- we had hardly seen her all weekend, and a sleepover means we wouldn't see her till early afternoon the next day.
- we have not had a serious sex talk with her, and have no idea where she is on the subject.)

We've talked about sex and birth control with all our teens, of course, his and mine, but it hasn't gotten personal with this one yet. It's all been theoretical information, and she's poo-pooh'ed the possibility. Her expressed intention was to "save it for marriage". (Just like her mother!!!) Naive girls who think they "aren't that kind" are thus unprepared for the eventuality are the ones who end up pregnant. Duh. So, before she's allowed an overnight at the boyfriend's, we need to know she's prepared for the eventuality.

In the ensuing conversation, we discovered:

1. The girl has no curfew on weekends at mom's house. (We're not stupid; we double-checked this claim with the girl's mother.) The girl has NO curfew.

2. The girl has already spent at least one night at the boyfriend's house during a weekend with her mother. (We double-checked this one, too.) She has indeed spent an entire night with him.

So, we have a mother who believes pre-marital sex is wrong, who would offer no support if a pregnancy occured, who has not provided sex education, but who allows her teenage daughter to spend the night at her boyfriend.

What the HELL is she thinking?

Last summer, Daniel had a bit of a personal crisis. Though I got the bare bones of it, he didn't want to talk about it with His Mother. Could he please go see Dr. D, the psychologist his older sister had seen for a few months after the separation? (Who his sister still chats with once in a while.)

The sessions cost $155 an hour. This is not small change for me. However, my children's well-being... And maybe the boy will learn some useful emotional and life skills.

After a couple of months, I asked how it was going. The crisis was over. $155 every week...

Well, he said, I like talking to her. It's nice.

("It's nice?" Um, no. NOT worth $155/week.) Okay, son. Can you give me some idea what you're talking about?

Well, mostly about communication.

COMMUNICATION!!!!! My son was discussing COMMUNICATION! My son, my cheerful, easy-going, largely cooperative son, who can and will talk your ear off about a quirky cartoon or a computer game, becomes completely mute when conversation threatens to become personal. My boy is getting an hour a week's tutorial in COMMUNICATING??

Worth every penny. Every single penny. Worth it even more when, by dint of a doctor's prescription for psychotherapy, our insurance started paying the lion's share.

However, I'm still forking out a chunk of money every month. Six months now. Time to check in with the boy.

Me: How are your sessions with Dr. D going?
Daniel: Fiiine. (Tones of mild suspicion.)
Me: Are you enjoying them?
Daniel: Yes. (Suspicion rising.)
Me: Are you getting anything out of them?
Daniel: Yeees. (Hint of defensive, self-protective edge to the voice.)

Longish pause. Will he divulge?
Pause continues. Apparently not.

Me: So, what do you think you’re getting out of them?
Pause.
Daniel: Well, that’s hard to say, really.

Ah, yes. Money well spent, wouldn't you say?

I've been homeschooling Bekah for a few months now. She was homeschooled till grade four, went to school for four years, and decided to take a breather from the pressure cooker that is middle school before beginning high school next year.

She's enjoying her space. She's taking a couple of (grade nine!) courses by correspondence, she's improved her flute no end with her terrific new teacher. She's taking a college-sponsored ASL course, just for fun. She's spending time drawing, reading, writing, thinking. In short, she's getting a good education.

She misses being with other kids, though. It's an issue for homeschooled kids. The parent has to take particular pains to ensure they mix with other children. She does have friends in the neighbourhood, of course, but sadly, they're shut up in school all day. So, what to do? Well, seek out the local homeschooling group, and see if anyone out there is interested in getting together.

We've met a few. Most were nice, but the kids just didn't connect. (Though in one case, the other mother and I hit it off so well we're going out for coffee next week.)

And then we had the meeting last Saturday. Mother and son were to come to our home for a couple of hours. They arrive (half an hour late). First impressions weren't stellar: mom has long gray hair parted in the middle and straggling down beside her face until it faded away, dispirited, in the general area of her shoulders. Son - who is thirteen, remember - sports a very stylish bowl cut. He's got lovely hair, thick and shiny, and, unlike the picture in that link, covering his ears - but, but, but... it's in a bowl cut! Okay for four-year-olds, but...

I mentally scold myself. How petty I am! I remind myself that I'm all about living as you see fit, not worrying about arbitrary and ridiculous dictates of 'cool'.

Okay. So we shall overlook the JK styling on the teenage boy.

The rest of the visit is largely boring, punctuated by the following little nuggets:

- He and mom had asked before they arrived whether we had pets, and were delighted to know we had a hamster. When they arrived, they wanted to see her right away. As soon as the boots had been removed and coats hung, we all proceed immediately to the kitchen. Where they haul out their camera and start taking pictures of the hamster. (Maybe it's just me... Does this strike you as just a teeny bit odd?)

- He does not want to hold the hamster when Bekah offers it to him. "I don't know it yet." Um, and how will you get to know it if you don't introduce yourself? He'll just takes a few more pictures, instead. Oh. Maybe he plans to pet them when he gets home?

- They take pictures at random intervals. Never one of myself or Bekah, thank god, but odd things. I came down from the bathroom and caught mom snapping pics out a window that overlooks the drive. The section of the drive that houses a couple of bicycles, the garbage tins, and the gates to our back yard and our neighbour's. (???)

- He was gung-ho to show Bekah a slide-show he'd made of some computer images he'd created. They sat side by side on the couch with Bekah's DVD player (he didn't know there were such things as portable DVD players) as elevator music drifted around the room for four minutes. Later, I discovered that the show was eight pictures, repeated over and over to the background of the elevator music. Eight pictures. In the same order. To elevator music. For four minutes.

- He was also gung-ho to play our piano, because he's been playing for a while now, and he's pretty good. No, he doesn't take lessons. He listens to music, tries to reproduce it, and then "makes it better". In fact, he has a composition he's working on. Would we like to hear it?

- He plays piano like a dying elephant, blundering woodenly about a couple of octaves of the keyboard, deafening all within a 3-metre radius.

- Ours is an electric piano, so I showed him how he could record his composition. He was fascinated by this, and replayed his auditory assault half a dozen times. At full volume. (Does the boy have a hearing problem?)

- And no, he wasn't interested in hearing me play the piano (not that I offered), nor in hearing Bekah play her flute. His mother suggested he might like to listen. No, not today, thanks.

- He admitted that he didn't much like sharing. Mom chortled affectionately at this.

- When the kids said they were hungry, I handed each of them a banana. He looked at his and stuttered, "How do I...?" I looked at him, blank. How does he what? His mother explained, "He's never started one." HE'S THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS OLD AND HE CAN'T PEEL A BANANA!!!

- Thankfully, he likes the same computer game that is one of Bekah's favourites at the moment, so we were able to survive the last hour of the visit by allowing them computer time. Leaving me with Mom.

- Mom, who bemoaned the changes in the ghastly suburb where they live. "We might have to move out to the country. It's getting so big and busy. It used to be so suburban." Oh. Suburban as a good thing. How... suburban.

- They had to leave by four, because it was Saturday, and she didn't want to drive "after dark with all the drunks". Because lord only knows we city folk are notorious for hammering back the booze at five in the afternoon so as to drive home drunk for dinner...

- The next day, I got an email from mom, thanking me for the visit, and asking if we would please erase his 'composition' from our piano. It's a work in progress, see, and so... (Here's a thought, you nut job: I'll erase his gawdawful noises if you erase all those pictures you took without asking in my house.)

These people are the poster family for "The Risks and Disadvantages of Homeschooling".

He couldn't peel a banana.

Normally I am a quiet, understated, and overall kindly person. Four or five days a month? A transformation occurs. That PMS thing I so loved to mock when I was a young and symptom-free woman? It's hit, with a vengeance, these last few years. Coming as it has so late in the game, I am mature enough that I don't take it out on the people around me. I just get quieter, following my gran's sage advice, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Quiet, but not silent. I mutter. Quietly. When I'm alone. Mutter, mutter, mutter.

It's Sunday of a weekend when the stepkids have been here, bringing the household total of teens to six(ish). Join with me, if you will, on a pre-menstrual, muttered, tour of my home.

Laundry room:
What moron left a kleenex in their pocket?
My, GOD, look at these underwear. That girl's ass is IMMENSE.
Three odd socks. Again. Bah.

Kitchen:
Why am I the ONLY person who ever notices the Britta needs to be refilled? Ever?
Ants? Again?
Another damned puddle by the fridge! God, I wish we could afford a new one.
Who has been using their socks to wipe up the fridge puddle?
And if they want to do that, can't they put the sock in the laundry?
And why only one sock?
Which ridiculous child is walking around wearing one sock? And when I find you, you little fucker...

Living Room:
Why is wrong with the couch cushions?
Why are they askew like that?
Ah. Because we are storing dirty socks under there. Of course!
What is that stench?
Ah. Why did I ever agree to a hamster?
'It's okay, mummy. I'll keep it clean, I promise.' HA.

Dining Room:
For the love of Pete. Is the six feet to the kitchen sink too far to take the dirty plates?
Why is there a sock in this glass? Why?
Who puts a sock in a glass half-full of water? Guess I could be grateful it's not milk...

Front Hall:
Is is truly that difficult to place shoes on the rack rather than kick them off in a heap? It couldn't be that hard, since someone's managed to get a sock on one shelf. Two socks. No, three.
When do teenagers' feet stop growing?
Any why do they stink so fucking much?
Why are there socks on the shoe rack?

Bathroom:
What the fuck is this, a breeding program for towels?!?
Must be, and here's how: Place damp towels on bathroom floor, at least four to a heap, making sure to leave the light on and fan off for maximum growth, and a couple of dirty (and odd) socks as fertilizer.
Who didn't pull the shower curtain to? Not to worry, though - all those towels and socks are sucking up the excess, no problem.
Do they not realize what the strainer is for? So why is it on the side of the tub and I'm pulling foot-long hanks of slimy hair from the drain?

Can they not, even once, leave the fucking seat DOWN?

And put the new roll ON the spindle, not perched precariously on the side of the sink, where it will almost certainly fall into the toi -- damn! Where it now floats alongside someone's purple toothbrush. Lovely. You know what? I think I'll just put the toothbrush back in the cup and say nothing. Serve 'em right.

Bedrooms:
I'm speechless. Nothing to be done but close the door.
And turn off the damned lights!

My room:
WHERE is the garbage can?
Who walked off with the garbage can from MY bedroom?
And WHY?

Why is there a dirty sock on my pillow? Whose is it?

Children. Who'd want to have children? Biology's a bitch. That damned biological imperative, I tell you...

AND WHAT IS WITH THE FUCKING SOCKS EVERY FUCKING WHERE???

Wal-Mart.

Everyone loves to hate Wal-Mart. Well, everyone of my education level and social class. Everyone in my neighbourhood. All my friends. We all hate Wal-Mart. We mock the low-brow, blue-collar types who shop there. No social conscience among Wal-Mart shoppers! We hate its bullying ways, its negative effect on bookstores. There's something about its corporate practices that invites censure, but I confess I've never really gotten the gist of that. I haven't gotten the gist because I tend to ease out of these conversations. Because, you see...

I have a secret. I shop at Wal-Mart. Yes, I do.

Every time I sneak down to the south end of the city, I am guiltily aware that I am supporting the commercial rape of Canada. (Or something.) I breathe a sigh of relief once I'm through the doors, because I am fully confident I will not meet any of my friends in here! (I never have. But if I did, our shared guilty secret would ensure discretion.)

I sneak the bags back home under cover of darkness, or pretend that it's only environmental delicacy that has me bringing cloth bags...

Thing is, my partner and I, between the two of us, have some eight children. Eight, on one and a half incomes. (One and a half because he send just about half of his after-tax income to his ex. to support his portion of all those masses of children.)

I do shop at Walmart because we like little luxuries like... oh, affordable shoes for that many feet. Or, shoes AND food AND mortgage - all in the same month!

We're not poor. We feed, house, and clothe our children, and they also get luxuries like drama classes and flute lessons. But, unlike my neighbours, we know these are luxuries - and without things like inexpensive shoes, we couldn't have them.

So, yeah, I shop at Wal-Mart sometimes. I'm quiet, I'm discreet, and I don't indulge too often, but.. yes. I do. And the thing I really, really can't tell my friends?

I'm kind of grateful to Wal-Mart for the shoes.

By and large, I am a live-and-let-live person when it comes to parenting styles and techniques.

With my own kids, I used a bit of this, a bit of that. I co-slept for the first few months and breastfed on demand for over a year. These are all "attachment parent" values. I started out as a spanker, but discovered that it was unnecessary. More attachment goodness. However, I am a total hardass about sleep, believing that it is just as essential as food to my child's health. I would no sooner let my children go without food, or feed them only one meal a day than I would let them go with inadequate sleep. So, with the one child who would not learn to sleep any other way, I let her Cry It Out - which puts me in the Seventh Circle of Hell, as far as Attachment Parents are concerned.

So, no ideologue, me, and willing to let people do what's right for them and their family.

But some days...

I have a friend whose youngest, almost three, is still breast-fed on demand and still co-sleeps. I'm fine with that. When the friend complained that middle-of-the-night temper tantrums have been robbing her of hours of sleep each night for weeks, I did not go all holy and superior and self-righteous and rhyme off all the things that others would be too pleased to 'share': all that child needs is a Little Discipline; that mom should just put a lock on the damned door; that it's the fault of the extended nursing, and she should just wean the child; that the child is spoiled; that she should just...

No, I offered a sleepover. Because I am her friend, and she needs some practical support. I picked a night when the Man was away, so tot could co-sleep with me, give her that security.

You understand, this is the first night in almost three years that she would have had to herself. The child still nurses in the night, but it wouldn't be a problem at my house. No mummy, no yummies. The tot has made that adjustment lots of other times during the daylight. Besides, I was willing to make this sacrifice for my friend's health. She's beyond exhausted.

Dad was ecstatic. He went right out and bought a box of condoms. Twelve of them. Such a man. Heh.

So, tot comes to me, and though it's not a flawless night, it's not so bad, either. She was up talking to herself WAAAAAAYYY too late - till almost 11:00, well past MY bedtime - but when she woke at 6, I was able to tell her "it's not daytime yet" and she went back to sleep for another two hours. NOT a given, as any parent of a toddler knows.

So, I'm a little sleep-deprived, myself, but not so bad. Mom comes for tot at 9:00.

"So, how did it go? Did you have a good night?" I ask.

She sighs. "Well, kids. They have a radar, don't they? No sooner had we gone to bed than Max (her seven-year-old) was in bed with us."

AAAARGH!

Do NOT tell me I did this (because it was a LOT more effort than my nowadays night parenting!) for a woman who can't say - to a SEVEN year old - "No, son, this is my private time with daddy, and I'm desperate for a solid night's sleep. You can be in my bed any other night, but not tonight." Her first baby-free night in ALMOST THREE YEARS, and she can't defer the kid ONE night?!?!?

She sighs again, "What can you do?"

Oh, I don't know: tell the kid NO, perhaps? Assert your right to your own valid needs?

Argh.

There. I've just switched to betaBlogger.

It's 3:25 a.m. Why am I up and awake and switching to beta? I am up because my sweetie has a cold. When he's not snorting and snuffling, he's snoring outright, and when I give him a poke and make him roll over, his breathing - stentorian is always the word you see associated with breathing, and though I'm unclear on its precise meaning, I think it's what I'm after - his breathing is stentorian.

I am the auditory Princess and the Pea. I cannot sleep through noise. But, clever me, I have a little glass full of foam earplugs on the bedside table. Ear plugs are my friends.

Sadly, His Stentoricity penetrated the earplugs, which are, after all, only good to 473,492 decibels...

So downstairs I come, intending to read for a bit and try again when I'm really, really tired.

I'm really, really, reeeeeaaaaallllly tired now. So we are back to the question that we started with. Why am I up at three a.m.?

It was a noise, an odd noise. See? Ms. Auditory Me, at it again. Sort of an ululation. Or perhaps a moan. Not a nice one, a moan of distress. Wrong season for neighbourhood cats, and it's not that aggressive. No, a softish moan of misery. Ah. It's coming from downstairs, the room beneath my seat - my youngest daughter's in fact. The girl is in some distress.

Turns out the girl has to throw up but is too tired or perhaps ill to leave her bed. A dilemma, indeed. Good thing for her The Man was stentorian tonight.

Mummy provides the receptacle, rubs the back, gives tissue for the cleanup and water to rid the sour taste. Mummy cleans receptacle and returns it.

These days, when one of my kids is sick in the night, they tend to take care of it themselves. I don't tend to hear them (thanks be to ear plugs). However, having been there for the first hurlage, I'm committed. I can't leave the girl to suffer on her own. It's one thing to be oblivious; it's another to be wilfully absent.

There have been three repeats since. "There's nothing left to come uuuuup." Poor kid. We all know how wretched it is to retch on an empty stomach.

I am sympathetic, I am, but... All has been quiet for almost half an hour now.

I struggle with myself. Go to bed? Stay at the ready? Go to bed? Be an Attentive Mummy? Goooo to beeeeddd...

Shades of newborn parenting.

Should I sleep? She might need me yet.
.
.
.
.
Can I sleep? She's quiet.
.
Should I sleep? She could just be about to wake.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Can I go to bed? Not a peep from the girl.
.
*yaaaaaaawn...*
.
.
.
Goodnight!

Teenage boys have to be one of the most oblivious critters on God's green earth. They're even worse than teenage girls. Who knew it was possible?

Three days ago, my already-slow computer gets even slower. Particularly when I'm online. "Connection has been reset. ABC site is taking too long to load." Again and again.

I stick my head into my computer nerd genius son's room. "Hey, Daniel. Anything I can do to speed up my computer? It's getting reeeeallly slow." He proffers a few words about more memory. Probably true. I know I'm getting critically low. The most obvious solution is often the right one.

Two days ago, My Man complains that his computer is also slow. We run virus scans on both machines, just in case. They're both clean. We ask Son how his computer is working. Just fine, thanks. We chat a bit about how the slow seems to be contagious.

This morning, my computer is even SLOWER. Son says, "Oh, I'm downloading a brgufzlzx file, and it's big, about $@^# gigs, so I use accelerators [was that the word? I think so] which means it takes up a lot of bandwidth. It'll be done in a couple of hours." An hour later, the boy heads off to work. I head out to run some errands.

Tangent:

" *%#& gigs, for one download?!? How much memory do you have on that thing, anyway?" (It won't be standard. He and his dad custom-built it together. Computer genius-ness is in the DNA, it seems.)

"Well, I have three hard drives," he says. "One's 15 gigs, to run Windows and for school stuff; one's 30 for my music; one's 40 for games."

Good Lord.

Six hours later, son still at work, I try my computer again. Molasses.

Hmmm...

Walk upstairs to son's room. Stare at quietly humming machine for a moment. Walk across the floor. Take in the blinking blue lights, the flickering green ones. A lot of activity happening in here.

Reach out, and...

Click. Whirrrr... the beast subsides to silent dark.

And...?

Houston, we have internet!

Breasts are Big!!

(Well, not all of them, of course. Lots of luscious Asian breasts are perkily less than a mouthful. Some breasts appear big, but aren't really, merely suffering a case of silicone bloat. Mine, as it happes, are decent. But I meant the other kind of 'big', as in topical, news-worthy, cutting edge.)

So. Breasts are Big!

And controversial, evidently. If you read the mommy blogs at all, you'll know there was a big kerfuffle about this magazine cover. The editors received 5,000 letters about it, of which 25% complained about its "obscenity". People were "shocked", didn't want their impressionable teenage sons seeing it, had to shred it on sight.

What a shizophrenic society is our neighbour to the south! That cover is positively pornographic, Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" precipitated a deluge of outraged complaints, but breasts and sex are everywhere. Everywhere!

So. Why is this (on the left) worthy of a flood of complaints, and that (on the right) is not?

And no smart-ass comments of outrage from the fashion police. I'm not talking about crimes against fashion, but of prudery that forbids the picture on the left while allowing the woman on the right to walk around - and be photographed - in that outfit.

Let me clarify. That woman has every right to walk around in that ridiculous outfit. (Though one does naturally wonder just how her nipples can stand the strain of being the sole means of support of the entire ensemble. I mean, what happens when she takes a deep breath? One does wonder this.) Setting all concerns about her taste aside, she has every right to wear that thing. And people afford her that right.

BabyTalk has every right to post a picture of a nursing baby. Why is there any discussion at all?

What's the difference? Because, as one outraged letter-writer said, "A breast is a breast — it's a sexual thing." True enough, as far as it goes. Breasts are sexual things. However, they are also biological things. In fact - hold on to your hats, because apparently this idea is radical - breasts are primarily a feeding station. Women may not spend much (or any) of their adult lives nourishing a child, but that's why they're there. If we weren't mammals, we wouldn't have them.

Breasts are made for babies. Men (and/or women) get to enjoy them; women get to enjoy men (and/or women) enjoying them - but that's icing on the cake. The only reason, biologically, that women have those things hanging off their sternums is to Feed.A.Baby. That's it, that's all. All the rest is window dressing.

The fact that so many people have completely reversed this, made breasts primarily, even solely sexual, is sad. The fact that so many people would see a picture of a nursing baby - a modest, tasteful picture at that (do you see any nipple at all?) - as sick and disgusting... Well, anyone who can see a baby nursing and have a wave of revulsion? That's pretty twisted.

Bekah reads "Brain, Child" and complains, "There's an article here that says that middle school is all pain and suffering. Hmph. I liked school last year."

"Grade seven is a tough year for a lot of people, sweetie. I wonder if you were able to enjoy it because you have self-confidence, especially socially. If you were trying to make it to the top of the social heirarchy, up there with the 'popular' girls, Chloe and Valerie, you might have been miserable all year."

"Well, I don't want to be at the bottom!"

"No, of course not. And you're not! They don't pick on you, do they?"

"No, they mostly ignore me."

"Probably because you don't try to make them like you."

"I have friends I like and trust. You can't trust those two. Actually, Valerie came over one day and asked if I'd like to eat lunch with them, and the girls at my table were all 'Oh, wow! Valerie invited you!!'"

"So what did you do?"

"I said 'no, thanks, I'm sitting with my friends right now'. She went off all put out, because nobody says 'No' to them! I don't think they could actually believe it had happened!"

Bekah pauses, unable to speak over my laughter. "They like to do that. Invite someone in for a week or two, then spit them out. Then that person is really at the bottom!" She muses for a minute. "I just don't know how people like that end up popular, mom! Why do the kids give them that kind of power?"

Me, I'm left wondering how I ended up with such a wise, wise child. "Give them that power", she says. She sees that it is given, not earned nor deserved, merely given. No one will have that kind of power over my Bekah, because she sees this stuff so clearly. She doesn't buy into the system mindlessly. She thinks about it - and strives only for what she can see is good for her.

I am so fucking proud of her!

Jubilation!

We are having a birthday party here this afternoon. Not just any kind of party! An uber-cool Beach Party!! For Bekah and sixteen friends. A thirteenth birthday party. Seventeen thirteen-year-olds. Yee-haw. But Bekah is exultant. Sixteen people are coming to her Beach Party! It will be So. Cool!!!!!!

Tragedy!

We wake to a forecast of thunderstorms. Thunderstorms!

Hope battles Despair!

An almost thirteen-year-old tackles the forces of nature through sheer force of desperate will.

"The radio says 60% chance, mummy. That's 40% chance of not thunderstorms! Can we go? We can go, right!"

Mum is at the computer, checking in. "The Weather Network says 75%, sweetie."

"But it's sunny now!"

The skies darken ominously. The phone rings. "Are you guys getting hail where you are?" The voice of one of the invitees' mother chirrups. "I'm on the 21st floor here, and we're really being battered!"

The skies open. Water falls in sheets.

Ten minutes later, the sun breaks through. Steam rises from the streets.

"Can we go, mummy? Can we go? It's sunny again!"

The clear blue hole in the sky is about 50 meters in diameter, but for the moment, it is indeed sunny. The forces of nature and the forces of adolescent will wrangle for another ten minutes before Daniel comes downstairs.

"Did you guys hear? Environment Canada has issued a severe thunderstorm watch for our area."

Hope is Defeated! Despair Overcomes!

Bekah wilts in resignation. The forces of nature have won. She takes to the phone and bravely makes all sixteen calls. The party will be at our home. She puts the phone down after the last call. Social-chirpy vanishes under the wash of despair.

"We wanted a beach party, mummy! I'm going to have a CRAP party! CRAP!"

Momma speaks words of encouragement and comfort. The guests begin to arrive. The kids are unsettled, it is true. They had their hormone-ridden hearts set on a beach party, complete with bikinis. Thankfully, Daniel sticks around. Nothing perks up a roomful of thirteen-year-old girls like the presence of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Bekah, however, is still fraught with Hostess Anxiety. At each lull in the proceedings, she races into the kitchen. "Mummmm! They're bored! They want to go home! My party is CRAP!" More words of encouragement from mum.

"You're the hostess, sweetie. The momentum has to come from you. Out you go."

"But mummmmmmy!!!!"

"Away you go." But she's right, you know. They have a wave of enthusiasm, the volume rises, then the energy ebbs away.

It is my practice to stay in the background at these things, but clearly something has to be done. I enter the fray, issue a few friendly but non-contestable directives, and get a game going. All the signs of Successful Early Teen Party are there, the prime one being outrageous noise. The game ends. The party pauses. The shrieking subsides.

What's with these kids? Why can't they get any momentum happening? Sheesh. This is my youngest child. I've done a tonne of parties. Never have I had to work the room like this!

Despair gets a Smack-Down!

Zoe, my eldest, walks in. Bekah races to greet her, drags her off to the kitchen. Two minutes later, Bekah returns, turns on the music, gets out the Twister game, and finally, finally, the party takes off. They shriek, they giggle, they scream. Twenty minutes later they decide they are going to the park, and off they go shrieking down the street. (The park is a couple of blocks away. If it rains again, they can be home in minutes.)

Jubilation Triumphs!

An hour later, they return. Bekah and one of the boys have gone into the river. Much shrieking over whose fault that was, each party laying the blame firmly at the feet of the other.

They have pizza, they shriek, they have cake, they shriek, they read Seventeen magazine, they shriek, they open gifts, they shriek, they put nail polish on everyone, including the boys. Much shriekage.

By the ringing in my ears, I gauge this a successful party.

How the Smack-down of Despair and the Return of Jubilation?
Epilogue:

After the last guest leaves, I pull Zoe aside. "So what did you say to Bekah, out there in the kitchen?"

"Oh, she was going on about how her party was CRAP, and I said, 'You know why? Because all your guests are out there, and you're in the kitchen, whining.' "

HA! THIS is why you have more than one kid, I tell you.

If I'd said that, she'd have melted into a pool of misery right there on the kitchen floor. Right there, right then. Send the guests home, mother, you've slain the hostess.

But big sisters, they can say this stuff. Moreover, they can say this stuff, and the little sisters, they take it right on the chin, and get out there, and make a great party.

Thank God for big sisters!

Remember the killer dwarf hamster? Little MegaDeath?

Well, she's gone. Meet her replacement, Pipkin:



Pipkin, unlike her predecessor, is a perfectly sweet teddy bear hamster. Cute, curious, friendly, and gentle. Yes, she does stink like pee if not cleaned regularly, but her puffy good nature more than makes up for a little occasional olfactory unpleasantness.




She likes the laptop, and - this amuses me - she can walk around on it forever and not make a single keystroke. Even though she's twice the size of that dwarf bitch, she's still a teeny animal.

So what happened to Little MegaDeath? Weeellll....

She did not go visit with the cat after all. First, the damned feline would not be humane about it, and I didn't want a lingering death on my conscience. Besides, I've seen what he does to mice. Who'd get to clean up the unsavoury outcome of his half-baked hunting? Me, that's who. Never mind.

We called the pet store. No, they did not take returns. We don't want our money back, we assured them: you take her back, we'll buy a different one. What you do with her then is up to you. (Hell, at a week per household over the year and a half of her life, she could be a real money-maker for them.) No, sorry. Can't help you.

Well, shit.

More brainstorming. Family conference. What to do with this unappealing rodent? Daniel: "It's summer. We could just take her down to the river with a supply of sunflower seeds and a little container as her burrow, and let her fend for herself."

Bekah is horrified. "Something will EAT her! I don't want her dead just because she bites me." (Isn't she such a sweet, forgiving child?)

"No? She tries to kill you anytime you touch her. Besides, anything that attacks her is going to get a run for its money." The boy has a point. Good luck to predators.

Indisputable as his logic is, it does not soothe Bekah's tender heart. But what are our options here? The little bugger could live a year and a half, hating us every moment of that time. We can't take her back to the store.

Bekah lights up. "Yes, we could!"

Um, no, they won't take her back.

"They don't have to take her back!" She unveils her plan.

The next day, Operation Hamster Drop is put into place. Bekah and Dan wander into the pet store, check out the cute puppies, the squawking birds, the tumbling kitties. While Bekah peruses the aquarium at the head of the aisle, from where she can also see the staff at the front desk, Dan strolls down to the rodent cages. He's slick, he's quick, and in ninety seconds, the kids are outside, and the store is one dwarf hamster richer.

Problem-solving, sibling co-operation, teamwork, and strategy. See? Owning pets is good for kids.

"Hey, mum, you know what? A grade eight boy in my school got caught stealing candy from the 7-11!!" Bekah has come home from school with Big News. The 7-11 is a convenience store about three blocks from her JK - 8 school. Convenient for many things--including shop-lifting, it seems.

"Oh, yes? How did he get caught?"

Mirrors. He didn't take the security mirrors into account when he raided the penny candy bins. The school has given him a one-month detention, meaning he can't leave the school grounds for one month, and he's not allowed into the 7-11 for the rest of the year.

That seems appropriate, I say.

"Yeah, mom, but you know what his parents did?" Bekah's voice rises in incredulity. "His mother said 'She wasn't angry, she was just very disappointed.' "

Now, I happen to think this kind of parental input for this kind of offense is pitiful. A child needs to know a parent will stand up for right and wrong: stealing is not a gray area. But I ask the open-ended question of my daughter.

"So how did the boy respond to that? Was he ashamed to have disappointed his mother?" Because you never know. Maybe that's all that's required for this child.

"Nah. He thought she was an idiot. You know what, mum? The school gave him a better punishment than his parents did. I don't even think he got grounded."

"Well, just so's you know, if you ever stole anything, I'd be disappointed. I'd also be angry and disgusted. And you'd probably be grounded. Just so's you know." No harm in being proactive, but mostly I'm teasing, and Bekah knows it.

She rolls her eyes at me. "I know that, mom." And sticks out her tongue at me for good measure. "Like I'd ever steal anything!" Saucy little minx that she is. Destined for a life of delinquency, this girl.

My son, who is seventeen, is going through a crisis. Yes, I'm quite aware that to a teen, much of their adolescence is one crisis after another, self-aggrandizing and lacking the big picture as they are.

This, however, is a genuine crisis. My boy messed around (by which, I gather, he did some necking and mid-range petting) with not-his-girlfriend. "How did your girlfriend find out?" I asked. He looks at me in some surprise. "I told her, of course." He looked at me in greater surprise when I winced and said, "Why did you do that?"

Let me back up a bit here. His father, to whom I am no longer married for many more reasons than mere infidelity, messed around on me with several different women. Each and every time, he confessed. Thus, I have some experience being the recipient of such news, and I will tell you, it makes the tellor feel a whole lot better than it does the tellee.

I tried to convey to Daniel(my son) that honesty has gray areas, spoke of the balance beween honesty and kindness. I asked him if he wanted to get together with this other girl again - "absolutely not". I asked if he regretted it instantly - "yes". In that situation, I just don't see what is gained by knee-jerk honesty. If he wanted to keep seeing the other girl, adn/or if he'd messed around more than the once, then yes, the girlfriend deserves the truth. But a one-off? Once, and never again, with anyone? I absolutely cannot see what is gained by such honesty.

In fact, this kind of "honesty" often masks a greater dishonesty, I think, because the confessor doesn't tend to understand their motivations. They grasp at the moral high ground: "At least I'm being honest." As if for some reason the other party should be less hurt, less angry. As if they should somehow be grateful for the hurt, on top of the injury.

Confession is good for the soul, they say. Perhaps it is, for the confessor's soul. I say, if you want to confess a one-time fling, do it to a friend, do it to a priest, do it to your mother, I don't care, but don't tell the injured party - and then expect her to comfort YOU! To forgive you, because you're so fucking honest. Puh-leeze.

Anyway. I didn't give my boy all this emotional heaviness. Only a calm pointing out that simplistic spill-the-facts honesty isn't always so clearly the best or right thing in these situations. He didn't say much at the time. About a week later, I found myself overhearing him in conversation with a friend. (Not intentionally, but, I confess, once I realised what I'd stumbled into, yes, I wanted to know what he was thinking. It's opportunistic, but not too morally bankrupt.)

Turns out I offended him horribly. I know, I know. Teen morality is very black-and-white, and I was introducing him to an area of gray that is probably beyond his capabilities, particularly his male capabilities. Apparently, he’s entering into a new era of "honesty and openness", despite the advice of his mother, who “favours lies and deceit. My MOTHER for fuck’s sake.” Yes, well.

That’s not what I said, of course, but he’s evidently not ready to hear it. I don’t know whether I’ll bother taking another run at it, because, probably just like last time, that much-vaunted “honesty” he’s supposedly all about won’t extend to telling his mother what he thinks about what she says, or, for that matter, giving her any feedback whatsoever. Besides, I'm his "MOTHER, for fuck's sake". Mothers are supposed to be proponents of all that's pure and repressed. Mothers are not supposed to suggest that moral gray areas exist, and that perhaps honesty isn't always the best policy, that, moreover, "facts" are a shallow imitation of "truth", and may have very little to do with "honesty", anyway. All far beyond him.

Does it not occur to him that I have some experience - far more than his ex-girlfriend - with being cheated on? That my perspective is not the self-justification of the one in the wrong, but the clear sight of the one first wronged, then further punished by being expected to be comforting, reassuring, healing to the wounder?

Of course it doesn’t. He’s seventeen, and everything is black and white, reality is what he feels. Sigh.