It’s been a big week at my house. My middle child has decided, thanks to the zealousness of our public school curriculum, that he is an environmentalist, and I must hate the earth if I don’t bring my own bags to the grocery. Or use zip-lock baggies for his sliced apples in his lunch. Or don’t rinse and recycle the mayo jar. He is exhausting me.
My youngest son fractured his wrist. I’m always up for a stop at urgent care. Having three young boys, I know everyone by first name. I know the operating hours and locations of urgent cares within a five mile radius. I feel popular and taken care of there. Sam had his first x-ray which was quite exciting for him. And for me, the tech was a really cute guy.
And my oldest son thought it was time to ask me how to masturbate. It wasn’t a serious question although I could tell he was hoping for an answer. I’m afraid I wasn’t too helpful. It’s hard for me to demonstrate or elaborate on a male activity with any precision. I just told him that he would figure it out. Nature would call and give him instructions. But whenever it happened, he shouldn’t be afraid or confused. The body does what it does for a reason. I know some men who ejaculated for the first time and thought they were dying. Like they had some deep infection caused by naughty thoughts which burst forth. I didn’t share that with my son, but I certainly hope he doesn’t feel that way. I want him to think sex is normal and natural even when he’s by himself.
Then he asked if I wanted to know when he started making out with girls. I was like - girls? With an s? Plural? More than one at a time? If he’s thinking about kissing two girls no wonder he wants to know how to masturbate. Suddenly it all makes sense.
And hell no, I don’t want to know.