As a parent of a 10-year-old boy (and two more younger ones), it has dawned on me that I'm going to have to go through it at least three more times.
God help me.
I realize I probably have it easier, as a mother of three boys than a mother of three girls. Really. I get it.
Still, I'm not liking what's happening in this house. The moods. I'm not talking about mine. We're all pretty used to mine. I'm talking about Son One, the one who sorta smells, the one who thinks I'm a total idiot. The one who is eating me out of house and home.
One minute, he's a happy-go-lucky fourth grader; the next, he's a brooding, sulking punk.
One day, he's begging me to drive him to and from school; the next, he's shooing me away when I creep up in my swaggerwagon in a downpour. Oh, is that a GIRL you're walking with, in the rain? My bad.
Harry Potter and the Hunger Games are put away on the bookshelf. But I find a Spanx catalog under his pillow?
So I tell the dad, the husband, about these developments.
He says, "It sounds like it's time to have The Talk." I correct him. "It's time that YOU have The Talk."
We discuss whom we can go to for advice on how, when to do this. We decide maybe one of our closest friends, who's so far gotten three of four of his kids through puberty, might just want to give our son The Talk. But that doesn't seem right, to delegate The Talk.
In a conversation the other day about why Son One couldn't see a particular movie, the word "sex" came up. Father/Husband asked, "Do you know what 'sex' means?"
Son One says, sheepishly, "Yaaayyh." I prod, "Ok, what?" He answers, "It's when people are kissing in bed."
OK. I'm good with that. Yep, that's what it means when your are 10 years old. That's all you need to know. Until the book, How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex arrives from Barnes & Noble.
I'm a sucker for those parenting books. They look good on my bedside table.
Good luck out there!
