T A B L E++T A L K

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R E C E N T L Y

The foundling
By Sallie Tisdale
Adoption -- and giving birth -- taught me that biology has nothing to do with being a parent
(04/30/98)

Confessions of a teenage mom
By Tessa Souter
My son and I grew up together, will grow old together -- and saved each other
(04/29/98)

The worst mother who ever lived, and other light reading
Mythology may be the key to understanding the meaning of your pathetic mortal life
(04/28/98)

Fly girl
By Phaedra Hise
Flying with my toddler at the controls brings back the thrill I felt when my dad taught me to fly
(04/27/98)

How many working fathers does it take to screw in a light bulb?
By Elizabeth Rapoport
Dad helps out? Sure. Try this test
(04/24/98)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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SEX AND THE 7-YEAR-OLD BOY | PAGE 2 OF 2

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I came out to the patio. I stood on the steps. I looked at them. They looked at me. More giggling. I smiled. As Joan Didion once wrote of a scene involving Nancy Reagan plucking a rose for a cameraman, the moment was evolving its own choreography. James held his hand over his mouth and giggled again. I could see I was going to have to deal with this.

"What do you think that means, 'he sexed her'?" I asked in my most neutral voice.

"He put his tongue in her mouth," James giggled.

"He rubbed on her with his shirt off," my son added, even more hysterical.

I was tempted to say, "Boy, are you guys misinformed," but held my sarcasm in check. I'm not exactly sure what I said. I think I told James he might want to have a talk with his parents. I think I also said something to the effect that sex is not a verb but a noun, turning this potential sex education moment into a grammar lesson. But it was clear I was not off the hook.

After James went home I got my son a popsicle and sat with him on the porch steps while he ate it. I thought about what to say. On the one hand, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, insist that James' brother had absolutely not been having sex and how could you think that? and launching into a detailed explanation of sexual intercourse. That seemed a bit neurotic. On the other hand, I wanted to be sure he had a handle on the basics, that he understood sex was not just an act, but caught up in all sorts of complicated and lovely emotions.

"Do you remember what I told you about sex?" I said.

"You mean about the penis going into the vagina?" my son said with a silly grin.

"Yes," I said. "But sex is not just how people make babies. It's the way mommies and daddies show how much they love each other."

This perked my son's interest, so I went on. I babbled on about how sex was the most beautiful thing in the world that two people who loved each other could share. I talked about the magic feelings surrounding being in love. Then suddenly I noticed my son looking at me in a strange sort of horrified way, as if I'd just blithely informed him his pet goldfish had died.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"You love Daddy more than me because you two have sex!" he said, beginning to cry. "I don't ever want to ever hear about sex again!"

Well, I just about fell over, I was so stunned. Here, I'd given my 7-year-old what I thought was an inspiring lecture on sex and love, and he'd managed to twist it into some bizarre Freudian conspiracy pitting parents against their children.

I tried to repair the damage. I told him that's not what I meant at all, but that mommies and daddies feel a different love for each other than they do for their children, which only made him howl more. I told him I loved him more than anything and that he was being silly, which only made him madder. I tried hugging him, and he pushed me bitterly away. No matter what I said, he refused to calm down. Unfortunately, sometime in here my husband showed up, demanding to know what the hysteria was all about. I don't think I explained the situation very well because his immediate response was, "What did you tell him that for?"

Over the next few weeks, my son showed distinct signs of regressing. He trailed me wherever I went, refusing to let me out of his sight. He was like cat hair on a wool skirt, I couldn't get him off of me. Whenever his father went to hug me, he threw himself between us in a preemptive jealous fit. But he wasn't mad at my husband, it was me he was furious with. No matter how much affection I gave him, he accused me of giving his sister and his father more. I felt terrible, guilty. After all, wasn't I the one who'd screwed him up, made him hopelessly insecure?

"What should I do?" I asked my friend Maura on the phone one day. "He won't leave me alone."

"I don't know," she said. "Have you tried seeing if anything's been written about it?"

The next day, I went to a bookstore near my office in Westwood. I sat down on the floor in front of the Parenting section and scanned the titles until my eyes felt bloody. There were books on infancy, books on potty training, books on "growing girls," books celebrating motherhood, books exposing motherhood. There was also, to my great relief, an entire shelf of books on adolescence and, to my general annoyance, a slew of books on the "new father." But nothing vaguely titled "How to Deal with Your 7-Year-Old Son's Sexual Interest in You." Sitting there, I suddenly felt this lump in my throat, which I recognized as a perverse nostalgia for the days when I could flip open Penelope Leach or T. Berry Brazelton and find exactly the advice I needed on tantrums or separation anxiety or when to introduce solid foods. I looked so hard that when I finally stood up I felt disoriented, like I do when I've been at the Glendale Galleria too long with the kids and if I don't get out of there in the next 10 seconds I'm going to start screaming in Hindi.

Time passed. I was quiet. I did not open my big mouth about sex. When my son was overly demanding of my attention, I tried to give it to him without being overly indulgent. I told him I loved him often, as I had done from the moment he was born. "You have no idea how much I love you," he said to me at night when I tucked him in bed. "Oh, yes, I do," I said.

Then one Saturday afternoon, he was playing out on the patio and he said, "I'm not going to worry about sex anymore." Just like that. I wanted desperately to ask him what had brought him to this newfound state of inner peace, but I controlled myself. I smiled. He smiled back. I was happy he felt OK again.

Things have calmed down considerably since then. I wish I could tell you why. I wish I could say it's because of some incredibly wise thing I did or said. Or some marvelous chapter in a book I'd read. But the truth is, I think my son's attraction to me was like every phase of childhood, only a matter of his growing out of it, of the vagaries of character. Of a little boy who will always be passionate about everything in his life. Especially me.

The other morning it was Sunday, and we were sitting on the living room couch together. My son had his head in my lap and was looking up at me in a certain bemused way -- a way that means he's either going to tickle me or do something wonderfully silly. Then he began speaking, like he sometimes does, in mock French.

"Oh, my cherie, you are ze most buuteeful voman in ze world," he said. "Oh, no," I said, laughing. "Oh, oui oui!"
SALON | May 1, 1998

Mona Gable is a writer living in Los Angeles.