Cheerleader

May I talk about something awkward? (What? You can't stop me. Great! Thanks!)

Our kids bathe together. No, this is not about touching and poking and asking and discussing and giggling, although, believe me, all of that goes on and we have discussed, in great, exhaustive detail, which parts of our bodies are just for us to touch and not our sister or our brother, right now, let go, thank you very much. I think they are still young enough to bathe together and I'm going with that although I'm happy to discuss the age of bathroom separation and the wherefores and whys.

This is about taking it one step further, introducing the subject of who (NO ONE) and when (NEVER) it is appropriate for someone outside of our family to touch.

Our kids bathe together and I hate bath days. (So much so that I would be absolutely humiliated to confess how infrequently they occur. Suffice to say that dunking in a chlorinated swimming pool and rinsing in a public shower totally counts as a bath in my world). But, I figured, they're all trapped in there, naked and captive, and so, what the hell, let's start talking about inappropriate se.xual touching. With my suddenly very small looking, innocent, open, babies.

Gulp.

More and more, I've been feeling the need to do it. Full day kindergarten stares me in the face, just four months away. Just four months until two of my children spend six hours, a large portion of their day, in an environment, which, while safe, has some unknowns. I can't know every teacher, every staff member, every janitor, every parent, every visitor, at such a big school.

I have no concerns about the school or anyone else in our lives, but there in a nutshell, is the problem. When children are se.xu.ally mol.ested, it is usually, often, a HUGE percentage of the time, by someone unexpected. Someone trusted. Someone they trust and their parent trusts.

So. Momma. Head. Sand. Out.

I took a big breath as I sat on the tiny, uncomfortable, hexagon tiles of our bathroom floor beside our eighty-year-old white porcelain tub with baby Nate clutching the ledge and babbling excitedly at his slippery, soapy siblings. Their three innocent faces looked back at me over the edge.

"Where are your private parts?" I asked.

They identified. We discussed. This is old news in our world. I'll assume you don't need a refresher.

"Who can touch your pen.is or va.gina?"

"Me!! Me!! Me!!" So far so good, we've covered all of this before.

"Anyone else?" New territory.

"Momma?" Gee asked.

"Only if she's helping you wash or wipe." (And for the love of all that is holy, ANY TIME you want to take these tasks on yourselves, PLEASE DO. I would gladly relinquish my quintuple ass wiping duties ((I count the dog because picking up poop is worse than ass wiping.)) at any time. Unfortunately, currently, the amount of ass grunge residue (AGR) left when I allow solo wiping without backup is lamentable and also, pungent.)

"Any one else?"

Blank looks.

"Can anyone else touch your private parts, your pe.nis or your va.gina?" I shook my head side to side as I asked, by way of clue.

"No."

"Right! No one! Only you. What about Miss E?" I ask. Miss E is one of my closest friends. Tricky.

"No?"

"Right!"

"What about Coach S?"

"No!!" They all screamed. The laughter started too. This was fun.

"Teacher Glinda?"

"NOOOO!!!!" They were beside themselves with glee at this new interactive game.

"What about Grandma?"

"NOOOOO!!!!" Uproarious laughter ensued. They took over, thinking up people on their own and yelling no! no! no! across the bathtub at each other.

I brought it back to me. Surprisingly, I'm not all that worried about Clifford the Big Red Dog molesting my children. Nor Dora. Nor the Kratt Brothers.

We practiced what to yell if someone tried to touch, or asked to touch, or talked about touching.

NO! THANKYOU!! I WANT MY MOMMA!!

And just like that it was a cheer. A hilariously funny cheer.

Ess: What about Haley's Poppa?
Cue and Gee: NO!
Ess: What do we say?
Cue and Gee: NOTHANKYOUIWANTMYMOMMA!!!!

Their favorite part of bath time for weeks now, bar none.

Suddenly, weeks into this, I'm unsure. It's not supposed to be funny, right? Dammit, Stacey, it's not funny; it's not a game. I can't even get my anti-sex.ual mo.les.tation cheer right.

I watch them laugh and laugh. Uncle J? NO! Aunt D? NO! Rachel's Daddy? NO! What do we say? NO THANK YOU, I WANT MY MOMMA!

And then I think, why not? Maybe it should be funny. I want them to laugh in the face of any asshole adult who ever suggests that they be touched and keep quiet or feel ashamed. Shame is a powerful emotion and it is a mol.ester's strongest ally. Why not banish it with laughter? I hope my bold, brave children will laugh at the very idea that they would need to do such a thing because an adult asked them to do it. I hope they're learning that the only person who should feel ashamed is the adult that suggests such a thing. Any adult, any person, no matter how well they know them. I hope they yell NO THANK YOU I WANT MY MOMMA at the top of their lungs over and over while the criminal slinks away. Quickly. To keep me from killing them.

So yeah. We're learning an anti se.x.ual mol.esta.tion cheer. This is all new to me. It's a tough subject. How did you introduce it? How do you talk to your young kids about their bodies and who can touch them? How do you convey to them that their bodies are theirs to control no matter who asked them or suggests otherwise? Do you think it's a mistake to let them find this funny? Why? It takes a village. I'd love your thoughts.