B Isn’t Just For Bus, Kids

Yesterday my children learned a new word on the way to school. They learned it on a school bus. Literally on a school bus – our car came up behind a bus, and there was this new word, written in the thick dust coating the back window, right at eye level. 

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Huckle, leaning forward as we approach the bus at a stop sign: “Hey, there’s something written on that bus! Is that a real word? It says b-tch.”

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Oh. I didn’t see that coming. Hearing the b-word from acquaintances or on television hardly phases me. But hearing it from the mouth of my child knocks the wind out of me. 

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Here we go again, I think -- another intrusion of the world’s hate and injustice into my kids’ lives, another important but unwelcome Teaching Moment. Like last year when Huckle was studying the Civil War in school and I had to explain that racism is still prevalent. Or earlier this month when he asked me why we never eat at Hooters and got an earful about the subjugation and objectification of women. 

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My Inner Feminist and my Inner Sunday School Teacher are in collusion any time someone raises hate subjects. They prepare impassioned (but long-winded) lectures about respecting and valuing others as individuals, as God’s children. 

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Today, my Inner Mommy signals them to settle down and let her handle this with a simple, unemotional, and age-appropriate answer:

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“Yeah, that’s a real word. But it’s vulgar, used to insult women. So we don’t use it in our family.”

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Huckle gives a small “huh.” 

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Our car is filled with awkward silence. Poor kid. I can tell he’s now uncomfortable with that word brazenly staring at us from the back of the bus. I’m uncomfortable too. And when I’m uncomfortable, I often switch into Over-Explaining Mode, my coping mechanism for awkward situations. Inner Feminist and Inner Sunday School Teacher rush back to the scene with reams of lecture notes and sermon notes. They have words! Lots of powerful words! But – oddly -- my Inner Word Etymologist wins out:

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“Originally, the word referred to a female dog. Now it’s more frequently used as an insult. Interestingly, it’s has been used as a vulgarity for hundreds of years old, even by Shakespeare.”

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 There. I’ve changed the subject, sweet boy. Now we can safely discuss Shakespeare. Or the history of words. Or dogs. (Or even Mom's nerdiness. What -- you mean you don't have an Inner Word Etymologist?)

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Not the best use of a Teachable Moment, think my Inner Feminist and my Inner Sunday School Teacher. They frown over this wasted opportunity.

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The back seat is quiet as my son and daughter digest their new knowledge, an unwitting Adam and an unwitting Eve. The palpable loss of innocence in my car almost hurts. It’s like seeing a condom wrapper on the playground. 

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Still, on reflection I consider it a triumph in parenting that my son didn’t know the b-word for the first decade of his life, that the worst insult he has for his sister is “purple monkey.” [“Mooo-ooooommmm. Huckle called me a purple monkey again.”] Plus, more important than any Teachable Moment is the lifelong example we give our children, modeling respect for all people. 

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Best of all, everything comes full circle by evening. Though I had to start the day by sharing a painful word that wasn't my own, I was able to end it by sharing uplifting words more wise than any of my own. Providentially, our evening reading was Ephesians 4:

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. (v29)

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. (v32)

And that's a good place to end.

The Boy and The Talk

As I write this, my 10-year-old son is at school, listening to a presentation on the changes his body will soon undergo in preparation for manhood. 

I sure hope the school does a better job than I did last night.  
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Last month, after the school quietly warned us parents of fifth graders that they would be giving this talk, I conscientiously pulled out our book on preparing children for puberty. I planned to study this highly-recommended book and bring up the topic myself during some quiet moment at home. But that quiet moment (like most quiet moments in this household) never came. Life got busy with repainting the dining room, traveling, preparing for house guests, planning for my daughter’s eighth birthday, and keeping our normal chaos under control. The Talk – even The Book Reading -- fell through the cracks because there wasn’t an immediate deadline. And because I was a bit intimidated by the topic -- as a female with only sisters, what do I know about the changes of manhood??
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Last week, knowing the school’s presentation was getting closer, I forced myself to open said highly-recommended book. But I didn’t need to skim very far before deciding that this was definitely Husband’s area of expertise, and the responsibility should fall on him. I'll do the daughter (some day...); he can do the son. However, Husband has a tough travel schedule this fall. He is gone almost every week and comes home tired and with a lot on his mind. And with big plans to clean the garage (which I wouldn't want to discourage). He was willing to give The Talk but , if he did, I never heard about it.
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Last night, despite the house guests and the family birthday celebration and it already being past bedtime, I realized we were down to the wire. I quickly pulled my son “Huckle” into the study, away from the noise and cake, in a frantic last-ditch effort to discuss puberty before the school did. Although I knew the school would do a great job (they always do), it seemed like the kind of thing the parents should talk about first. (Besides, what if the teacher said, “Your parents have probably already spoken to you about this…” and my son volunteered, “Mine didn’t!” He would do that. He is very outspoken.)
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Anyway, last night I sit Huckle down beside me on the oversized armchair in my study. I try to look him lovingly in the eye for our heart-to-heart, like I had when imagining the scene beforehand. But it isn't like I imagined. (Dear self: it never is.) Huckle is bouncing on my chair, probably from the sugar rush of birthday cake and the euphoria of having just beat his dad, sister, and grandmother at a board game. It’s hard to look someone in the eye when they are bouncing. 
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“Honey,” I say to the blur beside me, “Tomorrow a teacher will be talking to the boys in your class about how your bodies will be changing in the next few years as you start to become a man.”
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As I speak, Huckle picks up the heart-shaped pillow from behind me and pretends it is strangling him. His tongue sticks out and his head falls back and his eyes roll and he makes horrible gagging noises. I briefly wonder if there's some blatant symbolism in my son choking himself with my heart pillow. But mainly I think: manhood is still very, very far away. 
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“I just want you to know that you can always talk to Dad and me if you have any questions, either after the talk tomorrow or as your body begins to change in the next few years. Okay, Honey? Did you hear me?”
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I can't tell if Huckle is nodding or if his twitches are death throes, as the fuzzy heart clutched to his neck finishes him off. But I don’t give up. I take a moment to collect my thoughts and remind myself that feeding a big piece of birthday cake to a 10-year-old this soon before bedtime is always a bad idea. Then again, the cake didn’t get frosted and decorated until thirty minutes ago.
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“Huckle? Do you have any questions right now? Do you know how your body will change?”

Now Huckle is strangling the pillow, giving it such a tight twist that I no longer wonder why our couch cushions sometimes leak stuffing. “Stinky armpits!” he yells and starts hitting himself on the head with the pillow. 
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Usually in the life of a ten-year-old, "stinky armpits" is an inappropriate answer to a mother's question. But, right now, it's strangely encouraging. It shows that Huckle is paying attention and even knows what I'm talking about. “Yes!” I say enthusiastically. “As boys get older, they start needing deodorant, because sometimes a grown-ups’ armpits have an odor. But you’ll also get stronger muscles and your voice will change and…”
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My voice drifts off as I begin wondering, will the school go into detail about changes to the genitals? Or what genitals are for?! Or are those topics only the parents should broach? It’s a private school, and we’re paying a hefty tuition for it. They had better at least mention the genitals. 
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“When you come home tomorrow, how about telling me what the teacher discusses, and then we can talk about it more? Or you could talk about it with Dad,” I suggest. There, I just bought us some time. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Husband again. I am more convinced than ever that this is his domain, though I can more easily imagine Husband and Huckle having a pillow fight than The Talk. 
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So here I am back in my study, wondering if Huckle is paying attention during his school's talk. I wonder if he’ll tell me what was said or if he'll have any questions for me when he gets home. But, most of all, I wonder which of us is less prepared for puberty.