Gosh, I hope my mother is not reading my blog today. She's in Little Debbie Cake Heaven--that's mean---"regular" Heaven is what I meant-- but I know that she would kill me for what I'm about to write. Jumping right into this (are you ready?): My mother never talked to us about sex. Nope. I can't really remember either of my parents sitting on the edge of the bed saying, "Honey, there are birds and there are bees." What I remember happening is their taking us all into a train station in Washington, D.C., saying, "Go in there, read everything written on the walls. When you come out, and if you have any questions, we'll answer them." Was she kidding?? You think I'd ask my own mother (who would not say the word pregnant out loud) about any of those bathroom wall words! Not hardly.
Which, of course leads us to my poor birds-and-the bees skills with my growing handicapped son. I know you're going to want to read this next sentence twice. Down Syndrome males are sterile but not impotent. Is that cleared up now? So, yes, Taylor has more testosterone in his little finger than...oh, I won't even finish that sentence. Let me just say that part of our raising and educating Taylor has been to teach him what is private about his body and what is not. Of course...all with not shame. Good luck, right?
Early on, Taylor's word for penis became pumice. Who knows why. It's a bit awkward to not only write about this, but to teach him about.....well.....the pumice.
Come on, now...how'd you do with your own children? Basically, what we really needed Taylor to know was good-touch/bad-touch stuff: "It's your pumice. Nobody else's." And go to your bedroom for anything private. (Pretty good advice, huh.)
He's done great. He's appropriate and knows all the "rules" about PDA.
The only thing that has backfired is when any word that sounds vaguely similar to penis (peanuts, peas, please us, etc), Taylor reprimands everybody in the room for "talking dirty." We're dead in the water if anybody ever asks, "Hey would like some hummus and peanuts?" Don't Say It. Go Nice. (Ibid. Op Cit. Benedictus other blog post.)
Whew. We've got this conversation started. There's more. Mama, go distract yourself in the angel kitchen. She does not want to hear the rest of this. Good reader: Are you squirming yet? I'm blushing. Penis. Pumice. If Taylor could read, I know I would have sent him in to see those words on the walls of that train station. I wonder if pumice is written anywhere. OK, you can laugh now. Aren't you glad it's me and not you? (Just send money.)
