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It’s one of the worries that has plagued my parents since God let them in on the secret of my writing: How do I face the fact that my children could someday read of my exploits?
Trust me, it’s hardly the first time this question crossed my mind. Back in the day of the ol’ spiral notebook, I’ve worried what would happen were I tragically to be hit by lightening, mowed down by an escaped wildebeest or lashed to the water heater and forgotten by my children.
Who would find my things? What would they make of them? “What will you say when your fifteen-year-old reads your blog and thinks she can do exactly what you are doing?” my parents asked with a mixture of worry and sanctimony on their faces.
Tersely I responded: “I’ll tell her that my actions during the fourth and fifth decades of my life have no bearing on what she’s allowed to do during the second decade of her life.”
They wished me luck in making this stick. As I have no experience with raising teenagers, all I can do is hope that this tentative plan will bloom into something more substantial over the next several years. Because I certainly don’t want my teenagers emulating my actions.
Or do I?
Would I really be upset if I ended up with budding poly teenagers? If they gently experimented with all forms of sexual expression when they felt ready? If they loved both men and women? If they toyed with the concept of gender?
Would I be upset if they learned to love extravagantly and joyfully? If they began giving their hearts to people with no expectations of permanency? If they loved others from a position of strength instead of need?
Would I be upset if they practiced safe sex? If they consulted with understanding doctors (and, I hope, me) when the almost inevitable slip-ups happened?
Would I be upset if they took responsibility for their actions? If they learned to be neither apologetic nor combative about their sexual choices?
Come to think of it, no. I wouldn’t be upset about these things at all.
Am I being terribly naive?
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