By Melanie Dale
@melanierdale

We decided to spend the apocalypse introducing our kids to our favorite TV show of all time, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So as we’ve sheltered-in-place, we’ve watched Buffy and her friends avert countless apocalypses of their own. Frankly, I’m disappointed that our own sad apocalypse hasn’t featured better hair and makeup. If Buffy can defeat a slimy pit of monsters without smudging her lipgloss, surely I could remember to brush my teeth and put on pants?

Two of our kids are prime ages for Buffy, which aired before TV ratings but to which I’d assign a solid TV-14 rating. Our youngest is 10, way too young for these high school and college themes, but this is what happens when you have a bunch of kids. By the last one, you’ve given up and don’t want them to feel left out. Look, in these effing unprecedented times, sometimes we let the children do things they wouldn’t have done a few months ago back when they did things like “go to school” and “leave the house.”

I forget how much has changed since the ‘90s, I mean, besides easy access to toilet paper (dear children, we threw it in trees), until I started watching this show with my kids, and they asked things like, “So parents can just walk into the school without a visitor’s pass? Where’s the security?” It was the ‘90s. And “Why can’t she just call for help on her phone when she’s trapped in the crypt?” No cell phones yet, kids. And “Why are they at the library all the time?” No Google. And “Where are the parents? Why are these kids always home alone?”

Alex and I just keep saying, “It was the ‘90s.” It was the ‘90s, a time when sneaking out every night to battle the forces of darkness without the grownups ever noticing just made sense. This time around, I’m also noticing that not one time, not one single time, did the kids ever need help with schoolwork from a parent. Man, the ‘90s were nice. Our parents had it good.

In addition to introducing the kids to the world of our ‘90s teen life, we’ve introduced them to teen drama, plenty of violence, and sex. One by one, Buffy and her friends have lost their v-cards in various coming-of-age ways. To usher us through the awkwardness of these encounters, as we’re all curled up together on the wraparound sofa, surrounded by Sherpa blankets and dogs, I’ve created a special song that I belt out whenever the onscreen action gets frisky.

“Sex scene with your parennntsssss!” I croon suggestively, complete with lip biting and hip gyrating.

We have a therapist on speed-dial.

Just when we hit critical awkwardness, when boy-toy of the month starts sliding his beefy hands under a strappy halter top, I start singing, and the kids start screaming. Nothing is more awkward that watching sex scenes with your parents, even tame, non-naked, TV-14-level sex scenes.

Because it’s one thing to watch a sex scene. But it’s a whole ‘nother thing to watch it with the two people in your world who you know for a fact are doing it on the regular. Two disgusting, elderly, fortysomethings who are decidedly unsexy in every possible way. The two people in the world you would like to block out completely. The two people you picture as androgynous Ken and Barbie dolls with smooth plastic undercarriages. Watching a sex scene with your parents means admitting that they know what that is and are familiar with the mechanics. It means recognizing that they’re human beings and were once young and horny, instead of now, when they mostly unclog toilets and pay the bills.

Parents are the opposite of every mood the good TV people are trying to evoke with the warm lighting and undulating sheets. Parents are the quintessential boner killers of any audience. Their very saggy, middle-aged presence in the room represents the other side of sexual fantasies, where hotness goes to die. Buffy, the after years, when she’s turned on by a guy who remembers to take out the recycling. But I sing my “Sex Scene with Your Parents” song, the kids scream and make barfy noises, someone falls for a sultry pair of breasts eyes, and we all get through. 

I’ve tried protecting their young, impressionable eyes. I mean, I haven’t tried hard, but I’ve tried.

Me:     Evie, close your eyes.
Evie:    (eyes wide open)
Me:     Evie! Close. Your eyes.
Evie:    (eyes wide open)
Me:     EVIE.
Evie:    Mom, I’m watching so I know what NOT to do.

I mean, who can argue with that? Me. I can argue with that.

It’s not like we’re watching Game of Thrones. It’s two people wiggling under a blanket to fancy music, then they go back to kicking ass and going to class. But it’s led to some questions.

Evie:    But they really have clothes on under those blankets, right Mom?
Me:     Oh totally. Fully clothed under there. A whole camera crew in their faces.
Evie:    (visibly relieved)

We pause once in awhile for Life Lessons with Mom, where I warn them not to take a drink from a stranger at a party and if they go to a club to wear a supportive top so their boobs don’t fall out. Kids, when heading to a mosh pit, wear close-toed, heavy boots. Doc Martens are not just for looks. They’ll save you from the podiatrist when you’re older. Hashtag 90s wisdom.

Sure, we teach them to read and wipe themselves and cut their own meat, but these are the lessons we live for, best delivered in a dark basement watching sex scenes with your parents.