A Parable about Potty-Parts

* The following is a fictional account based on a true life possibility. You are the main character. You can be a momma or poppa. You decide. The story takes place in real time. Oh, and you have a daughter, Krista. She’s five.

“Brady touched my potty-part!” Krista blurts out along with some juices and fragments of her chicken nugget.

“What?"  You swallow your coffee with enough air to choke a horse. "What did you say?” You cough.  Sputter. Your eyes water. “Who touched you?”

“Brady,” she says, slurping her milk through the straw poking through the gap from her missing front teeth.

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“When?” You ask. Your eyes wide. Searching.

“At recess.”

“Who’s Brady?”

“He’s a big kid.”

You grab your napkin. Cough some more. Try to breathe. Demand your bronchioles relax. They refuse. You take another sip of your coffee. Swallow. Breathe.

“Where did you say Brady touched you?” You ask.

“My potty-parts.”

You breathe some more.

“Gaby’s getting a new dog,” Krista says smiling. “She showed me a picture. He’s so cute!  Can we get a dog?”

You choose what happens next.

A.  You send up a Thank you, God! And give the top ten reasons why you are NOT getting a dog. (Krista eats her nuggets.)

B.  You whip out your cell phone and call Sherri (if you're momma) or Gary (if your poppa),your best friend, whose two kids attend your daughter’s school. “Sherri/Gary, who’s Brady? What grade is he in? What’s his mother like? What's his father like? Good family? Bad family?” And you tell Sherri/Gary what Krista said Brady did. You tell Sherry or Gary to watch her/his kids around Brady. (Krista eats her nuggets.)

C.  You sit there wishing you had taught Krista the proper names for her private parts rather than calling them “potty-parts.” Now you wonder where Brady touched her specifically, but you hate to ask. (Krista eats her nuggets.)

D. You say, “Krista, I’m glad Gaby is getting a dog. We can talk about dogs later. Thank you for telling me about Brady and that he touched you at recess. It’s always good to tell me about things that bother you. Right now, I’d like you to tell me a little bit more about it.” You calmly ask open-ended questions like: “Where were you during recess when this happened? Who was there? And then what happened? And then? (Krista talks to you while she eats her nuggets.)

Oh, you’re a smart momma or poppa! You chose D, didn’t you? Did you stop and hesitate at C though, because you hate using words like penis and vagina? You’ve made up your own names for them. Right? And you were tempted to choose A and B. I know this. You’re human, just like me.

Congratulations. You received an A+. Please join me next week to find out how Krista answered your open-ended questions, and why open-ended questions are so important. 

Little Did I Know

I glanced at the caller ID. Oh, them again. I was in the middle of writing a book review, and I wanted to get it done an hour ago.

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Another organization asking for money, this one had called just a few days ago. I had ignored that call. But my husband’s reasoning took over. I don’t know why you just don’t deal with those calls when they come. You know they’re going to call back. If he’d said it once, he’d said a million . . . Well okay, not a million. But you get the idea.

I gave a curt, “Hello.”

The usual speal. “Rah, rah, sis-boom, bah!” 

Blah, blah, blah . . . 

I wanted to cut to the chase.

“I see you’re a writer,” he said. “What do you write about?”

Smart move. Ask about me. I warmed. A little.

“I write about protecting children from sexual abuse. I try to get parents and adults to build a bridge of communication about this issue with kids.”

Little did I know, I had just built a bridge. He began to share how sexual abuse affected his life and his family. He talked. I listened. I sprinkled in words to reflect that I was listening. He talked some more. I listened some more. He talked.

I’m sure the call was far longer than he intended. And I no longer cared about my writing.

“Ya know, I almost didn’t pick up the phone,” I said. “I’m so glad I did.”

“Yeah, I’m glad too.”

When we speak about sexual abuse, we drag it out into the light. We open doors for survivors to speak. Tell a friend over lunch that you’re really concerned about the epidemic of childhood sexual abuse and tell them about the Rise and Shine Movement. And be prepared to listen. And listen some more.