Adventures in Real Parenting: Porn Patrol

It's still Lisa Versus The Leaves here, but I had this scheduled to post today so here's what it was like around here in 2008 (From PoliTits)

About a year or so ago, MathMan figured out that Nate might be checking out some naked boobie pictures on the internets.

After a long conversation about what adolescence would have been like if we'd had access to internet porn, we decided that it would be best if we password protected the computer so that Nate couldn't use it without our knowledge. Especially when his friends were over at the house and we weren't home.

This worked just fine, as far as we know. We're not naive enough to think that he isn't sneaking peeks when he gets a chance, but at least he doesn't have unfettered access to the internet. The computer resides in full view in the dining room. Looking at internet nudidity would be just about as easy as it would be to hide porn mags under his mattress.

As far as I know, he doesn't even realize that the mattress and box spring aren't attached. This kid rolls out of bed and into the shower and his bed is magically made by a grouchy, braless elf in bleach stained yoga pants, a Stanley Kowalski tank and black moccassin slippers, worn sometimes, on the wrong feet. If that elf isn't sporting coffee breath, she's usually cursing under her breath and plotting her escape from motherhood.

Anyway.

Lately, Nate has been asking for someone to come to the computer and type in the password at the most inconvenient times. His pleas interrupt Sophia (she has the password since she's not into porn, yet) who's required to briefly stop breathing through her mouth in front of Family Guy or Hannah Montana (yes, she is the epitome of all the mistakes a parent can make in 2008) and lumber over to the computer to help her brother out.

This displeases her terribly. Loudness ensues. Cats scatter.

When she's not around to be pestered for assistance, Nate comes looking for me or MathMan. Sometimes we get a little cross with him because he tends to ask for help when we're in the middle of something else. According to him, we're always in the middle of something. He's right. It's part of our whole benign neglect parenting concept. We're considering a how-to book on it. Our working title is "Why Do I Smell Smoke?"

The other day, I'd had enough. Let's show him that we trust him and, more importantly, let's fix it so he's not bugging me in the middle of a blog post or prepping supper or having a quiet alone moment in the reading room.

I gave him the password.

Briefly, though, I worried that I'd just handed him the keys to the Golden Palace of the Himalayas with categories for bukkake, fisting, anal and fetish. It's really the fetish that worries me.

I thought about how to discourage him from seeking out porn. Then it hit me.

"Dude," I said to him. "Now that you have the password, you must use the computer wisely. No porn, okay? Because there are a whole bunch of pictures of me in compromising positions floating around the internet and you do NOT want to see that."

I understand the hysterical blindness is temporary and he's expected to enjoy a full recovery....

And now I have to go back outside and blow the leaves. What kind of mischief are you up to today?