I must have been only seven or eight years old when my mother slid open the frosted glass shower door, catching me as I explored my clitoris in the privacy of the tub. Her eyes flew open wide and she gasped as if it were the most horrific thing she had ever happened upon. She snatched me by my arm until I stood naked on the blue bath mat, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I’m certain it must have stung at least a little when the palm of her hand connected with my wet thigh two, maybe three times, but what I remember from that moment were her words; the judgement on her brow. She scolded me, pointing her manicured finger at my face while saying I was to never EVER touch my privates again, that doing so was a sin and God would know if I did. The ‘God card’ is funny when I think about it now, because my mother is and always has been about as religious as my shoe.
My mother never spoke of that incident again, and it was her reaction that sparked the feeling that something was wrong with me for my sexual urges. It didn’t stop me from evolving into a very sexual creature, but the feeling of defectiveness plagued me for thirty-something years. I don’t ever want either of my children to feel the sex or self-pleasure they choose is shameful and dirty. So the Saturday morning my teenage daughter sat cross-legged on the center of the kitchen island while I made coffee, I let out a breath and went for it.
“If you haven’t looked at yourself with a mirror, you need to,” I said as I leaned against the counter across from her, drinking coffee from my pink ‘Queen of Everything’ mug. “And don’t think it’s weird to do so, because it’s not.”
She nodded, surprisingly not mortified that her mother had just suggested she examine the reflection of her most intimate parts, so I took that as a green light to continue the conversation. From there, I slid gracefully into masturbation, making sure she understood it’s perfectly natural and something she should never let anyone make her feel ashamed of.
“Look at it this way, if you don’t know what you like or don’t like, how are you going to tell someone else when that time comes?”
“True. Do we have waffles?”
And just like that, she took control, closing the topic without so much as a pregnant pause. I smiled inwardly, proud of the girl who is like me in ways she has yet to realize.
My daughter is sixteen and the relationship I have with her is the polar opposite of the one I had with my mother when I was her age. Hell, the one I still have. I’ve worked hard to make sure she knows she can come to me with ANYTHING without fear of judgement. I don’t break a sweat or dance awkwardly around topics that make most parents, I assume, terribly uncomfortable. I talk openly with her about sex and safety, pubic hair options and the pros and cons of it, slut-shaming, BDSM, and the newest feather to my sex-positive parenting cap, masturbation. Some of my friends are horrified by the words that pass between mother and child, saying they would never talk with their children about such things. They judge me a little, but that’s okay because I know my kids will be equipped with the knowledge they need, and I’m pretty sure that makes me the best mom ever.
