Some might say it’s just a piece of paper. But this is no ordinary piece of paper. This is the permission slip I have been dreading all year, the one that officially revokes any young and cool mom status I have left and launches me into the pit of despair otherwise known as the mother of a child who is now old enough to attend sex-education class. The Dr. Seuss book “Oh The Places You’ll Go!” comes to mind and makes me think that perhaps there should be an adolescent version with a title that says something like, “Oh The Places You Should Really Avoid.” Seriously, I have no need in my life for this unsolicited rite of passage.
It’s not that I’m a prude, because I’ve already had frank discussions with my child on this subject. [Insert applause here.] It’s just that I still haven't quite recovered from my own experience from junior high, and the thought of my daughter being subjected to the likes of a Chuey Garcia (that really was his first name) making rude comments and passing around his disturbing drawings in Science class makes me want to flee and build a compound in Idaho. Aren’t we both too young for this? No wait, don’t answer that.