When you have Boys and Sex splashed across the cover of the book you are reading, you get some funny looks from other people travelling on the bus.
I’ve read enough research that concludes unrestricted screen time is detrimental to a child’s physical, mental and emotional development. When my wife and I first met, neither of us owned a television. We still don’t. Any screen time is viewed on a laptop which sits on a hard surface. We have never used screens as a baby-sitting service.
So, even though you and I (might) have different viewing habits, what I have experienced may still be useful. Let’s go!
My son (Master 4) didn’t have any screen time until after his second birthday, and even then it was kept to…
There’s a solid chance this unexpected introduction to porn will happen before your boy celebrates his 12th birthday.
Seth Godin recently wrote,
“When smart, committed people disagree about the answer to a question, you’ve found a question worth pursuing and a discussion worth having.”
So, let me ask a question:
What is porn?
Some people believe that porn can help to normalise desire and self-exploration, help to discover new things or to validate their sexuality. So, you might answer that today’s pornography is liberating, normal and healthy. Beneficial, even.
Or, you might believe the opposite. Because other people believe that…
Your onesie dangles in the sun
the way a sheepskin drapes
over a heartwood beam,
drying as it rests on the
accumulated dust and
sweat of generations.
Your swaddle was born
on lanolin-soaked boards,
whispering of black-singlet spines
bent for days to shear every strand,
fleeces strewn across the slatted
table for deft hands to pluck
at twigs and burrs.
Your cry — a lamb’s bleat,
buds into the ragged
yelp from yesterday’s huntaway,
flourishing into the air-rending shriek
of a solitary greywacke shingle
scrunched beneath the steel
and corrugated iron sliding
door which takes me two
When Dad sold the farm, he sold his Hilux;
the towbar blocked the new garage door
from closing. He sold his dog.
Throw me in the carcass pit, he said,
back when he could remember
the name of the dog.
Dad left before he knew of my son.
Perhaps they passed each other
on their respective journeys:
Dad would have been scratching the chin
of the tabby sprawled across his moccasins,
or putting in a row of potatoes;
my son, the blaze of light across the frost
when a pocketknife opens, ready
to cut the baling twine.
I watched Dad…