Last night, right before bed, I sat writing at the dining room table as I’m prone to do right before bed while the rest of the family gathered themselves up for bedtime.
The Boy came downstairs in his pajamas with a perplexed look on his face with one of the magazines that I’d purchased for him on Saturday.
He wanted to know where it had come from, if I’d ever seen it before if I knew what was in it.
So my chance to talk to him and explain what it was and why I’d put it where it was and how things had come about was presented.
We talked about the difference between the stuff he’d had under his bed and the stuff he currently had, about how I thought it was normal for him to be curious and interested but there were certain things that I wanted him to understand about different kinds of pornography.
He got confused, and asked a lot of questions. A lot of questions. Some more questions. Then even more questions.
In the end he said that he kind of liked the stuff I bought him better because the women were smiling, and it didn’t make his stomach hurt to look at the women being hurt.
Apparently there are more levels of discomfort to parenting than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t count this as a success, and I know it isn’t over, but I can count it amongst those little steps toward adulthood.
Now if I just knew if it was his or mine we were moving towards.