Warning: Reading the opinions of other could change your own.

A few years ago, I made myself a t-shirt that reads “Don’t look at me, I’m just the big kid with the car keys.” As I am turning forty this week, I realize that for me, the sentiment is still true. I have been waiting forty years to feel like a “grown up”, but so far that has not happened.

When I was a child, a grown-up was an elusive creature that drank coffee in the morning (off-limits to children) and beer in the evening (also off limits) and gathered with others of its kind to hold mysterious rituals that required children to be tucked securely in bed before they could begin. Music, smoke, and laughter would waft up to the bedroom, mixing with sleep to create dreams of fun and freedom and all things “grown up,” of a world far removed from childhood.

Grown-ups were people who took the world seriously. They read the morning paper, they discussed the headlines, and commented on the “state of the world today” and how different it was from “how it used to be.” They watched the 6 o’clock news religiously every night. It was a sacred hour during which no one spoke, and there was only the sound of quietly chewed TV dinners. The State of the Union address was like a revival come to town. It was treated with even more reverence than the nightly news. All the networks suspended their programming, and three stations simultaneously broadcast the same program. It was a rare and almost miraculous event, like the aligning of the planets or a solar eclipse.

Grown-ups were people who had all the answers. They knew decimals and fractions and they could not only tell you the names of the presidents, but also the stories about where they were during the Kennedy assassination and how the “New Deal” changed American lives. They did their own taxes and kept money spread across several banks “just in case.” They were always prepared with food in the cupboards, milk in the fridge, and cash in their wallets. And they made it all seem so effortless, so natural.

Grown-ups were people who took charge. They told children when and where to be. They gave their directions and expected them to be followed. They took responsibility not only for their own children, but for any child within range. When you were in the presence of a grown-up, you were in the presence of leadership, of guidance and discipline. And somehow you knew this was good. You knew you could be a kid because they were a grown-up. It was the natural order and there was a comfort in that.

So, as I turn forty, I am waiting for the great mantle of maturity to be passed to me. I have yet to feel that I can lay claim to being a grown up – an all-knowing, all-responsible, God-fearing, child-rearing creature. My children claim that I am grown-up. My father, who has logged in just a little more than twice my years, has assured me that I am not. And he has let me in on a little secret: he isn’t either. He said the years bring more aches and pains, but that there is no magic day when the sun will rise and like a caterpillar from a chrysalis you emerge as a new creature.

I still have the t-shirt. It’s been worn enough that it has now passed into the box of “painting clothes” where it comes out, ironically, when I’m doing grown-up things like remodeling the house. When I wear it, my daughter says “I remember when you made that shirt”. And I smile because I remember just how true it still is for me. Now where did I put those car keys?

Like many families, my children watch television to the background drumbeat of “Sex is best saved for marriage.” It has been our philosophy that with the media clamoring for their attention from the time they were in diapers, offering them tempting (and mostly non-nutritious) treats and dangling the newest toys in front of them. It seemed that it wasn’t long before the commercials got racier, the girls more scantily clad, and they were hit with the idea of popularity being tied to sex appeal. We decided that we too could not give our children our messages too early or too often: illegal drugs harm your body and your mind; smoking has no benefits and many risks, including cancer; sex is more than a single physical act which you can do and then walk away from unchanged; sex is too complicated for many adults let alone children; and sex is best saved for a time of love, commitment, and marriage. They hear these drumbeats in the background any time we watch television shows together. We applaud characters who uphold our message and we use those who do not as times to teach. It is our hope that this drumbeat will continue in the background of their lives long after they leave the nest, long after our voices are drowned out by the voices of their peers.
A few weeks ago, my daughter decided to challenge my teaching by asking me if her father and I had ever had sex before marriage. I was a little taken aback and apparently had a little smile on my face. “You’re smirking!” she exclaimed. “You guys so did it!” I paused for another moment and just looked at her. I smiled even bigger and said: “I really don’t know how to answer your question. Sex is first of all a very private matter between two people. Second of all, what we may or may not have done does not change how we feel about it. Anyway, if I say ‘yes’, you will say ‘Busted’ and if I say ‘no’, you will say ‘You guys just don’t understand how things are these days.’ So, I am not going to answer your question. You will have to answer the question yourself for your own life one day and it will be your decision. And you won’t have to tell your children either.” She sighed and said something to effect that she knew I’d turn a question into a lesson. And so the drumbeat goes on…

“The conservative politics of the Bush administration forced me to have an abortion I didn't want.” It’s hard not to read an article that starts that way, and it’s even harder to forget. It’s been a year and half since the Washington Post published this woman’s personal account of how she conceived and ended a life and whom she blames along the way. And I haven’t gotten over it yet. She starts her story by telling us that she and her husband rarely have time together and that “ in a sudden rush of passion,” they failed to use contraception. The next morning after getting the kids on the bus, she calls to get her ob/gyn to call in a prescription for Plan B, because “ I wanted to make sure that our momentary lapse didn't result in a pregnancy.” This is the one and only times she shoulders some responsibility in this fertility fiasco. She goes on to tell us that not only is she over 40, has all the kids she plans to have, but she is also on medications that “ you shouldn't take if you're expecting or even planning to get pregnant.” This is the point where my curiosity gets the better of me and I have to finish reading the article.

She places the call only to find out her ob/gyn won’t prescribe Plan B. She says, “When I realized the seriousness of my predicament, I became angry. .. that conservative politics have held up [Plan B’s ability to go over the counter].” She reminds us that she is not some teenage girl who got knocked up in the backseat of a car on prom night. The lack of widespread availability of Plan B “wound up penalizing an over-the-hill married woman for having sex with her husband.” She’s angry with her doctor’s office because “they aren't even required to tell the patient why they won't provide the drug. Nor do they have to provide a list of alternative sources. In any event, they were also partly responsible for why I was stuck that Friday, and why I was ultimately forced to confront the decision to terminate my third pregnancy.”

Now let’s review the facts: This is not her first pregnancy: she is fully aware that sex can and does lead to babies and with two kids in the family she knows exactly what that entails. She is on medication that should not be taken if pregnancy is a possibility. She is not blaming herself because “this all could have been stopped way before this baby was conceived if they had just let me have that damn pill.” This does not sound like a woman lamenting the fact that she let her passion override her “usual” use of birth control. This is a woman who is upset that the back-up plan she was apparently planning on at the time fell through.

In the end, she did have an abortion. She says “It was a decision I am sorry I had to make. It was awful, painful, sickening. But I feel that this administration gave me practically no choice but to have an unwanted abortion.” If there had been no Plan B, it was a decision she would have faced anyway. The story reads as if she would have made a different choice on that night of passion, had Plan B not been an option at all.

No matter what side of the abortion/Plan B fence you stand on, I think everyone agrees that these are not meant to be an excuse to let passion override responsibility. No one should be thinking, “Aw, to hell with it. I’ll just call the doctor in the morning, let’s go for it!” That attitude is an affront to every woman who has ever had to make a gut-wrenching decision concerning a pregnancy resulting from rape or incest, over a child too ill to survive after birth, over too many children to carry in one womb, over a slew of other heartbreaking reasons. In a society that allows for choices, above all else we have to choose responsibility. Freedom to choose in not freedom to blame.

( In my essay I have tried to fairly represent the author of the article and include quotes representative of her overall story. I have not included her name because my essay is not about a person, but about an attitude. To hear her complete story in her own words, read : “What Happens When There Is No Plan B?” The Washington Post. Jun 4, 2006. p. B-1 . )

I’ve never been a big fan of the ACLU, but now I think they would do worse than your average Joe on “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” You may remember the infamous bathroom scandal involving Senator Craig of Idaho. Well, the ACLU has jumped into the fray claiming that people having sex in public bathrooms have a reasonable expectation of privacy. Okay, folks, time to grab a copy of Webster’s and look up what any third grader knows: public and private are OPPOSITES. Yes, yes, we have the right to hope that people won’t peek when we’re sitting on the throne, but kings and queens we are not. There are plenty of slits in which to peek, and many if not most people will peek under stall doors to check for occupants before entering. There is so little relative privacy that I wouldn’t even make a personal call in a public restroom, let alone have sex. If we’re honest, most of us go into restrooms with our blinders on. Out of courtesy we try to not see and hear what we might see and hear. We mentally block out the sights and sounds of the things that would embarrass us or others. If you’re nodding to that statement, then we agree that sexual congress (oh the irony of that word) in a public bathroom would take effort to ignore, and would therefore be anything but private. Behind a stall door is far different from “behind closed doors.” So folks, no trading stock tips, no revealing embarrassing medical conditions, and no intercourse in public bathrooms – not if you want those things kept private!!
For reference, the news story can be found here:
http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2008-01/16/content_7431609.htm