Mary + Her Mental Health

Okay, so blogs are about as open and free a forum as you can get these days. Still every blogger in the bloggernacle must keep a set of implicit rules for posting. A general rule of thumb I stole from a celebrity blogger is never post what you wouldn’t say to someone in person. Bearing this in mind, I shall proceed.

Today my post is about bosoms.

Ha! Just kidding. I could write about bosoms here because I have no problem discussing bosoms (within certain limits and only in a respectable form of context.) But there are more interesting things to discuss than bosoms. (though certain men may argue with that) Besides, I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood on this rather personal subject.

The fact is, this is the way I was raised. We girls were taught by our mother to use the proper names for body parts. Mom explained to us the female reproductive system, and the system of procreation, complete with visual aids and diagrams, right from our kitchen table. It was all very matter-of-fact and non-tabooish. We were allowed to ask questions, (although we seldom did what with our pre-pubescent heads spinning uncontrollably with this new information, rendering us vertically comatose. It took me months to even look at a boy. It was three years before I talked to one again. When I was 15 I believe I said, “hey” and kept walking with my head down.) It was just all very open and real.

I sometimes forget that not everyone has a Mom like this. It’s proved to be a disservice only in that I’m pretty obtuse to the feelings of mixed company the minute I start talking about cramps or use the words “fallopian tube.” It’s only after the guy has abruptly bolted out of the room mumbling something about a drink of water that I think...oh. I said “fallopian tube” didn’t I? I recognize I should be more considerate. I know that there times and places for these discussions, and this is a practice I've taken that my Mom certainly did not endorse from her kitchen table.

Maybe somewhere down the line I figured that guys weren’t squeamish about this stuff because my Dad certainly wasn’t. Not his fault. Six women in his house. Two men. My brother leaves. And then there was one. Just Dad. He’s so a goner.

Example: a dialogue you might hear at my house…

Daughter: Hey, Dad… I think my uterus is going to explode.

Dad: I’m sorry to hear that, kitten. And how are the ovaries today?

And yet, this minor wrinkle has not deterred me from my resolve to teach my children the same way my mother taught me. I’d rather they know the proper names for things. I want their questions to come to me and not to their school teacher or that schoolmate who thinks she knows what’s what but doesn’t. I got it, thanks. They’ll know they can come to me and I won’t be mad. Sure, their eyes will glaze over in horror as I begin to draw my little diagram, as mine did. They’ll squirm and freak out and probably want to run away, but the initial shock will wear off eventually. And as far as not talking to boys/girls for years afterward...you know, I’m really okay with that.