Happy 11th EO

Dear EO,

I don’t think I ever told you this.

When I was a few weeks pregnant with you, I went for my first USG with your father. After the doc switched on the screen, he pointed out this little tadpole with a beating heart. He then turned the volume up and I heard this urgent, whooshing sound like a tiny fire engine rolling through shrubs in the land of Lilliput. It was your heartbeat. I started laughing, soundlessly, my belly trembling with so much love and joy that my doctor even exclaimed to your very perplexed father, “My God, she’s shaking so much!” I admit, I cried a little too.

That’s when it hit me...how happy I was to be getting you; how much I wanted you. And when you finally came, I couldn’t take my eyes off you and when they finally put you in my arms, I just refused to let go. I was greedy and selfish and wouldn’t share the perfection that is you with anyone...not with your tamma or dadu, very grudgingly and grumpily with your manuku, daduku and yes, even your baba. I had been accused time and again for not sharing you and even though in my head I knew everyone was right, but my heart and my arms just couldn’t bear the thought of parting with you even for a few seconds.

Sometimes, I did worry whether I was thwarting you. Whether my oak-tree presence in your life stunted you...

But, my beautiful boy, thankfully my rain cloud like nurturing, couldn’t thwart the sunshine that is you. As far as nature went, you took after your baba and in this I am glad. So very glad. Your bright, friendly, sunny nature just oozed out of every pore. You’re confident, can make friends easily and that two with both genders, talk up a storm and you make yourself at ease wherever you go. You adjust, you accommodate, you allow for flaws and lapses in those whom you love.

So, in other words, despite having a Mamma Bear like me, you shone. And continue to shine. And my prayer for you is, that you always do.

As always, a year of unforgettable experiences. Being the kind of Mamma that I am, I just want to hug you and cuddle you and squish you all the time. Thankfully, you still love the cuddles. Luckily, we’re a cuddle-bunny family...again, something I am immensely thankful to your baba for. So yes, I am so grateful that you not only love and enjoy being hugged and cuddled, you also demand it. But of course, all this is at home and it’s quite alright by me. But having said all that, I also know that you are growing up. You have always been curious by nature and I’ve always encouraged you to come to me with your questions and thankfully, you do. So, yes, last year, for the first time, we had The Talk. I felt like dying a little bit inside, but I knew it had to be done. And I remember being grateful and relieved after it was over. I feel blessed that we share these lines of communication and I hope that they are always open. Right now, they are and that’s why you don’t shy away from telling me anything... What I’m trying to say, is that you also shared a super big secret with me – your first crush! And, as promised, your secret’s safe with me – I haven’t told anyone! Not even your baba!

You still have a huge appetite for reading. Your love for ACK, history and mythology endures and you’re current favourite is the Percy Jackson series. You’ve finished the first series and your grandmom is gifting you with the second series and in case you get book vouchers for your birthday, you’ve already decided you’ll buy the third series with those! Phew! That’s a lot of love! You and I are always getting into these Harry Potter vs. Percy Jackson arguments and the battle continues... You’ve also recently taken to reading newspapers. I have mixed feelings about that since I know what kind of rubbish is printed these days as well as the reportage of all the gruesome and violent events all over the world, but it’s difficult to censor them, so I let you read and then I answer yiur questions with as much ease and calm that I can muster.

You started karate classes again after a gap of five years. This is because of your love for all things Japanese, especially sushi. This love is as strong as your love for all things Spanish, especially FCB. You’ve even been trying to teach yourself Spanish for a while now! You love food. You love GK. You’re crazy about dogs and it’s thanks to you that I know share my home with a big brute of a golden retriever called Puppito.

You’re well-read. You’re dramatic. You’re sensitive. You want to know everything about everything and just can’t stop talking.

You’re precocious. When I try to distance myself, I see that. I also see that it’s difficult for you to make lasting friendships and it worries me. It breaks my heart. But I realise that it’s only because other boys your age just don’t know how to relate to you.

Oh I worry about you constantly. About your sweetness. Your gullibility. Your clutziness. Your talkativeness.

But someone once told me that God keeps an eye out for the sensitive ones. Well, I guess I’ll just have to place my faith in that.

I don’t think I will ever tire of saying this to you, my son, my love, my pride and joy – I am blessed to have been chosen to be you Mamma.

Happy 11^th, my darling, precious boy.

Love you forever and always,

Mamma

Boy Talk

Boy talk:

Tale #1: Saturday. 30th August. I take my younger one to school for his spelling bee. We're ten minutes early, but the boys are already being sorted into different lines, class-wise. I figure out the Class 3 line, tell him he needs to go there & ask him if I can give him a kiss for good-luck. He smiles at me sweetly and sheepishly, and politely says, "Please mamma, not in front if my friends." And thus breaking my heart ever so slightly, he walks away to take his place.

Lucky for him he was polite and said "please" otherwise I'd have grabbed him and planted a wet, slobbery, noisy one on his cheek in front of the whole school!!

Tale #2: Sunday. 31st August. Long drive back home. The Bro suddenly asks me about regular dental check-ups for the boys...something which we, as kids, were subjected to while growing up in America. The YO helpfully pipes up that he, along with his entire KG class (which means three years ago), was taken to a dentist by their teacher when they were learning about "Our Helpers", or, different professions. "You know mamu, we even went to an eye witness!"
Stumped by this piece of info, there is a two second silence and before I can share my attempt at the deciphering of his statement, the elder one sternly corrects him,"Uff YO! You mean an optimist!!"

Yes. My boys were talking about an optometrist.

This Brotherly Love

Today was a lovely day. I finally got to take my boys, the MIM, my MIL, Maa-Janani and the Bro out for lunch to a cafe that I'd been wanting to for quite a while now. Beautiful day, beautiful place, beautiful people. My people.

Rain clouds in the sky. Drizzle and green. The start of Rath Yatra too. Such a perfect day.

Then the EO does something that makes me unhappy and terribly sad. I don't tell, but I don't mince words in telling him about my disappointment. And I cry. All this in the car as the boys, the MIM and I are going to a friend's temple to pull the Rath. To make matters worse, the EO has a history test tomorrow and he fumbled miserably while answering my questions.

We come back home. My pressure has plummeted. I somehow help the YO get his stuff together for school the next day and then lie down. The EO sits down for a relatively late night of studying. At bedtime, the YO comes and lies down next to me since his brother is studying in their room. 

It's dark. My phone goes 'zing'. There's a message. As I read it, the light from my phone spills onto my little son, who is lying on his back, his eyes closed, his hands folded in prayer. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm praying to God so that dada does well in his test."

I added my little prayer to his. God, please protect their love for each other. 

Home Sweet Home

After a four-days-and-three-nights stay in Bombay, I came home to my boys on Friday. They were there, at the airport, all three of them -- the MIM, the EO and the YO. Breathless with excitement to see me. I saw them as I pushed my trolley over to the conveyor belt where our baggage was being off-loaded; my little one sitting in his father's shoulders...

I hurried to get my luggage so that I could hurry in back to them. Having caught a glimpse if me, my YO was extremely impatient. Standing next to him, bobbing up-and-down with excitement, my EO. The moment they saw me walk out the gates, they ran over to me, the little one through a maze if legs which he deftly manoeuvred as if on a football field. He threw himself into my arms and I picked him up and held him close while the EO wrapped his arms around me. We stood in this huddle of love, a mother and her two sons, on the middle of the airport exit path, with weary travellers passing us by in their urgency to get home or to a hotel, not caring a whit about what anyone thought. 

Heaven, for me, is without a doubt, in my sons' arms, where the love I feel is purer than mountain air.

--------------------------------------------

A friend of the MIM's sent him some old snaps if ours, taken in Bombay just before we got married. We showed them to the boys and this is what the EO had to say:

"In this photograph, Baba makes Hrithik Roshan look like dung and Mamma makes Angelina Jolie look like pee!"

I'm gonna try and remember this every time I look in the mirror.

Of ‘Kashmir ki Kali’ and ‘Midnight in Paris’

Of the different degrees and shades of CSA that I faced, the part that has left the worst taste in the mouth is that fact that all three of the perpetrators were known to the family, known to me. And that is of course the most horrifying fact about CSA – that in 50% of the cases, the victim has been abused by a person that s/he knew and believed s/he could trust.

This was the case with me.

I wrote about the abuse I faced the very first year that CSAAM started. The problem that I have now, is living with some peripheral memories – how does one survive those? For example, the uncle who abused me was a great fan of Hindi film music of the 50’s and ‘60’s. At home, his radio would constantly be blaring out songs of Manna De, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohd. Rafi, Asha Bhonsle and Mukesh. Songs from movies like ‘Kashmir ki Kali’, ‘Teesri Manzil’, ‘Shagird’ and ‘Mere Sanam’. He would talk constantly about the songs, the movies, the singers, music directors, actors and actresses.

My love for the songs of the Golden Age of Hindi film music comes from my abuser. And there is a part of me that hates me intensely for it.

How does one move past that?

I don’t know. I wish I did. That is my struggle now. Not the memories of abuse...they are my scars of horror. Not the forgiving of myself...because I KNOW it was NOT my fault. Not the forgiving of my abusers...because I won’t and I don’t think I am a bad person because of it.

My struggle is, how can I love some of the things in my life that are so intrinsically linked to my abuser?

I think this issue of mine can also be linked to the greater debate of, “Can One Segregate an Artist’s Crimes from his Art?” Can one look at a man’s art and regard it as an entity separate from its creator?  Is it possible to separate the artist from his art?

There are many men out there, well-known, brilliant men who have written brilliant books, made brilliant movies, created brilliant music, but who are monsters with unforgivable pasts. Lewis Carroll was rumoured to have a predilection for little girls; it is a well-documented fact that he liked photographing them, often in the nude. Many have suggested that his fondness for his muse for ‘Alice’ was far from normal...it was obsessive, perverted. Science-fiction author, Arthur C Clark was said to have sexually molested young boys in Sri Lanka. Then there’s Michael Jackson. Oscar winner Roman Polanski comes immediately to mind. In more recent times, another Oscar winner’s name crops up...Woody Allen.

Yes, I know some of the above mentioned cases haven’t been established. Some are just very, VERY strong rumours, with an air of “hush-hush but public knowledge” about them. But they all make you wonder. After all, can there be any smoke without fire?

Yes, I know some of the above mentioned cases haven’t been established. Some are just very, VERY strong rumours, with an air of “hush-hush but public knowledge” about them. But they all make you wonder. After all, can there be any smoke without fire?

And there are more names. Unfortunately.

But...and it’s a huge, BIG ‘BUT’, their work is lauded, celebrated...awarded. We all grew up dancing to ‘Thriller’ and ‘Beat It’. Many of us have cried while watching ‘The Pianist.’ Often, we find ourselves searching for rabbit holes to fall into, so that we can discover our own Wonderlands. I wanted to take the next plane to Barcelona after watching ‘Vicky, Christina and Barcelona.’ And ‘Midnight in Paris’ as well as ‘Blue Jasmine’ are on my Must-Watch list.

But after reading Dyaln Farrow’s letter...I don’t know. I just don’t know. Is Woody Allen guilty? Again, I don’t know. But the letter...the details...the abuse. Cringe-worthy! And so...I don’t know.

When a Michael Jackson number comes up on my iPod, do I change it? No, I don’t. The songs are uploaded by me, I haven’t even erased them. Just like I haven’t erased any old, Hindi film songs from my iPod either. In fact, I keep adding to them.

And I desperately want to see ‘Midnight in Paris’ and I just can’t stop hating myself a little for it.

That Time of the Year Again: April CSAAM

Dear Friends,

It is that time of the year again. To poke the dragon. That time of the year when we, a team of people, gear up and talk about that topic which is taboo but which should not be; that topic which is only whispered about, hastily, fearfully, but about which we should be making a loud, deafening din; that topic which many people believe to be an urban legend but is a frightening reality on a depressingly large scale . ‘That topic’ is Child Sexual Abuse.

April 2014 is around the corner, and we are ready to spread the word in our fourth year of CSAAM. Once again, just as we have been doing for the last three years, we talk across social media, via Facebook, twitter and blogs about the menace that is CSA . All through the month of April.

This menace must stop spreading. Children must be made to feel safe. Parents need to know how to talk to their children. Survivors must know that they are not alone. We cannot do all this alone and we count on your support and participation.

Partnering us in our efforts this year will be organisations working in this field like Arpan, Tulir, Human Rights Watch as well as online initiatives like Blogadda and Womens Web. You will see personal testimonials, expert advice, twitter chats, information sources, resources, workshops, an iPhone app and lots and lots of blog posts across the blogosphere.

We understand confronting this issue is quite uncomfortable. But we also know silence is not a solution. We need to talk our minds out. We need to act. We need to support.

If you would like to post on your blogs, do send us a tentative date, so that we can schedule your post. If you would like to participate in a twitterthon, do let us know. Even forwarding this email to anyone you think might be interested in participating and contributing would be very helpful.

If you would like to add to the discussion or know somebody else who would, please note that we welcome entries:

mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR

posted as FB notes and linked to Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month Page OR

posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR

posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.

You can also support us by simply adding our logo of the initiative to your blog’s sidebar. Grab the code below to do sohttp://csaawarenessmonth.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/batch-code-txt-2013.docx

Please remember to send a mail with all necessary links or just your input to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com so that we can track your contribution and make sure that it is not inadvertently lost or missed out.

Some guidelines

Please precede the title of your post with CSAAM April 2014. Then add a hyphen and your title.

Please insert the badge html in your post. If you carry it on your sidebar for the entire month of April too part from just within your post, we would be honoured.

If you refer to sources for information kindly italicise that part of your post which is taken from the source and provide the link to the original source in a bracket.

And finally please avoid graphic descriptions of the abuse. Stay as factual as possible if you’re doing first person accounts.

We need all your help to make this month a success, and are counting on your support.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Warm regards,

CSAAM Team

http://csaawarenessmonth.com/

Sex Ed: The Saga Continues...

A while back, the EO and I were watching "Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara." He was loving it for a number of reasons, such as the songs, the fact that it was based and shot in Spain and he loves all things Spanish (and Japanese, but that's besides the point), the plot-line of going on three daring adventures with one's friends, the camaraderie between the friends, and so on and so forth.

I was loving it primarily for one reason and one reason alone and that reason is named Hrithik. Sigh... Yes, yes, his hair was coloured all wrong in the movie, but have you seen the man dance, people? Have you? He is pure, unadulterated, wild, joyful sex. That's what he is. Sex.

Anyway, so we're watching and loving the movie. My son is being his normal self and asking me hundreds of questions when we're suddenly at that song sequence, "Der Lagi Lekin" and there's a three second visual of Hrithik & Katrina spooning in bed and of course the EO noticed. Now I know what you're going to say...yes, yes, there was a scene earlier in the movie between Farhan (my other love, just btw) and random Spanish chic, but the remote was in my hand at that time and I was able to skip it...not so lucky this time round and besides it was such a blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene -- the only problem was that my boy didn't blink just then. Sigh. Whatchyu gonna do?

Anyway, so he looks at me, shakes his head, rolls his eyes and asks, "Sex"? As nonchalantly as I possibly can, though I feel as if I have been punched hard in the guts, I simply say, "Yes."

Some more head-shaking and eye-rolling happens and then he informs me, very, very seriously, "Mamma, we're not going to tell bhai about all this stuff ever, ok? He doesn't need to know, alright? Even when he's a hundred, ok? Ok?" And while I'm mulling over what to say and trying to form a single, coherent sentence to say, it suddenly dawns on him, "Ooooh! But how will he have children, naa? Hmmm... Ok. We'll tell him a few days before the wedding. Ok? Ok!"

Oh boy! My boy! 

If only it were ok, my over-protective, little, big boy. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that YOU know this!! If only it were ok. If only.

Of Calligraphy and Calvin

The boys are unofficially on term break now. While I'm pretty much allowing them to do what they want, I have, however, insisted that they both do two pages of handwriting EVERYDAY -- one in English and one in Bangla. This is because,
a) their handwriting sucks,
b) gives the gadgets in the house a break,
c) it gives them something to do, and
d) it keeps them out of my hair.

I was wrong about (d). Soooo wrong.

Anyway, the EO is sitting and writing a script...the sequel to "Kickass" is you please, and he wants me to send it to Hollywood. Not satisfied enough with his screenwriterly ambitions, I still point out that he needs to write properly as the original purpose behind the exercise is good penmanship. After all, who needs to foster creativity when one's handwriting can conquer the world, am I right? And besides, our schools are doing such a brilliant job in the first place, no? (snigger-snigger-sob) So my son gives out a long, deep sigh, one that would do any long-suffering writer proud, and says, "Nothing spoils fun more than when it leads to building character."

I stopped in my tracks, turned around and asked him to repeat it. He did. Clearly and precisely. "Nothing spoils fun more than when it leads to building character." It sounded vaguely familiar so I asked him where he'd got it from. "Calvin and Hobbes", he smiled.

Wonderful! Just what I needed, my boy quoting Calvin. Possibly modelling himself in his image too! *shudder*

And then he started singing, "Another Brick in the Wall" at the top of his voice.
*gulp-gulp-shudder-gulp*

Movie Time With the Brats

This evening, the EO was watching "The Artist." With a lot of interest and a lot of curiosity. As is his nature, he asked about 545 questions during the 100 minute movie... Sigh...

I like this, though. The fact that after watching something like "Shaolin Soccer" on repeat for the last three days, the boy sits down to watch a classy movie like "The Artist." It's the same reason that while I may cringe at the EO's love for these crass, ugly, new Bollywood numbers, he adores Beethoven and Rabindrasangeet and Queen and Sufi... It's the same with his reading habits. While he loves the Wimpy Kid series, still reads Geronimo Stilton, he's also into Tintin and Asterix and Shakespeare (abridged) and Satyajit Ray.

And that is important. The fact that we expose our children to every genre. They will pick and choose their favouites and have a more well-rounded, balanced appreciation of art, literature, films, theatre and what-have-you.
*******************************************************
While watching "The Artist", the conversation suddenly turned to beauty spots. The EO asked me if they are always drawn on and I said no, that usually people are born with them, and so saying, I showed them the one on my chin. Then the conversation turned to birthmarks and both the boys launched into a frenzied search for beauty spots and birthmarks upon their person. The EO tiumphantly declared that he'd found a beauty spot and was content. The YO had been born with quite a prominent birthmark, but it has started to fade over the last few years. Unable to find a suitable replacement he suddenly beams and exclaims, eyes a-twinkling, "I know! I know what my birthmark ijj! Everybody sayjj I'm cute, right? So that's my birthmark! I'm cute!"

Oh baby! He certainly is, more than he can imagine! And just like it's his birthmark to be cute, it's my birth right to squoosh and squish him to my heart's delight!
*********************************************************

After 'The Artist', 'Ratatouille' starts playing and the boys and I continue watching for a while. There's a scene when Remy's running on the beams in the attics trying to discover where he is and that blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene plays out...the one of an arguing French couple. Through the hole in the ceiling that Remy runs past, we see the angry couple standing face to face, the woman is holding a gun, Remy passes on, we see nothing but our friendly little rat running and then we hear a gunshot; startled, Remy turns back to the hole, and we see the man holding the woman's hand, the gun must have gone off in a struggle and the couple stare into each other's eyes for a few seconds before falling onto each other's lips and sucking face. It sounds longer than it really is, the whole scene does play out in a few seconds flat and it really is blink, wink, sneeze and you'll miss it.

But of course my boy's do none of the above and they see the whole scene and the EO shakes his head and turns his attention to the iPad on his lap, his cheeks turning red, while the YO giggles and whispers something in his big brother's ear. I pounce on him and ask him what's so funny. He shakes his head. I ask again. He shakes his head again when big brother jumps in to save little brother.

EO: It's nothing Mamma. Just the French doing what they usually do.
M4: Whaaaat?? And what makes you such an expert on the French and their habits? (Was he wrong? He'd got the stereotype down pat!)
EO: Oh come on Mamma, the whole Europe is...you know...romanta! (Totally making up this word to give it a European sounding flavour)
YO: (pipes in to add weightage to his brother's words) Yesh! Mamma, thish time on de Eiffle Tower, Dada saw two French people kissing for ONE HOUR!
EO: (a little irritated by his brother's exaggeration) Nooo!! Not one hour! For five minutes! If it was for one hour, then you can't breathe!

I am genuinely concerned about where he's getting all his info from and forming his own conclusions!

#WFHMs and Growing Boys

The boys' holidays have started, unofficially. Exams got over Friday morning and by Friday afternoon they had already managed two things:
1) mentioned the word 'bored' 245 times, and
2) had Mamma wishing she took Valium.

Sigh. This is why I hate it when school is closed...

Yes, I said it. You can hand me 'The Bad Mamma Award' now.

This morning, as I attempted to get some work done, I had the YO trying to snuggle into my lap so that he could carry on a conversation about his love for sports, while the EO went round and round in circles asking me questions about Robespierre and Mary Antoinette. They  effect of yesterday's viewing of "Mr. Peabody & Sherman", you see.

Didn't have the heart to throw them out of my room, because man! They're growing up! I mean, the little one starts Class 3 next month and the elder one, why, he crosses over to the Big School! Literally! It's another building altogether, across the street from their safe little haven. A whole new world, if you look at it.

We've been trying to prepare him for it over the last few weeks. About the big boys, the indifferent teachers, the possibility of bullies and the need to stick with your friends. I think we did too good a job, because the other day when my MIL asked him how it felt to be on the threshold of Class 6 and Big School he replied that he was ready for his "descent into hell." Hmmmm, I think we scared him more than prepared him!

And then, on Sunday, I was lying down on my bed, reading a great book, when he suddenly zipped into my room and threw himself on top of me to give me the tightest, bone-crushingest hug possible, making silly, little boy sounds. My heart over-flowing with love for this beautiful boy of mine who I gave birth to ten years ago, but still seems like yesterday, I asked him, a little scared, "EO, don't you want to grow up?" And he looks into my eyes and says. "No."
M4: Why?
EO: Growing up bad. Me no like growing up. Me stay small.
M4: So you want to be Peter Pan all your life?
EO: Hai. Si. (apart from braces, the boy seriously needs some language lessons as well...he's been wanting to learn Japanese and Spanish since forever. Now added to the list is Greek, for some reason)

Anyway, the point is that I don't want it either. For them to grow up. I'd like to be able to manipulate time. I'd like to be able to bottle up their babyhood and toddlerhood. I'd like them to remain beautiful, innocent and sensitive forever.

And with them, I'd like to be forever young too.

Puppito

So we got a dog. Six months ago. A golden retriever and we named him Puppito.

So we got a dog. Six months ago. A golden retriever and we named him Puppito.

Ok, ok. I named him Puppito...I was just trying to be clever. My YO scratched his head and asked me, seriously, "Sho dujj that mean that we have to call him Doggito when he becomes big?" Errrm...no.

Anyway. We got a dog.

And I'm not happy.

You know how some people like other people's kids? Yeah, well, I'm the person who likes other people's dogs.

Anyway, I was outvoted and now we have a dog.

He's quite a cute critter, I have to admit, but I think he would have been just doggone fabulously handsome on the Internet and had me going 'Awwww' at his pics. But, as he lives, pees, poops and pukes in my house, on my carpets and chews up my new shoes, the 'Awwww's are very few and far between.

I've had many 'Awwww' moments vis-a-vis the boys though, thanks to him. One which happened quite recently in fact. 

On the way back home from a birthday party a few evenings ago:-

YO: Mamma, Puppito's O+, right?

EO: No he's not! He's AB+ or something else. Not O+.

M4: How on earth would you know this?

EO: No...I just think so...

YO: (after a few seconds pause) You see, I put my one hand on his heart and my the other hand on my heart, see? And then I heard, dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak... It was happening at the same time, and so that's how I know!

EO: Noooo! Dogs are not the same as us...they have a heart and blood vessels and blood just like us, but their bone marrow is different. Right, mamma?

M4: Errrmmm, uhhhh...

The Big Bang Theory

So I was watching a re-run of an old episode from 'The Big Bang Theory' last night. The one where Raj admits to Penny that their one-night stand ultimately didn't culminate into a 'big bang'.

Anyway, of course the word 'sex' is used liberally and of course my 10-year-old EO happens to walk in and out of the room each time the word is used. I can't even hit the bl***y pause button because there are sub-titles and well dammit, the boy can read!

So of course he hears the word, grins loonily, catches me watching him intently and immediately stuffs his fingers into his ears. So I ask him, "What?" He just shouts back, "WHAT?"

To cut a long story short I ask him if he knows what the word means and he says he does. I ask him to explain and he gives me the school-yard-giggle-giggle-nudge-nudge-wink-wink definition of it. I sigh. Then I take a deep breath. Followed by many others. And then I launch into a quick, short and most uncomfortable Sex Ed 101 lesson.

He's kind of in shock and disbelief. So am I, quite frankly. I preferred our earlier conversation two or three years ago when in answer to his question, "Mamma, what does 'sex' mean?" I'd quickly replied, "Male or female. Boy or girl."

The conversation is far from over. But it's a start. Along with the feelings of shock, disbelief and yes, embarrassment, I am also feeling relief.

The glass of wine later that night was truly well deserved.