The FACTS of Life
How do you talk to your kids, if you have any, about sex?
I thought, when First-Born Son was small, that I'd done a pretty good job. He'd been through my pregnancies with both his younger sisters before age seven. I'd read him the books and answered his questions without providing too much extra information. I was sure I'd covered all the age-appropriate material, and no doubt qualified for some type of major award in the Parenting Hall of Fame.
But then, in the middle of 2nd grade, I was looking through his backpack for the inevitable missing notices and homework assignments, when I found a note.
It had apparently been passed back and forth between him and his friend, let's call her Jezebel Rhonda.
"Yes," it read, "I would like to have sex with you too. But I think maybe it would work better if you could sleep over."
Okay. What to do?
I made a cup of herbal tea, put on some Mozart, and sat down to think. Oh wait, that must have been Julia Roberts or Susan Serandon in one of the many movies out there showcasing the perfect parent.
But me? I ranted and raved and threw First-Born Son up against the wall with a 150 watt spotlight aimed at his face.
No. Not really. Fortunately for him, he was at Sunday School at the time (I know, ironic, right?), and I had an hour to mull things over.
That's when common sense hit me over the head with a big hammer, and I realized he obviously had no idea what he was talking about.
But how could he not? We'd gone over this, and I'm fairly sure he'd even aced the quiz.
When he got home, I sat him down and showed him the note. He looked sheepish, but not at all embarrassed.
"Honey," I said, "do you know what sex is?"
He rolled his eyes but did not, to his credit, say the word duh.
"Okay, tell me what it is."
He sighed, like I was a three-year old, trying his patience. "It's when you lie down with someone you like and you kiss and hug."
Not bad, I thought. Except for the part where you're naked, and that little detail about the penis-in-the-vagina. Oh, and most important, how you have to be at least 30 and own your own home.
I proceeded to re-enlighten him regarding the few small facts he'd forgotten. When we got to the whole penis-in-the-vagina thing, the shock and horror displayed on his face was all the proof I needed that he hadn't had a clue.
"So you understand why you and Rhonda shouldn't be talking about, or writing about, having sex? And that it's not your place to explain to Rhonda, or anyone, what sex really is? You just tell her to talk to her mom."
My son nodded solemnly.
It may not have been the first time we had a conversation something like this, and it sure as hell wasn't the last. But it was the time I fully realized that some some parenting lessons bear repeating. Over and over again.
We ended our little discussion and moved on with the rest of the evening: dinner and homework for him; valium and vodka for me.
Life goes on.
