Talk to them

Last night, at Eva's track meet, I accidentally got schooled.

See, she always insists that I sit with her rather than with the adults.  So I'm inevitably the lone old lady in a sea of pre-pubescent, smooth skinned, braced teeth, giggly hormone bundles.  As long as Eva's happy, I guess.

Generally, I know they're all wishing I would go away so they wouldn't have to whisper and mumble.  I know I would've been if I was a middle schooler.  But I've never been one to shy away from disappointing someone, so I stay.

Anyway, yesterday it was cold and I'd come straight from work, so all I had to throw over my not appropriate for a rainy track meet but cute for the job clothes was the hoodie I keep in the trunk for soccer games.  First lesson yesterday:  a new trick to take years off - pop the hood over the ponytail.  Screw you, Estée Lauder, this is way cheaper and took about 20 years off.  Because I must've had them fooled.

Three feet in front of me on the grassy hill we were assigned, a small group of eighth graders were being normal obnoxious kids.  No problem.  Me and my little group of seventh graders sat and ate candy and told knock knock jokes (I know that sounds fake, but I swear to you they pulled out their phones and pulled up screenshots of the corniest jokes you've ever heard to entertain each other).  And, while I laughed at their "hilarity", a particular word drifted over the air that slammed into my left ear with the ferocity of an unhinged rabid chihuahua.

Vagina.

I don't know why, but I was intrigued.  The little girl standing in front of us was absolutely bursting with the excitement that can only come from complete certainty of fact.  So I listened.

And, I will not repeat everything she said, but let's agree that she should not have been teaching the impromptu sex ed lesson on that hillside.  But she did.  And she had quite the captive audience.  Other equally excitable kids who could not contain themselves over her "which set of lips" and "squiggly babies" descriptions.  She stood facing our little hill of 99% still too young for PG movies without the P part and stood with such confidence that I was convinced she spoke her own truth.

While I cannot say I know what my face looked like, I can assume it was less pink and more get the hell outta here than the others.  But she went on until finally her friend looked more closely at the tall one in the hoodie.

Oh shit... shut up... that's a parent...you said all that in front of a mom!!

That's when my kid started paying attention.  Mama, what are they talking about?  
Nonsense, mija.  That girl is nonsense.

Parents, please talk to your kids.  Tell them about sex and safety.  About their bodies and the ones they will one day be pressed up against in the shade provided by the closest tree (unless they're lucky enough to find space indoors and away from parenting eyes).  About protecting themselves physically and emotionally.  And don't leave out the details.  I promise you they need details so they don't fill in their own gaps with words like squiggly babies.

While it can be an uncomfortable conversation, know what is more uncomfortable?  Having a baby when your hips haven't even finished widening.

The car ride home last night was a long one.  Was Eva happy that I kept bringing it up during those 30 excruciating minutes?  Mija, please don't go to your friends with questions.  They don't know any more than you do.  Nope, she was not.  Seriously, love, just ask an adult you trust.  Your friends are idiots.  But it's not about making her happy.  It's about making her safe.

Mama, that's just her... she's always dirty.  I'm not surprised.
And don't be surprised when she has a baby before she graduates.
Mama!
I'm so serious.  If she doesn't know the basics, she clearly won't know how to protect herself.

Being *ahem* easily accessible to anyone who wants you doesn't make you an expert any more than being fat makes you a chef or playing tball makes you Babe Ruth.

So, please get to your kids before their much more experienced but no wiser classmates do.  I am completely sure some of those kids left that grass feeling like they had new insight into the big wide world of "semen and saliva".  And too few of them brought that newfound wisdom home to your dinner table.

Don't let that kid become your kid.

Also, if they still giggle at the word "tip"... they aren't ready for it.  They're just not.

Dear "Sweet" Sofia,

Diesiseis.

I've been in love with you for sixteen years, ten months, and 38 hours as of 2:01 pm this afternoon.

Now, you were twelve and fifteen in between that time - so I haven't always been in like with you for all of those hours.  But I've loved you.

The day we brought you home I remember thinking, wait... they're just gonna GIVE her to me?  No home check, no paper signing, no manuals?  Just:  here's a baby - try not to break her.  And I have tried.

Through your third year when you decided to flip the Brat switch and seemingly forever lose the docile button.

Through your sixth year when you realized we weren't kidding about a second sister.

When you were ten and really started honing your argument skills.

That twelfth year when I was pretty certain one of us would be brought up on charges.

Fourteen.  When you decided, after some serious restructuring, that we could be a team.

When you became a blonde at fifteen (not my favorite phase, but I remind myself daily that it's better than slamming doors and throwing things).

And last week when, after leaving a banquet honoring your academic prowess, you said:  "I know where I want to live: California.  The weather is perfect and I've seen in pictures that they have little like guest houses, so you can come too."  It's the first time your plans included me since I was barbie number three in your marathon lay on the floor and change tiny outfits a million times phase.  I was so thankful it was dark enough in the car that you couldn't see my watery eyes - the sigh and eye roll would've really ruined our moment.

They call this one Sweet sixteen.  I'm not buying it, though.  I'm guessing it's like the terrible twos that really weren't terrible at all.  Because, my first love, you are not sweet.  You are strong and smart and beautiful and mildly addicted to potatoes like your mama.  You are capable and thoughtful and the coolest kid Eva has ever met.  You are impressive and frustrating and difficult, all the things Maya strives for.  You are freaking blonde .  And you are unbreakable.

I couldn't be more proud and amazed by most of that.

Always,

Mama