One day in 7th grade religion class, Elle started passing around a note.
Every girl who read it dissolved into giggles then passed it on. When the note came to me, I opened it up. It said: Did Joseph fuck Mary or did God fuck Mary?
I dissolved into giggles and handed the note to the girl next to me. Eventually Mrs. K. confiscated the note, and contorted her face while screaming, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? WHO THINKS THIS IS FUNNY?”
I laughed because I was supposed to, but I didn’t really think it was funny because I didn’t know what fuck meant.
So I went home and found my mother in the laundry room and tearfully told her I thought I was old enough to learn the meaning of the word fuck.
Later that night, she gave me a couple of books she had been saving and we talked about it, and then I knew all about sex.
Ever since then, I have believed that I learned about the proverbial birds and bees far too late in life.
But now that it’s nearly time to start teaching the Diva about sex -- she’s almost 8 -- I’m thinking that she should never find out. Or that maybe I should just tell her, “Penises are really gross,” and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t work since I have a 4-year-old son who has a penis, and I don’t want her to tell him it’s gross, even though I prefer to think of his penis as more of just a little stick that pees and not an actual penis. (That’ll come to an end, too, I fear -- yesterday the Diva found a Black-Eyed Peas video online showing Fergie in a thong, and the Pterodactyl said, “I like her.”)
Call it residual Catholic guilt, sexual repression, whatever -- I know that I’m supposed to teach my daughter that sex is healthy and beautiful and something wonderful that occurs between two people who love each other very much, but I just don’t think I can do that when the truth is, the idea of a penis anywhere near her precious little ... um ... my Great Aunt Eva called it her pock-a-noose ... so the idea of a penis anywhere near her pock-a-noose makes me feel dizzy and weak and like I want to hurl. Seriously.
Yet I’m painfully aware that the time is drawing near. BFF’s son, who is even younger than the Diva, asker his mother last year where babies come from, and BFF told him a convoluted story about how the mom really loves the dad so the dad gives the mom a seed and the mom puts the seed in her belly and the baby grows. Of course he had all sorts of follow-up questions, like, where does the seed come from? Did you swallow the seed? Oh. My. God.
“Oh, no,” I told her. “Listen. Let me introduce you to the word ‘magic.’”
“You do not tell your children that babies come from magic.” She was aghast.
“Oh, yes I do,” I said. That’s also how I explain Santa Claus, rainbows, and how Papa’s bones got to heaven after he died.
I realize that the Magic Reasoning won’t -- and shouldn’t -- last forever, and as if to mock me I’m finding sexual innuendo in every children’s show I watch now. Last week the kids were watching “Max & Ruby,” a sweet insipid little cartoon about Max the bunny and his big sister, Ruby, with occasional appearances by Ruby’s friend, Louise. On this particular episode, the three little bunnies were playing doctor, and I hear Louise say in her gentle little bunny voice, “Okay, now, Max, Nurse Louise and Nurse Ruby are here to check you out! Open wide!” and I swear I had to glance over at the television to make sure they weren’t watching the Playboy channel.
Plus, the Diva is into watching sitcoms now, and I’m sure it won’t be long before iCarly or Hannah Montana or those idiot Suite Life boys have some sort of sexual escapade.
I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, if she asks me what fuck means, I’ll just tell her the truth: it’s what Mom says when she’s really really mad and she forgets to just say shit.
Every girl who read it dissolved into giggles then passed it on. When the note came to me, I opened it up. It said: Did Joseph fuck Mary or did God fuck Mary?
I dissolved into giggles and handed the note to the girl next to me. Eventually Mrs. K. confiscated the note, and contorted her face while screaming, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? WHO THINKS THIS IS FUNNY?”
I laughed because I was supposed to, but I didn’t really think it was funny because I didn’t know what fuck meant.
So I went home and found my mother in the laundry room and tearfully told her I thought I was old enough to learn the meaning of the word fuck.
Later that night, she gave me a couple of books she had been saving and we talked about it, and then I knew all about sex.
Ever since then, I have believed that I learned about the proverbial birds and bees far too late in life.
But now that it’s nearly time to start teaching the Diva about sex -- she’s almost 8 -- I’m thinking that she should never find out. Or that maybe I should just tell her, “Penises are really gross,” and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t work since I have a 4-year-old son who has a penis, and I don’t want her to tell him it’s gross, even though I prefer to think of his penis as more of just a little stick that pees and not an actual penis. (That’ll come to an end, too, I fear -- yesterday the Diva found a Black-Eyed Peas video online showing Fergie in a thong, and the Pterodactyl said, “I like her.”)
Call it residual Catholic guilt, sexual repression, whatever -- I know that I’m supposed to teach my daughter that sex is healthy and beautiful and something wonderful that occurs between two people who love each other very much, but I just don’t think I can do that when the truth is, the idea of a penis anywhere near her precious little ... um ... my Great Aunt Eva called it her pock-a-noose ... so the idea of a penis anywhere near her pock-a-noose makes me feel dizzy and weak and like I want to hurl. Seriously.
Yet I’m painfully aware that the time is drawing near. BFF’s son, who is even younger than the Diva, asker his mother last year where babies come from, and BFF told him a convoluted story about how the mom really loves the dad so the dad gives the mom a seed and the mom puts the seed in her belly and the baby grows. Of course he had all sorts of follow-up questions, like, where does the seed come from? Did you swallow the seed? Oh. My. God.
“Oh, no,” I told her. “Listen. Let me introduce you to the word ‘magic.’”
“You do not tell your children that babies come from magic.” She was aghast.
“Oh, yes I do,” I said. That’s also how I explain Santa Claus, rainbows, and how Papa’s bones got to heaven after he died.
I realize that the Magic Reasoning won’t -- and shouldn’t -- last forever, and as if to mock me I’m finding sexual innuendo in every children’s show I watch now. Last week the kids were watching “Max & Ruby,” a sweet insipid little cartoon about Max the bunny and his big sister, Ruby, with occasional appearances by Ruby’s friend, Louise. On this particular episode, the three little bunnies were playing doctor, and I hear Louise say in her gentle little bunny voice, “Okay, now, Max, Nurse Louise and Nurse Ruby are here to check you out! Open wide!” and I swear I had to glance over at the television to make sure they weren’t watching the Playboy channel.
Plus, the Diva is into watching sitcoms now, and I’m sure it won’t be long before iCarly or Hannah Montana or those idiot Suite Life boys have some sort of sexual escapade.
I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, if she asks me what fuck means, I’ll just tell her the truth: it’s what Mom says when she’s really really mad and she forgets to just say shit.
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teendoc
Martha Nichols
the stand-in
Jeris Donovan
SeattleK8
the squirrel
Salon.com
Comments
The beautiful and wonderful part I learned later, and largely on my own.
Rated.