‘90s FAMILY : The Lessons She Learned From a Son’s Paper Doll

It started innocently enough. I think I said, “That’s cute, honey.” It was our 4-year-old son’s first week of summer school, and he had brought home his latest creation, a paper doll cutout.

The doll had glued onto it, in the region directly below the waist, a swatch of fabric that appeared to be swimming trunks. Normally I would have asked our son more about it, but it had been a crazy week and my mind was elsewhere, so I didn’t.

That was my first mistake.

A few days later, my husband and I were out having a nice dinner alone, and we got to talking about the kids. I mentioned that I was faintly bothered by the art projects our son had done that week.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, the first day they made a stoplight,” I said. “The second day a street light with signals. OK, fine. But then he comes home with this paper telephone with 911 in big letters on it. . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little heavy for a 4-year-old?” I asked. “I mean, should they really be teaching 911 in preschool?”

This is when my husband, a former investigative reporter who tends not to sugarcoat things, dropped the bomb.

“Did he tell you about the doll?”

“No.”

My husband took a bite out of a roll, chewed it very slowly, then swallowed. “He said the teacher told him he wasn’t supposed to touch himself under his swimming trunks.”

My reaction apparently was something between a scream and a howl, because when I looked around several people in the restaurant were staring at us.

Yes, a teacher we barely knew had just given our preschooler one of his first lessons about sex--a lesson that was antithetical to the one we’d given him, which was that his body and his sexuality were things to feel good about. And in summer school, too--a time when he should be finger painting or trapping caterpillars in mason jars or learning to print his name, not learning a just-say-no policy toward his genitals.

Apparently it had never occurred to her that she should inform us beforehand, that it might be wise to send home a note. “Dear Parents: We’d like to discuss with the children their sexual behavior this week. We feel this is a relevant topic since the children are now beginning to experience strong sexual urges.” Whatever.

The more we talked about it over dinner, the more upset we became. By the time the lemon torte arrived, we’d whipped ourselves into an irrational frenzy. How dare that teacher mess with our son’s head! We’d take him right out of that school. We’d give that teacher a piece of our mind--no, we’d get her fired.

The next morning, the offending paper doll in hand, I took our son to school. By then my husband and I had cooled off and had devised a strategy: We’d approach the situation like grown-ups: We’d simply ask the teacher what happened.

The answer was hardly what we expected.

After I told the teacher what our son had said about the doll, she laughed awkwardly. “Oh, no. That isn’t what I said.”

She had actually been discussing sexual molestation. She had told the children that they shouldn’t let anyone touch them underneath their bathing suits. Hence the doll in the swimming trunks. And the doll, the 911 telephone, was all part of a lesson plan on “summer safety.”

I just about fell over.

In the ongoing debate over whether sex education should be taught in the schools, I am always on the side of those hollering that it should be. This incident did nothing to alter that conviction. Nonetheless, it was the first time it had been brought home to me quite literally that it also matters greatly how children are taught about sex and when--something I knew but had somehow forgotten.

The teacher apologized. Her intentions were obviously good; she’d simply made an error in judgment by not considering our wishes. To prove she wasn’t just shooting from the hip, she showed me the booklet she’d used, a teacher’s guide on sexual molestation. She’d also talked to the director beforehand, who’d thought it seemed a reasonable subject to broach.

But I was still mad. We’d loved our son’s preschool. It had everything we wanted: a devoted staff, an emphasis on socialization, lots of art activities, involved parents. Our son loved it too. Then, suddenly, there was this.

Although our son’s teacher had several years of experience, she acknowledged that this was the first time she’d done a lesson on sexual molestation. Our little boy, a guinea pig, I thought unfairly.

Afterward, I had a long talk with the director, a sweet older woman who has guided the school for two decades. She was clearly upset by what had happened. Apparently, we had all learned a hard lesson from the experience--unfortunately one very different from the one my son learned.

I keep the doll now in my office, as a reminder to pay attention. But also as a reminder that things are not always what they seem.

Yes, a teacher we barely knew had just given our preschooler one of his first lessons about sex--a lesson that was antithetical to the one we’d given him. . . .