I still think I’m related to the Holy Family...

THERE was no sex when I was growing up. None. The three-letter word was never mentioned in our house. If an ad for a bra came on the telly, my father buried his face in the newspaper. My mother always told me to keep ‘an air of mystery’ about me with regard to my attire. She never explained why. When I discovered, through friends, how the whole thing worked, I was shocked. Not shocked at how the whole thing worked but shocked at my parents ‘doing it’. I had fleeting images of the two of them and learned to dismiss them before my imagination became too graphic. I hoped that I, along with my three siblings, must be closely related to Jesus and that an angel appeared to my mother and all of a sudden she was ‘with child’.

Speaking of Jesus, in those days, we were terrified of our parents and of Holy God. So, my teenage years were a nightmare and when a guy’s hands started to roam we were convinced Holy God was looking down and hell fire and brimstone were looming. We thought you might get pregnant by ‘French kissing’. In fact, one of my class mates asked that very same question at a school retreat and the priest reported her to the head mistress.

That’s how backward we were in those days. So when it came to my kids and their teenage years, I was determined that things would be different. And I discovered that remnants of my mother’s attitude remained. I didn’t really want to know. I had no intention of inquiring about their sexual activities, especially those of my two boys.

I struggle watching graphic programmes with them. Shades of my father. So while attitudes have changed, I still think there’s a boundary when it comes to parents and kids discussing their sexual exploits – a boundary that should never be crossed.