I grew up in a house that had one bathroom and no shower. As a teenager with a perm, I hated this arrangement. I just wanted to be able to rinse the conditioner down the drain instead of having to soak in it. But Mom loved baths. She would pour peppermint oil in the warm water and soak luxuriously until the skin on the tips of her fingers wrinkled like raisins. For at least an hour every night, she would rest her head against the blue floral wallpaper and read dog-eared science fiction novels—her wide, callused feet resting on the side of the tub and her large, squishy belly breaking the surface. If you wanted to talk with Mom, you sat down on the toilet seat for a chat. This was where I told her about my day, asked permission to go places, and where my sister and I came to plead our cases about who hit who first.

Since Mom was in the tub most every night, our family did not ever expect privacy when we used the facilities. We discussed our constipation and diarrhea in real time the way some families discuss the weather. One time, I had to pee really badly, and my younger sister was on the toilet. I simply pushed her off the seat so I could relieve myself. Mom took Rachel’s side in that one.

*

 I was seven years old. Mom and I sat on the edge of my parents’ queen-sized waterbed—my bony hip resting against her bluejeaned thigh. I don’t remember how or why it started, but that is often how conversations seemed to arise with my mother. Her way was to just dive in.

Mom: If anyone ever touches you in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable, I want you to tell me.                                                 Because you have a little bubble around your body, and no one gets to come in your bubble without your permission.

Me: [Silent. I am not sure what she is talking about.]

Mom: If anyone--an adult or a child-- touches your private parts, you need to tell me. But they don’t necessarily need to touch your private parts...

[Mom runs her hand gently up the inside of my thigh from my knee toward my hip.]

I squirm and shudder away.

Mom: THAT. That’s the feeling. If someone touches you in a way that makes you feel squirmy, like you   want to run away. Pay attention to that feeling. Tell them to stop. And I want you to tell me if it ever happens.

I still pay attention to that feeling, and I still imagine a little bubble around my body. I ask permission to hug other people--even friends and family. If you stand too close to me, I will take a step back. If I don’t know you that well and you put your hand on my shoulder, I will move away from you.

*

During summers in elementary school, Mom, my sister, and I spent many afternoons at the municipal swimming pool. The pool was shaped like a circle, shallow on the edges, gradually getting deeper toward the middle. For hours, my three-years-younger sister and I somersaulted backwards and played Marco Polo and soaked in the chlorine. Then we would dash out of the water for brief breaks, laying our bodies directly on the pavement. When we were warm enough to return to the water, we extracted our swimsuits from the concrete, which sounded like ripping Velcro apart.

Mom rarely got in the water. Donning her emerald-green self-sewn swimsuit, she set up camp by the same large crack in the prairie of cement so we would know where to find her. Every half hour, she reapplied baby oil to her sturdy stretch-marked thighs and turned over to sun her other side—making no effort to hide her black armpit tresses or her dark pubic hair poking out the sides of her jade suit.

*

In the middle of eighth grade, I had my wisdom teeth pulled, along with six other teeth. Eighth grade boyfriend (who I had been dating for a year) came to my house to see me as I lay on our fuzzy green couch, unshowered, my frizzy permed hair strewn across my pillow. My freckly face was swollen like a chipmunk cartoon, gauze packed into my cheek pockets to soak up the blood. Mom was worried that this relationship was getting a little serious for middle school. How many middle school girls would let their boyfriends see them in that condition?

After my face had returned to its normal shape, Mom decided it was time for a different conversation. She was an expert at seizing (or creating) a teachable moment. She had already talked to me about menstruation and intercourse before I could learn it anywhere else. Conversations about sexuality were not new. But this one was different. This one was about me. Me possibly having sex. Mom wasn’t freaking out, but she was serious. As we sat on the edge of the paisley bedspread, she said, “I trust you to make the decision that’s best for you but if you are thinking about having sex, I hope you will come and talk to me about birth control options beforehand… But sometimes people get caught up in the moment and I want you to be safe.”

Before I knew what was happening, Mom was putting a bright yellow banana between her knees and handing me a few condoms to hold. She ripped open the shiny red wrapper and unrolled it slowly, showing me how to leave space at the end. I did not say one word the whole time. Eighth grade boyfriend and I were nowhere near the point of needing to employ this lesson. But several years later, sitting on the edge of a very different bed, my mind flashed back to Mom and the banana. And I knew what to do.

-Kiely Todd Roska

Kiely Todd Roska is a hospice chaplain and a creative nonfiction writer working on a memoir. Her flash nonfiction has been published in Prose Online and with Riverteeth. She lives in Minnesota (on land first loved and stewarded by the Dakota people) where she spends her time wrangling and/or snuggling her spouse, two children, one dog, ten chickens, and thousands of bees. kielytoddroska.com.