I Love U

Liam took some books to school to give out to the kids on Indian Republic Day. Monday he got a note from Alexandra in his backpack. Pretty envelope--rainbows and hearts, pure girl.

Dear Liam, Thank you for the book. I really like it. Love, Alexandra.

Carefully written on that extra-large learn-to-write tablet you get at the grocery store. Girls write better than boys. I try not to compare.

I'm cleaning up later and notice him bent over a page at the table, and I see that he's writing a note back to Alexandra. A thank-you note for the thank-you note.

Dear Alexandra, I love u. I reli likt ur nt. I love u. Love, Liam.

It is, in fact, the very first letter he's ever written on his own, and I'm impressed by the phonetic spelling; two months ago he still wasn't really getting the whole sound/letter connection.

Then he draws two kids--him and her--and writes their names, and puts hearts and balloons all over the page, folds it, and sticks it in an envelope. On the front of the envelope he writes her name, and on the back he writes "I love u, Love, Liam" again. I'm wincing, worrying; somebody's going to make fun of him--maybe Alexandra. Maybe Alexandra's parents are bigots. Maybe they're Republicans--and raising up Alexandra to be one, too. I'm spiraling.

But he's not. He finds some stickers and puts them in the envelope, too. "Girls like stickers," he says. Then he pulls a pack of M&Ms out of a party bag and puts that in the envelope, too. Then decorates the envelope with dozens of little stickers. Then--all casual-like--he asks me if I have any extra dollars lying around to stick in with the candy and stickers. That's where I feel comfortable asserting my authority.

"Honey," I say, "you don't need to give somebody a gift for writing you a thank-you note. You already did a nice thing by giving her a book."

He looks disappointed. "Mom, she did something that made me feel happy. It's OK to let her know that, you know."

I remember being invited to Todd's birthday party when I was in kindergarten. I was the only girl invited, and felt so special--so attractive to a boy--though Todd had never made an impression on me before then, and knowing what I know now I'm sure the mom invited everyone in the class and all the other girls opted out. But of all the birthday parties through all the grades, that's the one I remember best.

Children don't just become sexual at 13: they're sexual in diapers--primitive stuff, hard-wired, before they have the vaguest ideas to make sense of it all. And parents see it: first in how the children relate to the parent, and then to other kids. And because we squirm to think of children and sexuality in the same breath, parents are set up to have a hard time guiding kids from infancy into active sexuality. Forget talking to a teenager about it: if only it were just that. It starts with a 3-yr old obsessed with breasts. Then a 5-yr old, then an 8-yr old. How do you frame and navigate without telling too much or telling too little, or assuming you know what's coming for this person? We see a long vector of evolving sexuality, and we want to protect them because they're so unprotected.

But they just see a moment: "She did something that made me feel happy. It's OK to let her know that, you know." True. Right.

Liam turns 6 in two weeks, and he's having his party at a place where the kids can dig in vats of dirt for fossils and shark teeth, and sluice a vat of water for crystals and stones. No girls invited. His decision. "Why not?" I ask. "I just don't want to have to deal with them," he says.

Got it. Check.