Sunday, July 24, 2022 | 2 a.m.
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“Dad, sometimes girls don’t mean what they say,” pronounced my 13-year-old son. At that moment, I knew the world had changed.
“Son, struggling with the truth isn’t limited to women,” I replied.
“No, dad, that’s not what I mean,” he explained. “She said she’d call me back in five minutes, but it was more like an hour.” Puzzled, my son said, “It’s almost like she wanted to see if I would still pick up the phone.”
A smile broke on my face. I remembered first noticing that women were wonderfully different. My sons are looking for answers to life’s questions, and my wife and I plan on being first in line to respond.
Until recently, my boys spent the dog days of summer catching crawdads and generally thinking girls were weird … unless those girls were also interested in said crawdads. Most of my parenting concerns to date involve mitigating the destruction of my home, breaking up fights and living at the youth sports fields. When my wife and I turn out the lights at night, our sons’ sweet sleeping faces help us forget we refer to them as “the Beasts” for justifiable reasons.
Inquiries about gender, sexuality and relationships have emerged at our home with increasing frequency. It’s tempting to hold on to my boys’ childhood for as long as I can, but infantilizing our growing children is both selfish and unwise. We literally live in the age of “influencers.” It’s dishonest for parents to act as if we don’t know who those voices hope to shape. Perpetual media and peer pressure only accelerate the pace at which our children must engage mature topics, whether we realize it or not.
It gets weird ... fast.
“Dad, some of the guys at football said that pointy nipples mean you’re horny,” my teenage son stated. “They were looking at each other’s nipples to check.” That bit of information immediately drew the attention of my 11-year-old Middle Beast. “Dad, what’s “harney” mean?” he said with a deep southern twang. Soon all four of my boys, ages eight through 16, had assembled in the Brothers’ Council to inquire about the exchange and the veracity of the information related to nipples.
I’m comfortable with a wide range of topics as a columnist. Discussing the indicators of sexual arousal with my sons as we left football practice was well outside that comfort range. The choice before me was to either ignore the issue or address it to the best of my ability with the young men God has put in my care.
The question isn’t whether my boys will find answers; it’s whether they can trust me to provide them first.
If I choose to let someone or something else answer their difficult questions, they’ll simply believe that I’m not shooting them straight. If the cultural voices offer “answers” while parents offer awkward silence, many young adults eventually eliminate the step of asking parents altogether. The myriad voices in their ears give them a wide range of responses with little coherent direction.
My wife and I choose the uncomfortable honesty. As I preach that we must ensure the accuracy of information in politics before we pass it on, it’s even more critical with such sensitive questions. I googled “causes of nipple erection” to confirm my knowledge, and the conversation with my wife regarding our respective understandings of the topic was nothing short of bizarre.
We’re also doing more than conveying facts to our sons. We’re teaching them character.
A young lady wanting to find out if my son will pick up the phone after a lengthy delay is an excellent opportunity to discuss the different ways people demonstrate and receive love. As goofy as a football field discussion about nipple functionality might be, I had the opportunity to explain that we can’t assume sexual interest because of a few casual observations.
None of that makes the conversations easier, but my relationships with my sons become stronger for the effort. We also learn where my sons’ experience in our home has created information gaps that my wife and I must rectify.
During the aforementioned Brother Council, the Middle Beast enlightened his brothers with the knowledge that some women, upon becoming particularly upset, have the unique ability to cry black tears. “It’s best to just give them some room until the black tears stop.” My son obviously has no concept of mascara, but his observational skills were shockingly on point.
Like many parents, I often wonder whether I’m qualified or even capable of raising my children effectively. I want them to be morally sound men equipped to guard and serve their families and communities. Right now, we’re in the stage where I’m just hoping they’ll stop leaving their underwear on the bathroom floor. The journey from where we are to where I hope they’ll be seems so far a distance to cover during the time I have left with my sons in my home.
On the other hand, I’m confident my wife and I can provide superior counsel to TikTok and a group of teenage boys staring at each other’s nipples while contemplating their meaning.
This column was written for al.com.
