Holding On

This month, Chicago has been experiencing a traffic problem.

Let's be honest. Chicago is always experiencing epic traffic problems.

But this one is pretty significant. They're rebuilding a number of the on and off ramps of the freeway that runs straight through downtown.

This isn't the best idea in the world. Honestly, having a giant freeway run through the middle of your downtown isn't the best idea to begin with. (Says the Urban Planner who's never used her degree.) But I was relieved, and secretly hoped the ramp from 55 South to 90/94 West was one of them. Even though it is the ramp I rely on the most to get almost anywhere. I use that ramp to get to Costco, to get to my friends' homes up north. To get to the kids' swim school.

I use it constantly, and to have it under construction would be an enormous pain in my ass.

But I want it changed.

Almost exactly a year ago, I found a woman there. She had appeared, face down and unconscious on the road, and I stayed with her until I could get her into an ambulance. She was old, and she didn't speak English, or Spanish, or any other language me and a young doctor who also stopped knew to ask.

And I think of her every time I pull onto that ramp.

Every time I go to Costco, or swim lessons, or pick somebody up from the train station. Every time I go to the chiropractor. Every time I take the kids to a friend's house. Every time we go to the deli for dinner. Every time I take RH to her neurologist. Every time I go to the movies.

Almost everywhere I go, I have to take that ramp. And every time I do it, I think of that woman.

I cannot think of her without worrying.

What happened to her? What brought her there? Does she have family, who are keeping an eye on her? Has she since wandered off again? Is she still alive?

I just don't know. And I have no way of ever knowing.

That freeway ramp and that woman haunt me.

I picture her teeth- so strong and white- with grit from the road stuck in them. And I picture her eyes, pupils contracted to pinpricks, darting around in the blaring sun. I picture her stiff white hair. The odd texture on the heavy sweater she wore, despite the blazing heat.

She is part of me now, in some ways, I suppose.

I know nothing about her, except that one day in the heat of last summer, she appeared on the freeway and she went to the hospital, giving me a thumbs up. Even though I knew she was frightened and alone.

Did her family find her?

Where did she come from?

I wish I knew who she was. I wish I could bring her a bouquet of flowers and squeeze her hands and give her a thumbs up.

She is a stranger to me. She will always be a stranger to me. But I feel responsible for her. And I feel sorry for her. And I feel protective of her.

I am struck that there are seven billion people on this planet, most of whom I will never meet. Most of the people on this earth don't speak my language, don't share my culture. Most of the people on this planet are as different from me as that woman. What do I have in common with an eighty year old woman, probably from somewhere in the far east of Asia, who doesn't speak English and finds herself, as if by magic, collapsed in a heap on the pavement of the freeway? But I care about her. I care about her so much it hurts me.

For the past year, every time I've seen a strange face on the news, crying over a tragedy in a faraway place, I've pictured her face, pressed into the road, her papery hand gripping mine.

We have more in common than I thought, me and her. We were both there. We were both here, on this earth, together. And if for no other reason than that, I left my car running and the air conditioning blaring while my confused children sat on the side of the road for half an hour and I held her hand.

I care about that frightened old woman. And while she might not have worried about my well being, she held my hand. She didn't want to let go. She wanted me to be with her, near her. She trusted me. Even if I've been long forgotten, for half an hour, that woman cared about me, too.

All it takes to understand another person, to sacrifice for them or empathize with them, to carry them with you in your heart, is a moment. A moment where their humanity is exposed to you, and yours to them. I try to keep mine on my sleeve. To remember always that we are all lost and in need.

To see in everybody the fear and confusion that asks only for a hand to hold. And I try to be there to offer that hand.

I would like to be there with a hand to hold.

And every time I drive up the ramp from 55 to 90/94, I am overwhelmed with the guilt that I just let her go, and I never found out if she was going to be okay.

I hope she is.

And while I hope they do demolish that ramp and build a new one, I also hope they don't. To be reminded so often how frail life is, and how important it is to be there for other human beings... it's humbling. And I'm grateful to be humbled so often.

I just wish I could see her face again.

Sex Positive Parenting, or We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table

It happened yet again. As I was sitting at the table for dinner with my children, I noticed my daughter's hand fishing around under her skirt.

"We don't play with our vulvas at the table. Go wash your hands and finish your food," I scolded. She nodded, ran off to wash her hands, and resumed picking at her dinner instead.

Small children, they touch themselves. A lot. It's fascinating to them. And when you're a small child, you have no sense of shame or disgust or fear of your body. Your body is what it is. It does what it does. And everything that it does is kind of amazing, because you're not old enough for lower back pain. It's not sexual, it's just... fact.

The first time I caught one of my kids playing with their genitals, I said absolutely nothing. I was momentarily paralyzed with indecision. One thing I knew for a fact I did not want to do was to shout, "No!" or "Stop!" What good could that possibly do? Sure, I would be spared the awkwardness of catching my child playing with her genitals on the living room floor, but what kind of lesson is that? To fear or ignore your own vagina?

I thought about it almost constantly for two days, and of course she gave me a second chance to react.

"Sweetie, we don't play with our vulvas in the living room," I said. Which sounded ridiculous and strange, but nonetheless true. Why is everything with little kids "we" statements? "It's okay to touch your vulva, but people are private, and it's a private thing. The only places where you should touch your vulva are in the bathroom or in your bedroom. If you want to play with your vulva, please go to the bedroom."

And she smiled and did, without question, because compartmentalizing where you do certain activities makes sense to little kids.

"We don't eat in the bathroom, and we don't touch our vulvas in the living room," became the new mantra. And yes, eventually it became, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table."

I'm what some people call "sex positive." That doesn't mean I talk with my four year olds about how great sex is and how good it feels. It means I don't pretend it's something other than it is.

As parents, we lie all the time. About the Easter Bunny or Santa or the Tooth Fairy, about how long ten minutes is, about whether or not we remembered they wanted to have grilled cheese for dinner again, we lie a lot. But one thing I never lie about is sex.

I don't want them to grow up ashamed of their bodies or confused about what they do. I don't tell them about cabbage patches or storks, I make an effort, always, to be honest about human reproduction. Every aspect of it.

I've had talks with lots of other moms about having "the talk." I don't think my kids and I will ever have that particular talk, because they already know. And we talk about it often- kids are obsessive creatures. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and "What Makes A Baby" which together cover every aspect of the subject. We can talk about IVF and c-sections, because both of those are part of the story of their births, and we can talk about the fact that yes, mommy and daddy still have sex regardless. And when they're older, we'll start talking about contraception.

Because lying to your kids about sex helps nobody. Telling them that sex is "only between mommies and daddies" is a lie that leads to confused, hormone charged teenagers. Telling them that sex is "only something that happens when two people love each other very much" is a lie that causes hormone charged teenagers to confuse "love" with "lust," or "obsession." It leads to leaps of logic like, "If I have sex with them, we must be in love." Or worse- "If I love them, I have to have sex with them." And how many teenage tragedies are based on that misconception?

The truth is that human beings, almost universally, like sex. It feels good. And it's supposed to feel good. If it didn't, the human race would die out. The truth is that sex isn't special and magical just because it's sex. The truth is that you can have spectacular sex with strangers who's names you don't even know. The truth is that just because you can, that doesn't necessarily mean you should.

And that's what sex positive parenting really is. Not telling my kids lies about sex to keep them from behaviors I don't think are healthy. It's telling them the truth, the whole truth, and letting it sink in so they can make their own good choices.

It's telling them that sex is good, but that it's dangerous if you're not careful. It's teaching them to require their partners to use condoms, to buy their own condoms if they're planning on having sex. It's teaching them that while sex feels good, they can feel good on their own too. (Just not at the table.) That while sex combined with love is often the best sex- transcendent sex- that grows the bond of love and builds a closeness that is almost impossible to find otherwise, sex isn't always like that- even with people you love. That sex can lead to pregnancy, even with protection, so engaging in it is a commitment to deal with any consequences.

It's telling them they're not wrong, or sinful, or bad, if they have sexual feelings. Or even if they have sex. It's teaching them that sex happens, whether people always make good choices or not. And it's giving them the tools to ensure that when they're ready, they're smart and cautious and conscientious.

There's a lot of black and white comparisons when it comes to sex education. Some people think that once kids hit puberty, if they don't have a strong fear of sex they'll have as much as they can, as often as they can. There's a lot of abstinence-only sex education, based on telling kids, "SEX IS SCARY! DON'T DO IT!" and it's about the least successful program anyone has ever invented. In states with abstinence-only sex ed, teen pregnancy rates only go up and up and up.

Telling children the truth about sex isn't giving permission for them to have it- and this is the most important part- because nobody has the right to deny them permission for sex but themselves.

And that's the thing I try to keep in mind when I say things like, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table." Sex is something that ONLY happens when both people WANT it to happen. And that means that the only people in the entire world with any kind of say over whether or not my daughters have sex is them.

I don't get to tell my daughters they have to have sex, but I also don't get to tell them they can't. They're in charge. Your body, your decision.

I never want to be responsible for setting the precedent that another person gets to tell them what to do with their bodies, and especially with their sexuality. I don't want to be the gateway for a manipulative, potentially abusive boyfriend.

So I teach boundaries. Appropriate places. Hygiene. I teach my children that nobody is allowed to touch their bodies without permission. When we get in tickle fights and they say, "Stop!" I stop.

And when we talk about pregnant friends, we talk about uteruses and sperm and eggs.

And most of the time, it's not uncomfortable. Most of the time, I'm verifying information and the conversation lasts fifteen seconds.

And someday the conversation is going to be a lot uglier. Someday, we'll have to actually talk about rape, and explicit and enthusiastic consent, and contraception. Someday we'll have to talk about healthy masturbation and pornography and realistic expectations of sex and sex partners and body image and a lack of shame for their bodies. And those conversations are not going to be as brief or straightforward.

But I'm ready. Whenever that day comes, I'm prepared. Because the groundwork is there.

"We don't touch our vulvas at the table." It's absurd, but it's got all the important pieces. It's a micro-lesson in safety and consent and social propriety. I don't think I'll be able to say, "We don't lose our virginity in the back seat of a car after a Prom party," with a straight face, but I will be able to say, "We don't have sex without thinking long and hard about it first, and we certainly don't do it without being careful, and being safe, and being totally confident in the maturity of our partner and our ability to handle the repercussions if we get a disease or get pregnant."

Because it's true. We don't.

But I like that when that time comes, I'm part of the "we." Because if I can tell my girls, "we" have to be careful, they'll know that no matter what happens, I'm still in their corner. I've still got their backs. Even if "we" make bad choices, I'll still be there to help make things right again.