Free Losing Me by Sue Margolis Page B

impoverished, needy children, but mainly the pupils at St. Mungo’s came from middle-class professional homes. As Barbara cruised the side streets looking for a parking space, she was aware how dilapidated her ancient Saab looked among the shiny SUVs.
    In the playground, the mothers in their fur gilets and UGGs exchanged “Happy New Year’s” and air kisses. Somebody was talking in a loud voice about the family’s Christmas trip to Tuvalu—wherever that was.
    Another group of women was discussing a child called Casper. “So anyway, apparently he goes round the playground rubbing his penis against other children.”
    “He must be gay.”
    “Oh, stop it. The kid’s five. And anyway, he does it to both sexes.”
    “Well, if he’s not gay, he needs to see a shrink.”
    It was all Barbara could do to stop wading in. Of course the poor child didn’t need a shrink. He needed his mother to sit him down and explain calmly and gently that rubbing his penis against other children was unacceptable, but in the privacy of his own room he could fiddle with himself all he liked.
    That was another thing that pissed Barbara off about the world—especially the respectable middle-class bit of it. Even now, in a society where you couldn’t get away from sex, parents still didn’t discuss the subject with their children. Barbara had a theory. She had a lot of theories. Being nearly sixty did that to you. She was convinced that parents were the best people to tell their children about sex. She believed that keeping this conversation in the family created intimacy between parents and their offspring. Once kids knew that sex wasn’t a taboo subject and that they could feel relaxed and safe talking about it at home, they wouldn’t feel scared to bring their worries and problems to their parents as they got older.
    As it happened, she’d shared her theory with Frank a few nights ago, while they were lying in bed, reading.
    “I know I did the right thing being open with the kids about sex and masturbation when they were growing up. Neither of them has got the remotest hang-up about sex.”
    “Too true,” Frank said from behind his Kindle. “I mean, didn’t we laugh when our four-year-old daughter announced to the milkman that she had a clitoris?”
    “Stop it. That was cute.”
    “But not nearly as cute as when Ben told his teacher that masturbation is normal, the whole world does it and that it’s a great way of discovering what you enjoy. That was really cute.”
    “Well, at least he didn’t go around rubbing his penis up against all and sundry. So what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that being open about sex is all well and good, but you also need to help them set boundaries. Kids need to know when to shut up about that stuff. But clearly Ben took all your advice about masturbation to heart.”
    “Meaning?”
    “It would appear that at twenty-three he’s still trying to work out what he enjoys, which is why he spends all day jerking off in his room instead of getting a job.”
    “He doesn’t jerk off—at least not all day. He’s too busy sleeping.”
    •   •   •
    Barbara was still eavesdropping on the posh mummies’ conversation about poor Casper and his penis when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
    “Hi, Mrs. S.” It was Martha. Today she had replaced her usual peasant scarf with cold-weather headgear, a knitted Peruvian hat with earflaps. She’d teamed it with an ethnic, Indian cotton baby carrier and an expertly swaddled infant. “I didn’t think it was your day for picking up the kids.”
    Barbara explained about Jess being rushed off her feet at the deli. “Oh, poor thing. But she knows I would have had them.”
    “She probably thought you had enough on your hands.”
    Martha was Jess’s closest mummy friend. Her two eldest, Linus and Juniper, were the same ages as Atticus and Cleo. The baby, a girl, if Barbara remembered rightly, had to be nearing six weeks.
    “And look at this little