One of my students had a baby boy over the weekend. Another student is due any minute.

Both of these announcements make me very happy. I rejoice for and with them. They are lovely people and both babies are lucky to have them as parents.

This is the first time in my career that I have been happy about pregnancies and births, when my students were concerned.

I used to teach junior high.

They reproduced about as often as my college students, but there wasn’t much rejoicing on anybody’s part.

Now, there is.

It’s wonderful to be able to smile and say, “That’s awesome, congratulations, I’m so happy for you!” etc, etc, when a student uses the “P” word.

Before, it was all I could do not to grab them and shake them and say things like “Holy scheiss, what were you THINKING!” and hug them close, and cry, when a twelve or thirteen-year-old got pregnant. (Sometimes I did. . . .)

Please don’t bombard me with stories of how it’s entirely possible for a twelve-year-old to find true love, and that a child who hasn’t yet learned to take care of herself can take care of a baby.

I won’t believe you.

I’ve had enough of thirteen-year-old girls still in training bras, talking about nursing. My heart can’t take any more stories of fourteen-year-old boys getting jobs so they can at least contribute formula for their baby. Or worse: bragging about their studliness. Or worst of all: when the fathers of these children’s children are grown men.

There’s a word for a forty-year-old man who gets a thirteen-year-old girl pregnant. That word is: pervert.

Twelve-year-old students with 24-year-old mothers. Over and over and over again. Year after year. It gets to you. It burns teachers out.

Now, when my students talk about being parents, I can smile and relax and give them genuine advice (IF they ask; I don’t volunteer it even at this level.) and know that their children are not being raised by children only a few years older.

Please don’t think I am a prude. Even my kids can tell you I’m far from it.

Prude. Me. HAHAHAHahahahaha. . . . .

I just think there are limits.

Those limits are firm and strict when it comes to kids. Keep your hands off them.

Mary Kay LeTourneau says she’s in love. I say she’s a predator.

The boy says he’s in love, too. I say he’s a horny teenager with stupid parents.

Mutually-consenting grownups can do anything they want, as far as I am concerned. Key word here: adults.

Oh dear, am I preaching again? So sorry.

I got pictures of my student’s new baby over email. Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

All babies are beautiful. And they all deserve happy childhoods. They all deserve parents who have already had their childhood and are ready to devote themselves to making their baby’s childhood happy.

All you grownups out there: find each other and have a blast. Do whatever you want, as long as you don’t hurt anybody. Invite me. (Please.)

But when it comes to children, watch your step.

Children should be hugged, and often. Children need affection, and they should get it.

Just not THAT kind.

Children are the most important things in the universe. Cherish them. Protect them. Show them the wonders of the universe.

Don’t make them grow up too soon.

Even now, if anyone laid a violent hand on my kids, there would be no place on this earth where they could hide. I would track them down and destroy them.

Parents: educate your kids about this sort of thing. And even more importantly, give your kids enough affection so they don’t seek it elsewhere.

The world is full of creepy people. Let’s all make sure they never find our kids.

Please notice that I did not shoot any wild living creatures in this post.

But if you are a pervert, pay attention. There is no difference between you and a rat or a snake. I made mincemeat out of them, and I would do the same to you.

Peace out.