Trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse and incest.
It appears that the most controversial thing I’ve done is have sex in my very own bed.
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To be fair, it’s controversial because, sometimes, my child has been in the bed, sleeping, at the same time.
Or in his own bed a few feet away.
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What images fill your mind at these statements? What do you imagine takes place? Do you recall whispered secrets, second hand stories filtered through the memories of a friend? Do you imagine bright lights and loud moans of passion and wide eyed innocents? Do you remember confusion, frightening noises, something you could not talk about? Do you feel home, parents, comfort, safety? Do you smile as you picture last Wednesday? Do you raise your brows and shrug your shoulders and move on, nothing to see here?
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We have a standard in my culture that says sex must be kept completely away from children at all times — except in billboards, pop music, television, and the daily news, of course — because to expose children (pure) to sex (vulgar) is to corrupt them. We force sexualization on children, with heels and push up bras and Barbies to mimic, and deny them their own sexual agency, pathologizing the schoolyard kiss and the playing of doctor. We make sex huge and important and tell them nothing about it, except that they mustn’t have or want it.
We most definitely do not have sex anywhere near children. Except for when we do.
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Except for when we have it with them.
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Sexual abuse happens. Children’s sexual boundaries are violated, every day — from active pedophilia and incest to adults who over-share details or desires. Some people have been traumatized by their parents’ sexual activities. Some people are still confused, bothered, disturbed by sounds in the night, flashes from a hastily opened door. These are truths.
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These are questions: where and when do you imagine those who live in single-room habitations have sex? How do you think second children are conceived?
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Can something done one way be harmful, and done another, healthy? Can sex in the same room as our children be damaging in some circumstances, and in others be empowering?
The determinant, devilish thing, may be in the details.
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Sex is for adults, should be kept away from children. So, how much away is enough? Not inviting them to participate? Having the lights off? Being aware of the sound of their sleeping breath, the hints of their stirrings? Barriers of pillows and blankets and bitten lips? Beaded curtains? A wall? Closed doors? Locked doors? Three floors away? Another building?
How much risk is acceptable, how much is abuse?
Is it possible the answer to this is culturally informed?
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It must concern us as parents how our children perceive our sex life, not because sex is concerning, but because our concern keeps us sensitive, keeps us keyed in, keeps our attention on them and their experience and their processing, allows us to stay attuned, make adjustments as necessary.
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There are no guarantees in parenting.
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We allow for certain risks in my culture: we drive our children in cars going 50, 70 miles per hour; we leave them with strangers in the gym; we let them sleep away from us, in other rooms, in other people’s houses; we feed them food we didn’t grow ourselves, food in a can, sterile, dirtless food. And that’s fine. Those risks are deemed acceptable, because everyone does them.
Risking children waking up, hearing, seeing, and not being able to cope? It’s not what we do; we don’t accept it.
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I have no desire for my child to watch me engaging in sex. (Frankly, I have no desire for anyone to watch me engaging in sex, with the only-sort-of-exception of my lover.) I could describe the steps I take to keep it from happening, and be judged on those details, rather than the imaginings of prurient minds, but I would rather question why I am to be judged at all. Do we, as a community, have an obligation to be alert for child abuse? No question. Does that give us the right to make pronouncements based on a few words whose context we do not know? Does our distaste justify accusations of abuse? That sits less well with me.
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I have never tried to persuade someone else to make the choices about sex that I have made. I have never even made an effort to assert the rightness of those choices, to defend them as unassailable. I do not particularly care whether most people agree with me — except the part of my mind always aware of fear, of the risk not to my child but from my culture, the part of my mind that wonders “have I said too much? am I too exposed? how outspoken, how broken, how honest can I be before I am punished, my child harmed in the name of keeping him safe from me?”
I have abundant privileges protecting me, many shields for the worst of my vulnerabilities — but sometimes, they seem sparse indeed.
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What does it do to our children when we operate from fear? Why do so few care about the potential damage of that?
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This is what I want: If you agree, say so. If it ain’t your cup of tea, go enjoy another. If you have questions, ask them openly. If you disagree, do so civilly. If you have concerns, express them with care. If you feel the need to judge, walk away whilst asking yourself why?
Why is another person’s sex life the bar by which you judge? Why does disagreement call for condemnation? Why are we willing to judge women so harshly on this topic more than any other? Why has no one called The Man a child abuser? Why do we care so much about how we perform sexuality in front of children, and not about how we talk about sex with others? Why do we proclaim the ability of sex to harm the probably-asleep, while disregarding any harm of judgmental proclamations to the probably-not-reading?
Because tone does matter. Because how we treat each other matters.
In bed or elsewhere.
