Parental junk

I’m not quite sure where I stand on this issue:

Another passionate debate between parents. The two distinct camps sound roughly like this:

“I am totally comfortable with my body and want my child to learn that humans are perfect and beautiful just as nature made them.”

The other camp says:

“Kids don’t need to see that shit.”

For the most part, my kids didn’t see it: there wasn’t a whole lot of that in the nuclear-family stage. And when the grownups went their separate ways:

You may be one of those nudists carrying a towel around so as not to leave a personal print on leather furniture, or the three layer cover up type of parent, but either way take comfort in the fact that somebody is horrified by your choice.

You have to wonder how Type A and Type B ever lived together in the first place. (Heck, they can’t even agree on what TV shows to watch.)

This much I can tell you: I keep a stack of towels just off the living room. Not once have the kids asked what they were for. God forbid one of the grandchildren should bring it up.

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