the dirty laundry show

I was a ripe old 27 and considering adding a baby to my life. Every moment, it seemed, my mind played out images of gentle cooing, first steps, and cuddles. Those fantasy moments that, in my limited experience, exist few and far between other less romantic dust-ups with volcanic diaper overflows in public places, a general refusal to sleep, and endless untidy living. 

Many of the more sobering aspects of parenthood were conveniently overlooked as I thought of becoming a mom, and I think God designed it that way for a reason. Who in their right mind would choose this path if they knew what lay ahead? Hormones and that internal “ticking clock” of doom clouded my brain, leaving no room for evaluating how I might handle childbirth, long sleepless nights, and breastfeeding problems. 

Or discussions about sex.

During the first innocent years of my littles’ lives, the focus was all on the basics, and the basics were a piece of cake. Facial expressions, words, shapes, colors, numbers. Eventually came reading and some emotional regulation (boy, did I have some learning to do in that department). All of sudden, around age 6 or so, this creeping fear of the “birds and bees” began to encroach on our happy hamlet. 

In contrast to the good old days when I could freely binge Sex and the City, Girls, and Teen Mom without them giving two hoots, these small beings were showing unmistakable signs of sentience. Not only did they take in their surroundings more effectively, they were able to actually make sense of the things they saw. This necessitated a whole new level of vigilance over our screens, music, and (even private) conversations. 

Pretty relaxed about a lot of things when it came to parenting, early run-ins with YouTube and friends’ smartphones taught my husband and me that resting on our laurels would not be an option here. In this strange tech-centric modern age so vastly different from when we were kids, sexual content lurks everywhere, discoverable at the mere touch of a button. Gone are the good old days when such images were tucked away in magazines respectably stowed beneath an overpass, which is where my husband used to forage for filth.  

Today, at ages 8 and 9, any social interaction with their peers feels like an ongoing game of Russian Roulette as far as what sorts of questions these kids will come home with. In the last few weeks alone, we’ve navigated subjects ranging from suicide to racism and the development of gender preferences. These, to me, seem like cutting through butter with a hot knife when compared to the topic of sex. 

And I don’t mean conveying the specifics of sex. I’ve done my due diligence and given my kids a crash course in the anatomical essentials. I had no choice once my son insisted on knowing how chickens get pregnant because he knew they couldn’t possibly “get married” (a whimsical idea readily accepted by my daughter). He’s so frustratingly gifted at seeing through my bullshit. 

No, I’m talking about the visceral experience of witnessing sexual situations with your very real eyeballs. Because a recent run-in with a surprisingly erotic comic book landed us in new, uncharted territory. And the best response I could come up with was:

“So… do you have any questions? About… boobies?”

Oh. My. Sweet. Lord. 

Look, I’m doing my best here. I honestly thought I’d be aided by a strong anti-depressant by the time these conversations came up. Anything to help numb the overwhelming urge to RUN AWAY SCREAMING. I know, I know. I’m a 38-year-old woman and this is America and the sexual revolution has already occurred. I should be ashamed of myself. 

But that’s precisely the problem: I’m ashamed of myself. I’m a child of 90’s Christian culture, which (for me) means sex and all things related to it are inextricably tied to feelings of shame and guilt. It’s taken me 13 years of marriage to unravel that giant ball of string even the tiniest bit. 

Hear me now: I’m not placing blame on my religion, my parents, or the many fathers and mothers of the faith who have guided me to this point. I believe they did the best they could with what they knew, thanks to their very rigid upbringings. (My mother tells me she wasn’t even allowed to talk about farts in their household, and she had three brothers – you know farts were a constant occurrence). It seems to me they had even fewer tools to work with, verbally and emotionally, when it came to complexities like sex. 

So it really isn’t much of a surprise that, for much of my generation, these complexities were reduced to a list of easily enforceable rules like: 

1. Abstinence 

I was actually thankful for this one because it gave me an easy out when I was already uncomfortable with my sexual development. I was committed to this rule so intently that my own high school best friend did not tell me when she experienced sex for the first time, for fear that it would crush me or that I would judge her (which it did; and which I did). Not proud of that. 

I remained a virgin all the way until 23 when I moved in with my boyfriend and got married six months later. My parents were absolutely scandalized but tried, in their own ways, to make the best of it. My father couldn’t even speak to me for a period of weeks, which both terrified me and broke my heart. I had never before disappointed my parents so deeply, but it did prove a vital turning point in our relationship. God works in mysterious ways… 

2. No bra straps showing

This was a rule at my youth group and my private Christian high school. I internalized this so hard that, in my early 20s as a California resident, I  still layered T-shirts under my tank tops. And my husband will never let me forget it.

3. No skirts or shorts shorter than your fingertips

This was an impossible demand, especially once Clueless-inspired mini skirts became a thing. If only Bermuda shorts had been popular…

4. No front-to-front hugs between members of the opposite sex

This was a youth group rule, for real. My youth pastor even joked about making couples who were dating (“courting,” as we were encouraged to call it) hold a stick rather than holding hands. I get that physical contact can be arousing. But I’m almost 40 and I still struggle to give male friends traditional hugs. 

5. No explicit music 

My memory will forever hold the look of shock on my Baptist camp counselor’s face when she walked in to find us, a gaggle of sixth-grade girls, gyrating our hips to the forbidden sounds of Nelly’s Country Grammar. The whole situation led to a long talk about “purity,” which was a real buzzword back then.  

Now a parent in my late thirties, I can see how impossible it is to raise children; how tempting it is to make a rote rule that covers all your bases; how the heart behind these rules is well-meaning and rooted in a universal desire to protect our young. The problem was never really the rules themselves, but a lack of discussion around their purpose. Nobody wanted (or had time) to dig into the complexities that underpinned them, much less broach them with a bunch of insecure, hormonal pre-teens who can’t say “breast” without bursting into hysterics.

But at only 8 and 9, my children have proven quite adept at intuiting many of life’s gray areas. To ignore them or insist they don’t exist draws immediate suspicion as to my capability of offering real insight. Any attempt to cover up the truth waters down my authority to speak into their lives. They know when I’m hiding or omitting things. They don’t like it. And they quickly cut me out of the conversation if they sense any foul play. 

I don’t want to be cut out of the conversation, even when it’s about sex and other difficult topics. Because then, I won’t be able to correct false assumptions like “masturbation can get you pregnant” (something I truly believed until I was about 12). Or “your period won’t overflow so much that you get a stain on your pants,” which was something we were actually taught in a 7th-grade sex-ed video AND IT WAS A BOLD-FACED LIE. 

These were things I would never dare ask an adult about. I learned early on to recognize and save my superiors from the visible discomfort or instant subject changes that accompanied such questions. 

The resulting silence spoke volumes.

I need my kids to see my personal struggle as I mine these issues with them because it conveys a bigger truth: that some things, including sex, are so mysterious and powerful that they can’t possibly be squeezed into a list of hard-and-fast do’s and don’ts. They are physical choices with physical, emotional, and spiritual ties so profound, their mishandling can result in deep, lasting wounds that sometimes endure for generations. 

I need them to understand that there are certain things you can never unhear, unsee, or un-know. While everything may be accessible to us these days, not everything is valuable nor helpful to the process of becoming the human they are meant to be – one, a sage and fiercely discerning leader; the other, a joyful soul gifted at creating spaces of connection and belonging. These, their true identities, have already been relentlessly under siege in their short time on this planet because there is a darkness that knows all too well the important work they will accomplish if such seeds are allowed to grow.

I can’t monitor or control everything these kids will hear or encounter, the choices they will eventually make for themselves. To attempt that level of censorship is foolishness. What I can do is make every effort to keep the lines of communication as open as possible. To stay close by through every mistake and misstep, ready to offer guidance or have those hard conversations. To pursue real relationship over demands of blind adherence to rules, because the latter changes nothing of how the heart behaves. 

There will be moments of disappointment – me in them, them in me, me in myself. It’s a natural byproduct of wanting and hoping for the absolute best and missing the mark because my expectations of what’s best are only human. Whatever our future follies, dark places, and difficult encounters, it’s not my job to dictate their choices or shape their Journey (capital “J”). I am merely the caretaker privileged with the task of making sure they know who their true Father is, how far he will go to rescue them, and that His healing love is capable of finding them anywhere they roam. 

As “mom,” I inhabit this time and place to, among other things, invite my children into a Bigger Story that began thousands of years before us. 

To discern the precious gifts they bear to help heal a world that is hurting and to relentlessly point out their true identities so that they will not be fooled by any counterfeits. 

To help them wade through the endless bevy of virtual and real-life distractions (including sex) intent on sidelining them from a life of meaning and purpose. 

To submit them (and my ceaseless worries about them) to the God of all comfort, who knows them and their entire path intimately enough to have already mapped out their escape routes, divine protection, inner healing, and ultimate victory.  

To remind them in times of inevitable failure or defeat that they are promised nothing less than a rich wealth of abundant hope, peace, joy, and the deepest kind of fulfillment if they will only allow the Spirit to work His transformation – and, in the process, to experience the same holy mystery of transformation myself.