Turning Sons Into Monsters

I read last night that a young man in our community was arrested on child porn charges.  It was a small article, I’m sure many missed it.  But when I read it and saw his photo, his eyes sunken, and his skin sallow, a weight fell to the pit of my stomach.  I knew that young man; I had met him when he was a boy.  His parents taught gymnastics and I had been intrigued by their circus background, their close brush with Olympic fame, and their Russian accents.  Their son was just around ten then, and used to run fearlessly toward the mini tramp, allowing his body to soar and then just at the right moment, tuck, flip, and flip again, before landing and walking away, as if nothing remarkable had just happened.  He seemed to me a wunderkind, and I told his mother as much.  His mother, in her prime, had flitted and flipped across the balance beam.  She had had a special knack for making walking a fine line look effortless.  When I met her, dark circles had begun to form beneath her eyes, and no wonder.  It’s exhausting work, teaching children to stay atop a skinny beam.  But as difficult as it is to teach balancing on beam, it is even harder to teach children to maintain a moral balance in a world so rife with pitfalls.

No child is born with the kernel of pedophilia in their soul.  Head to the nursery of a maternity wing and look at the sleeping babes.  Of the twenty or thirty that might be there, not one is destined for a child porn addiction.  Not one.  Child porn, like so many other negative things, is an acquired taste.  The trouble is, in our society, certain things are forgivable—drug addiction, prostitution, tax evasion.  For such offenses, a person can serve their time, pay their fine, and eventually reenter society.  But we do not tolerate child porn addicts.  They are labeled monsters and cast out.   It doesn’t matter if they could once sprint toward a mini tramp and fly and flip in the air.  It doesn’t matter that they were once a soft-faced young boy with a shy smile.  All that matters are what they chose to do, chose to look at.

The rest is cast aside.

Child porn is one of the slipperiest of the serpents attacking children today.  We’d rather not consider that in the click of a button child porn can present itself to our kids, but it can.  This is a terrible reality.  It feels not unlike having to come to terms with living in a house where, if you’re not careful, the floor can give way and reveal the depths of hell, allowing fiendish flames to shoot forth and lick at the ankles of the children inside.  We’d like to think that sort of foundational problem couldn’t exist in our home, but if no child is born with a propensity for child porn, if it truly is an acquired taste, then our home is just as vulnerable as the next, and it is our duty to talk to our children about this danger that is lurking, lying in wait to destroy their lives.

But when do you talk to your child about child porn?  I think the answer is sooner as opposed to later.  The young man who was arrested was fourteen when he saw child porn for the first time.  Part of me wishes that while the he still clung to his mother’s skirt, his mother would have said:

My darling boy, come sit here on my lap, there’s something I need to tell you.  No, we’re not going to the Zoo.  Yes, I know you love the lions.  Sh, sh, listen to me, sweetheart.  You see, I need to let you know that there are pictures that can pop up on the computer, naked pictures of children, and they’re called child porn.  Ew, yes, you’re right.  It is yucky.  But you have to understand, look right at mommy, right at me.  You see, sometimes people look because they’re curious.  But you have to promise me to never do that, never look.  Why? I’ll tell you why.  If you do, it will be as if your feet turn to cloven hooves, and horns protrude from your heads, for, rest assured, you will have more than one.

Do you understand me?  You can never look at child porn.  Not once!  No, I don’t think I’m reaching you.  Your eyes, my love, they will multiply, your teeth will turn to fangs, and your breath will hang like a foul cloud about you.  You will become a monster.  Do you hear me, my sweet boy!  You will become a monster, and you will have to go where all monsters go, and that is in a cage.  It is terrible to be a monster in a cage.  Just the other day, an actor of some acclaim walked into a river and didn’t come out, because he had become a monster and was about to be put in a cage.

And once you’re in a cage, you will not see me or your father, not for a long time.  And when others ask me about you, we will say little, because it is difficult to admit you have a monster for a son.  Do you hear me boy!  Like Narcissus of old, if you look, you will not be able to stop looking.  I’m sorry to shake you by the shoulders, but you have to hear me!  You have to!  I love you too much!  Do not look!  Not ever!  I know, I know I hug you too tight, but it’s hard, so hard letting go, letting you find your way in this world with its snares set in place to destroy you.  But I will have to let you go, and you will be held accountable for the choices you make, whether terrible or good.  There now, dry your eyes.  You see, how lovely it is, you only have two.  Go and play, my love, and remember what I’ve said.  I won’t have my beautiful boy turning into a monster.

Claiming My Blue Italian Lake

It would be an exaggeration to say that when my children were babies, I would sleep with the nibs of a stethoscope plugged in my ears, and wake at odd hours throughout the night to check for a heartbeat.  It would be an exaggeration, but not by much.  I brought a certain joie de vivre to having babies that some might call undiluted panic.  They were so little and helpless, and were depending on me--the girl who once subscribed to Modern Equestrian magazine, not because she rode a horse but because the guy selling subscriptions was cute!  It didn't seem likely that I was qualified to care for a tiny human.

Having seven children over the course of two decades, you could say my confidence increased, and I got the hang of caring for little ones.  But worrying remained one of my hobbies, so I didn’t like to venture too far from them.  I wanted to venture far, longed to venture far, but I had pulses to check, and how was I supposed to do that from an all-inclusive in Barbados?

I would tell myself that motherhood requires sacrifice, and remember the words of the poet Ann Campbell about her children:

You are the trip I did not take

You are the pearls I could not buy

You are my blue Italian lake, you

Are my piece of foreign sky

And then I would punch in the face the person closest to me.  Okay, not really, but I’d huff, and looking heavenward cry, "I want my blue Italian lake!  Give me my lake!" About this time, a silky strand of honesty would twist its way into my mind.  You, more than your children, have kept you from claiming your lake.  Your subtle fear of flying, your unwillingness to buckle down and plan a trip.  Yes, you've wanted to keep an eye on your kids, but enough with hand wringing.  Go.

And so, we're going.  

It’s been twenty-nine years since I walked the cobblestone paths of Italy.  During that time, I've changed a lot of diapers.  How many, I’m not sure, but it was a finite number.  The piles of poop have come to an end, and that is a bitter sweet thought.  Bitter, because I won't have another baby, and there is nothing finer than the milky breath of a newborn, and sweet because I am, at last, ready to grab my piece of foreign sky.

Yes, my Italian is so rusty it might give me Tetanus, and my blue Italian lake just might be brimming with New Yorkers arguing about where's the best place to buy a cannoli, but I don’t care.  I'm getting my lake.  

Death. Be Not Proud.

I am not a cock-eyed optimist, which is probably why I think that life is like standing on a slow-moving conveyor belt that is inching us ever closer to death.  I realize this isn’t a happy image, but for the most part I think the comparison holds true.  Most days, it feels like the belt is hardly moving, and we go about the business of checking things off our to-do lists, without giving the inevitability of death the slightest thought.

Then suddenly, we look back and see how far we’ve come, and wonder how it’s possible.  It doesn’t feel like we should be old enough to see, with the aid of binoculars, the grim reaper sharpening his scythe in the distance.  Something cold lands in the pit of our stomach, as realization dawns that the belt that seemed endless doesn’t go on forever.

Alarmed, we may try to run back down the conveyor belt (i.e., get a face lift, Botox, or a younger spouse) but there’s no running back, no putting the belt in reverse.  Slowly, steadily, the belt ratchets on, taking us ever closer to the end.

When we come to the end of that long, snail-paced belt, we’re supposed to be worn out, our bodies wrung dry from all the living, all the adventures.  We’re supposed to be to that point where death is a sweet release.  But it doesn’t always work that way, and this is where my comparison fails.  

Sometimes it’s as if a careless hair-netted factory worker presses the wrong button, and the belt lurches forward, taking the person atop to the end far too soon. 

It’s must be a mistake.  Someone should be fired!  But, filing a complaint is useless.  There is nothing that can be done.  The end has come.

Learning that my dear friend’s husband has just died feels like a mistake.  He’s supposed to still be here.  Just in his fifties, he had loads of time left, and so much to live for—a great job, wonderful children, an adoring wife.  It was easy to see how much he loved his wife.  In fact, if every husband treated their wife as he did, my husband (aka 1-800-GET-RICH) would be selling vacation packages.

I realize Facebook is like a Victoria Secret runway show—an idealized version of reality.  But it was easy to see my friend’s posts were not posed.  She and her husband weren’t presenting a happier version of their relationship.  These two were just happy.  Happy and in love.

During their marriage, they faced challenges, but they didn’t allow their love for each other to fray.  They stayed deeply in love, despite obstacles.

Smooth sailing is, of course, the marital weather we hope for, but there is bound to be rough water.  Financial struggles, differing religious beliefs, health crises, two-hour piano recitals…There is sure to be a bump or two, and these can, if we let them, cause the ties that bind us to fray.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  We don’t have to spend our time together tense and at odds.  And we don’t need to throw in the towel.

Imagine a scene in your future, one of your children and you and your husband gathered together at Christmas.  You’re older now, so there are even grandchildren.  In the room there is a feeling of contentment and happiness because all are present. 

Boom!  This is the goal, and it’s one worth striving for, but so many marriages forfeit future joy because of storms they face.  I’m not talking about infidelity or abuse.  Those are reasons where leaving is a viable option.  I’m talking about the nitty gritty that can blow a solid marriage off course.

Here are four things that should be carefully watched to allow for optimal marital navigation through rough patches.

1.      Avoid criticizing your spouse.  It’s never cool to bond with your friends by complaining about the love of your life.  Don’t do it.

2.       Be Nice.  The love of your life has a tender heart (we all do.)  Think of the white-gloved museum curators, how careful they are with the expensive works of art they handle.  Are you that careful with your spouse’s feelings?  Or are you bumping into stuff, and knocking it over?

3.       Don’t be proud.  Be willing to say you’re sorry. When was the time you said, I’m sorry, to your spouse?  Not I’m sorry, but you really annoyed me when you blah, blah, blah.  Just, I’m sorry.  The best way to want to hold hands again is by not being so proud you can’t say sorry.  And this is what I loved about my friend’s marriage.  You could tell they spent A LOT more time holding hands rather than holding grudges.  Hold hands, not grudges.  It’s such good advice, it sounds like a bumper sticker.

4.       Have plenty of sex with your spouse.    None of this letting the love grow cold business.  Be that feisty old couple that breaks the bed after six weeks apart.  History buffs out there may realize I’m referring to President Truman and his wife, Bess.  Way to go, Harry!  When you take sex out of marriage it’s no bueno.  So, don’t be lazy, throw the negligee on, get the Bee Gees going, and, make some magic.

My friend’s time with her husband is up.  It wasn’t enough.  That happy Christmas scene I described earlier, that will not be her family’s.  He will be missing, and I’m sure she feels cheated.  But one thing is certain, they as a couple didn’t waste the time they were given. I’m told her grief is so great she can’t stop shaking. 

Even when it doesn’t feel like the conveyor belt isn’t moving, it is.  So, go give a kiss to the people you love, and make it a great day.

Trailer Trash

What is the right age to allow a child to see an image of a guy about to kiss a guy on the mouth?  According to Hollywood it’s the age of any kid sitting in a theater, popcorn in hand, waiting to see the PG rated P.T. Barnum musical biopic, The Greatest Showman.  There is no guy-on-guy kiss in The Greatest Showman.  The trailer for Love, Simon, which runs prior to the film, is the problem, assuming you’re a parent not interested in exposing your little kid to a coming-out story.

Love, Simon looks to be a tender, funny, well-crafted story, but it’s a story about a gay young man coming to terms with his sexuality.  This is not the stuff of picture books, or at least the kind that kids clamor for.  At seven, a kid’s sexual urge is zero, and, in my opinion, only dirt bags introduce sex, and sex-related topics, to seven-year olds.

Childhood should be consumed with earning a star at school for good behavior, building forts, playing Mario Kart, making booger walls, dancing like a maniac at weddings, running down hills, and playing ball. 

Their minds should be free to focus on the simple.

And to those who say sexual orientation is a simple subject, I say, you gotta be smoking crank.  That is about as adult a subject as it gets.  So, when I take my kid to see a movie that at its sexiest wouldn’t make a nun blush, I should think, I’ve done my parental due diligence, but you’ve always got to remember that Hollywood is not concerned about kids (just ask Corey Feldman.)

Their one concern is selling tickets, and if that means pitching a PG-13 movie to a PG audience they’re going to do it.  As parents, we are the gatekeepers for our kids.  We decide what goes in our kids’ bodies (immunize or not) and we decide what goes in their minds, which is why the Love, Simon trailer annoyed me so much.  It felt like a cheap shot.  I paid to see a wholesome movie about the birth of the circus, and they threw an image of a guy about to kiss another guy.  Having said this, go see The Greatest Showman!  It was amazing.  Just know, if you arrive in time for the trailers, what your little kids are going to see.  Just giving you a heads up.  

Disney, The Hype-iest Place On Earth

Recently, Julianne Hough shouted to an adoring audience, “We’re at Disney, and it’s impossible not to be happy when you’re here!”  Uh… I beg to differ.  Not only is it possible to not be happy at Disney, with long wait times, and frankfurters costing north of five bucks, it’s practically guaranteed.  Is Disney fun?  Of course.  For me, it’s especially fun when I haven’t been back for a while, allowing anticipation for all that awaits to build—the topiaries shaped like talking rodents, Main Street pulsing with activity, Cinderella’s castle rising in the distance, the whoosh of Space Mountain, the spray of water in my face as I fall over the edge of Splash Mountain, the princesses willing to say hello to everyone, at least until it’s time for their state-sanctioned potty break.

The longer I’m away from Walt’s wonderful world, the more I buy into the Disney’s ads, and the picture they paint that a day at D World will be a day filled with happiness, thrills, and more thrills.  It doesn’t matter that I’ve waited in line before at Disney for over an hour for the chance to fly (sitting down) with Peter Pan over London.  Such memories fade in the pixie dust sparkles created by the Disney hype machine, so much so, that I’ve been known to take an it’s-every-man-for-himself approach to catching the monorail, practically waving good bye to my children as a friendly voice booms, Please, stand clear of the doorway!

Dodging and sprinting, I’ve elbowed my way to the entrance, excitement stirring to a froth inside me.  Yes, the park looks packed, but it always looks packed, I tell myself.  Maybe today we’ll get lucky and it won’t be PACKED packed.  But as I follow the crush of humanity past the new-fangled entrance (what happened to the turnstiles?) and shuffle toward Main Street, my insides begin to make that wah-wah-wah sound heard on game shows when someone loses big.  Today is going to be PACKED packed.

The Scrooge McDuck in me refuses to turn back.  I’ve spent A LOT of money to get inside, and so, even if it kills me, I’m going to get in there and get happy!  And so, I proceed, elbowing my way past half of England (the half with baby strollers) and get in line for It’s A Small World, because it’s the only ride with a reasonable wait time.  At last, we climb aboard the ride’s little boat (aka U.S.S. Straightjacket ) and begin to drift forward.

As I watch robotic children sing and dance about world peace, a thought occurs to me:  If that friendly voice that cautioned me about the Monorail’s doorway had really been concerned for my safety he would have said, Hold up!  Unless your idea of fun is standing in line at the Post Office six days before Christmas, turn back while you can.  Will you have snippets of fun in there?  Yes, but it’s also likely you’ll have a meltdown.  Or your kid will.  Meltdowns happen all the time in the Magic Kingdom, though you’ll never see one in our ad campaigns.   And, by the way, Disney is not the happiest place on earth.  That’s IKEA.  I’m joking.  Happiness is a state of mind, not a place, which, honestly, you should know already.  If you head to the entrance, understand it’s going to be a long, sometimes fun, sometimes frustrating day.  Consider yourself warned.

But would I have listened to this brutal honesty?  Would I have turned back?  Probably not.  Why?  Because, despite the hassles, Disney is fun.  And besides, if It’s A Small World is slammed, we can hit The Tiki Room.