Here is how you traumatize S the Wondermaid--sex ed.
And here is how you play it off like those condoms were supposed to be in the toy box--Tehva.
But first a bit of background. We still enjoy the biweekly visits from S the Wondermaid who continues to astonish and amaze with her prowess in the kitchen, her kindness with the kids, and her thoroughness with the mop and bucket.
S's battle with the house is as never-ending as the quest for smarts undertaken daily by the Fantastic Four who darken my school room door each morning, which lends a lovely balance to my life. The house is like a mountain, stacked to its pinnacle with stones on the edge of tumbling over a precipice, threatening to take down the whole peak.
The Fantastic Four's battle with the daily regimen of reading, math, and thinking thinking thinking is contributing to this precarious peak because learning here in Oman while you are a teen apparently involves lots of eraser ash, crumpled tissues, half-chewed pencils, and tiny scraps of paper tossed onto the most immediate floor space. And it also involves extensive cutting, slicing, peeling, ripping, rubbing, and rolling. You know, just to keep it all fresh.
The scraps that result from all of these actions often end up tucked away in odd places--under the seats of the car, wrapped up on people's desks, and stuck in random containers. If the remnants are simply, say, flakes of paint, then S just gets on with things. But if the remnants are condoms? Well, then S pulls out the big guns.
When we returned from Jordan, we found that S had defrosted the freezer, deroached under the sink, cleaned the windows, bleached our socks, combed and primped the cats, and emptied Tehva's toy basket, scrubbing each item thoroughly. She then had replaced everything in its proper place, except for a small plastic tea pot. I found it sitting in a place of honor in the kitchen upon our return.
When I tried to remove it from its new showcase area, S lunged at me. "No! It is dirty! Do not touch that! I have boiled it and washed it with soap. But do not to touch it! I think you need to throw it. It is very dirty."
So I pulled back my hand like I had been burned because S has seen dirty in her day, and if she says this is dirty then it must be DISGUSTING. But no. It appeared to be the same blue plastic, moderately clean Fisher Price teapot that it had always been.
S lunged at me again. "No! Do you know what I found in there? THREE USED CONDOMS! Somebody in your house hid them there I think. I FOUND THEM AND SCRUBBED AND SCRUBBED! SO DIRTY! AND I PUT THAT POT IN BOILING WATER!"
The telling continued in this vein, cyclical in nature, peaking and then subsiding until it had been reduced to "Three condoms," and "Very dirty" along with frantic gestures.
And then it dawned on me. These were the absentee condoms--the ones that had gone missing during our sex ed unit when, in very American style, I went out and bought a box of condoms and a bag of cucumbers and let the kids have at it. Along the way, the kids also filled two giant white board with questions ranging from those of technicality to those of practicality. Tehva, being seven, was excluded from this event since she already has a horrible habit of blurting out the most inappropriate things and actually could have probably taught the unit anyhow. I nestled her in front of a Mr. Bean DVD and ignored her.
But the whole time I suspected that Tehva was lurking around the perimeter of the talk, and when I heard her running the water in the bathroom, I suspected that she was up to no good, since she, soap, and water are not friends.
And, indeed, poor S found the proof of Tehva's covert misdeed, shoved in the bottom of Tehva's beloved teapot.
When I confronted Tehva, she giggled and then laughed, pointing out that condoms make good balloons. When I explained to S, she giggled and giggled and giggled, but mostly she looked relieved. And when I reflected back on the whole sex ed talk, I had a sudden revelation as to why one-room school houses probably never tried to address sex.
Small children make talented condom thieves. And discarded play condoms make for an uncomfortable clean up crew. Just wait until we dissect those pigs!
But first a bit of background. We still enjoy the biweekly visits from S the Wondermaid who continues to astonish and amaze with her prowess in the kitchen, her kindness with the kids, and her thoroughness with the mop and bucket.
S's battle with the house is as never-ending as the quest for smarts undertaken daily by the Fantastic Four who darken my school room door each morning, which lends a lovely balance to my life. The house is like a mountain, stacked to its pinnacle with stones on the edge of tumbling over a precipice, threatening to take down the whole peak.
The Fantastic Four's battle with the daily regimen of reading, math, and thinking thinking thinking is contributing to this precarious peak because learning here in Oman while you are a teen apparently involves lots of eraser ash, crumpled tissues, half-chewed pencils, and tiny scraps of paper tossed onto the most immediate floor space. And it also involves extensive cutting, slicing, peeling, ripping, rubbing, and rolling. You know, just to keep it all fresh.
The scraps that result from all of these actions often end up tucked away in odd places--under the seats of the car, wrapped up on people's desks, and stuck in random containers. If the remnants are simply, say, flakes of paint, then S just gets on with things. But if the remnants are condoms? Well, then S pulls out the big guns.
When we returned from Jordan, we found that S had defrosted the freezer, deroached under the sink, cleaned the windows, bleached our socks, combed and primped the cats, and emptied Tehva's toy basket, scrubbing each item thoroughly. She then had replaced everything in its proper place, except for a small plastic tea pot. I found it sitting in a place of honor in the kitchen upon our return.
When I tried to remove it from its new showcase area, S lunged at me. "No! It is dirty! Do not touch that! I have boiled it and washed it with soap. But do not to touch it! I think you need to throw it. It is very dirty."
So I pulled back my hand like I had been burned because S has seen dirty in her day, and if she says this is dirty then it must be DISGUSTING. But no. It appeared to be the same blue plastic, moderately clean Fisher Price teapot that it had always been.
S lunged at me again. "No! Do you know what I found in there? THREE USED CONDOMS! Somebody in your house hid them there I think. I FOUND THEM AND SCRUBBED AND SCRUBBED! SO DIRTY! AND I PUT THAT POT IN BOILING WATER!"
The telling continued in this vein, cyclical in nature, peaking and then subsiding until it had been reduced to "Three condoms," and "Very dirty" along with frantic gestures.
And then it dawned on me. These were the absentee condoms--the ones that had gone missing during our sex ed unit when, in very American style, I went out and bought a box of condoms and a bag of cucumbers and let the kids have at it. Along the way, the kids also filled two giant white board with questions ranging from those of technicality to those of practicality. Tehva, being seven, was excluded from this event since she already has a horrible habit of blurting out the most inappropriate things and actually could have probably taught the unit anyhow. I nestled her in front of a Mr. Bean DVD and ignored her.
But the whole time I suspected that Tehva was lurking around the perimeter of the talk, and when I heard her running the water in the bathroom, I suspected that she was up to no good, since she, soap, and water are not friends.
And, indeed, poor S found the proof of Tehva's covert misdeed, shoved in the bottom of Tehva's beloved teapot.
When I confronted Tehva, she giggled and then laughed, pointing out that condoms make good balloons. When I explained to S, she giggled and giggled and giggled, but mostly she looked relieved. And when I reflected back on the whole sex ed talk, I had a sudden revelation as to why one-room school houses probably never tried to address sex.
Small children make talented condom thieves. And discarded play condoms make for an uncomfortable clean up crew. Just wait until we dissect those pigs!
No comments:
Post a Comment