It’s time for THE TALK.
Not to be in denial or one of those head in their arse parents, but I can say that I feel the Teen has not done anything yet.
But HBO decided to air a new series and Queenie called this weekend, demanding that I view Middle School Confessions. Talk about some gray hair inducing, ulcer creating, chain cigarette smoking sessions.
Ay yi yi to the tenth power.
To prepare, I am cooking, praying, cooking, praying. Mentally reviewing what I want to say, trying to remember that she is still my baby and will probably burst into tears, and that the Mister will get squeamish and flee from the scene.
I have been advised to get a book, but am hesitant to check one out via Sleeping Beauty. Knowing my sister KNOWS, this would be utter mortification for the Teen. I asked a few women I respect and they keep saying be honest, be yourself, just do it. Did I mention they all had boys?
The Teen is not immune to sex. It’s in the books she reads, the shows she views on TV, the radio, the commercials. I had an easier time damning the alleged actions of Chris Brown against Rihanna (domestic abuse is NEVER cool). Now I ponder: how in the world do you have this talk?
Sex is EVERYWHERE. Thongs are made for Tweens, the Boy hummed along to Jay Z asking can I get a F*ck You until I stopped playing rap and both listen enraptured when the Mister and I debate (okay argue) about the idiots on the Maury Povitch Show: You Are (NOT) the Father!
Now I have to combat society with my fears and concerns over the well being of my child.
Oy to the vey.
My desire for her is that she understands that her body is a temple. That she is worth the wait. That any Joe Knucklehead will say what he wants to get what HE wants. That she is beautiful and her body is her body and for her ALONE (and me until she has a Master’s Degree) to decide what she wants to do with it. That her virtue and reputation can be tarnished in an instant. Sex is beautiful with a man who loves, respects, adores you. That sex does not equal love, and that she should WAIT.
Why is parenting so difficult? When I was young, Bublicious used to tell me to keep my ‘pocketbook’ closed and that men sniff like dogs. She wasn’t lying, but it wasn’t until I secretly devoured Jackie Collins and learned that a pocketbook was a va-jay-jay. Queenie had a long talk about flowers and some other stuff but all I remember is thinking Eww, you DID it?!
The so called Family hour on TV has even turned into a soft core orgy of rubbish. There’s always the obligatory lascivious chick on screen, the horndog teen boy, the lustful and wistful loner.
So after stuffing ourselves tonight, I’m going to have my Teen help me in the kitchen and have THE TALK.
Then I’ll have SOME WINE.