I have two kids. My daughter is 7, my son is 4. They’re both wonderful, both inventive, both my joys. When I walk into the house and hear shouts of “Deedee! Deedee!” I melt. (They call me “Deedee.” I’m not sure why. My daughter came up with it, and it stuck).
Recently I was talking with a friend about children, and girl v. boy, and puberty expectations. Specifically, how will you feel when you find out that one of the kids—way, way, way down the road—has had sex. My answer is unfair, but (in my heart) true.
Let’s say my 17-year-old-high-school-junior daughter has sex. It can be with a boyfriend, it can be hooking up at a party, it can be in her bedroom, at a hotel after a prom … whatever. No matter the situation, I’m pissed. That’s a violation of my daughter; the girl I raised from diapers; the girl whose hand I held as she crossed streets; the girl who used to wear princess dresses and her mother’s dress shoes. Sex? No. No. No.
Now, let’s say my 17-year-old-high-school-junior son has sex. It can be with a girlfriend, it can be hooking up at a party, it can be in his bedroom, at a hotel after a prom … whatever. No matter the situation, I’m concerned. Very concerned. But, knowing that he used protection and was respectful of his partner and all that, well, a small part of me has a little of the ol’ ‘Way to go, son!’ attitude.
Is that righteous? Definitely not. But I imagine that’s the way I’ll be.
PS: On a side note: Boy, was I off about the Jets and trash talking. Hey, whatever works. And, somehow, it worked.