Hard Lessons, and Double Entrendres

Content warning: This post contains a lot of sex talk. So maybe NSFW. And if you’re an underage teenager maybe look away unless you are curious about what parents do behind closed (and unfortunately unlocked) doors ... 

I was pregnant with my daughter Navy when my son Jackson was seven. He has always been a curious little kitten, and my growing bump and the how and why was a constant source or marvel and questioning for him. My husband and I decided that since he was comfortable enough to ask us, we would seize the chance to teach him factual, age appropriate truths. So yeah, Jack got a sex talk when he was seven. (I had been 9 for my own pinnacle moment and had learned from a fellow 9 year old at the pool during summer daycare camp. Jackson’s talk was my attempt to upgrade from that ...) We used illustrated diagrams of male and female reproductive systems. We explained the most basic aspects of sex. The male has sperm, the female has eggs, etc. We left hormones, desire and pleasure out of the mix with a heads up that when he was a little older and more mature, we would give him the part 2 of the talk. We kept straight faces. He learned about the P in the V. We didn’t laugh. Used all the anatomically correct terms. Kept straight faces. Professional!

He asked for part 2 of the talk the following day. We said no. 

Jack has consistently asked us questions and been open with us since then. He’s now 13. He told us when he had his first kiss. And then his second. And then his fifth! And honestly. I have loved the openness. We have not made sex and intimacy something shameful or bad, and I have truly believed that’s it’s one small part of parenting that we haven’t totally botched. 

But ya know what? I might be wrong. 

Because yesterday ... Jackson walked in on me and Johnny. Like, during the act. The act. Yeah, that one.

I’m gonna set the scene and it’s not pretty. Jackson goes to bed at 9pm. He does not usually get out of bed, unless to use the restroom. His room and bathroom are both upstairs, behind a baby gate, and he is a clunky footed teenager that sounds like the Giant from “Jack And The Beanstalk”. Our bedroom is on the opposite end of the house, below him on the main floor. Soooo, you can imagine that at ten thirty in the evening, we felt more than comfortable taking a moment for ourselves. The kids were all in bed, and like. We are married. Grownups! It is totally allowed. 

We closed our door. We did not lock it because I fully anticipated one of our young daughters to wake up and come to our door, in a panic. We have a baby gate on our bedroom door, and since the door was shut I felt very comfortable that I’d hear potentially lurking children. The gates are squeaky. The Giant is thumpy. The little ones cry. 

Here is an important lesson friends: 

Lock. The. Damn. Door. 

Instead, Jackson meandered downstairs in some sort of newfound stealth mode. We did not hear him open the gate on the stairs. Or on our bedroom. He did not knock, he just - opened the door. 

And I would love to tell you that it was dark and there were covers and that he didn’t get a good view. But nope. That’s not what happened. Our room was lit, there were no covers, our nudity was well illuminated and he froze like a freaking deer in headlights when he walked in. His eyes noticeably bulged and he went “WHOA” before swiveling around in horror. My natural reaction, according to my darling husband, was to become a fainting goat, stiffen and fall face forward, all while screaming like I was being murdered. I’m not getting into the positioning details but trust me when I say it wasn’t a good look. Plus, Jackson and I made eye contact. Me, his mother. Eye contact. During the sex. With his father. 

I’ve got PTSD just thinking about it. 

The opposite of arousal is what happens when your teenage son walks in on you. BONER. KILLER. 

I wish I could say the drama stopped there. But I sent Johnny out to see what the kid was downstairs for, anyway. I didn’t have to wait for an answer. Through my humiliation and the closed bedroom door I heard Jackson holler out, “I couldn’t sleep and needed melatonin. BUT NEVERMIND BECAUSE I WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN!” 

I have never in my life - never - been more embarrassed. And for the record, police officers caught my underage soul when I lost my virginity and then called my parents who had very recently given me a promise ring. Which means that as of right this moment, my first and last sexual experiences needlessly included the very specific people that they never should have. Is the universe trying to tell me something? Am I about to die? Or is it time to close shop?

We did what any normal couple would do ... We phoned my husband’s brother. Who cackled with us, and then promptly sent Jackson inappropriate texts. I had texted Andrew (my brother in law) that I sort of wanted to die. (He sent me an all caps HAHAHAHAHA after Johnny reached out). Andrew texted Jackson a GIF of a shirtless man that said “sweet dreams” to which Jackson replied with, “I want to die”. So yeah, this escapade really synced me and Jackson right on up. In the most awful possible way. 

My hubs wouldn’t stop cracking jokes and laughing hysterically. I laughed at his laugh, I laughed till my ribs hurt, and I also cried. Because OMG TRAUMA. But then I kept laughing. Maybe so I wouldn’t keep crying? 

And then. This. This ridiculous text exchange which left me hyperventilating in laughter. 

Jackson asked us if he could skip school today. That didn’t happen. But somehow we WERE able to make eye contact. And laugh. At each other and with each other. And we aligned that Johnny was enjoying the whole thing wayyyyyyy too much. (He made a playlist that included “Pony” by Genuine for their ride to school. I’m not kidding) We will spend our life’s savings on therapy for Jackson, for sure. 

The takeaway here is that Jackson is actually okay. (We hope!) This morning he told me we would be “going to hell for this,” which gave me an opportunity to make sex free of shame or negativity. I reminded him that not one of us, despite life altering embarrassment, had done anything wrong. And he conceded that he was happier to live with a set of parents who actually loved each other versus a pair who didn’t. 

The bigger takeaway is to just lock your stupid doors. Because we sure will from here on out. And my sweet son will make even larger giant thuds with hollered-out-warnings before he ever tries to leave his floor in the night. 

I might seem crazy for sharing this but A) Hi, I live in the lane of oversharing. Let’s blame the enneagram 4 and my annoying tendencies to be “authentic”. And B) Your knowing, kind reader, is not as bad as my own kid SEEING, and reminder: That already happened. I also had to phone my Mom for emotional support. And I told Instagram. Soooooooo … I have no dignity left. 

Apparently this is very common. Not the oversharing, but the horrific event itself. I have one friend who has copped to this happening to them so far, but. It. Is. Common. VERY common.

So this post is for you, comrade. The dummy who also didn’t lock the door. If/When it happen to you, capitalize on the moment to teach your kiddos that sex is crazy embarrassing and totally normal and okay. And that they should knock. On your locked doors. 

Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk. I’d have said “coming” - but even spelled correctly it feels wrong. VERY WRONG. 

Goodnight. And lock those doors.