The Birds, The Bees...and Me

(Reader alert: This column is rated R for sexual content and coarse language. You have been warned. Do not complain to me later if you continue.)

When you’re a kid, all you know is what you know.

If nobody has told you anything; if you haven’t studied it at school; if a topic has not been clearly explained to you by someone you trust – well, you just don’t know then, do you?

Looking back, I am amazed how clueless I was about sex as a young child. I have always liked girls (I even managed to get in trouble in first grade for necking with Becky Johnson in the back seat of the school bus) but for a long time in my youth I was blissfully unaware of the particulars of human sexuality.

I can remember my parents and grandparents sitting around the kitchen table, drinking and telling jokes that they all thought were hilarious, which I, of course, didn’t understand. I can also remember some of the bigger boys at school (those intimidating 6th graders!) making crude references to body parts, which I, again, did not understand.

I was smart enough to know that there was something I didn’t know, but not smart enough to figure out what it was.

I recall once in fourth grade hearing an older boy call another boy a name that I later learned is slang for an organ on the male body. I did not know what he was talking about at the time. Later, at home, when I asked my mom, “What’s a !@#!?,” she flushed with embarrassment and mumbled something to me about it meaning that someone is a cheapskate.

So I, being young, ignorant and trusting, believed what my mother told me.

About a week later, the grownups were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking and talking, and I asked my grandpa to give me a dime so I could go to the store and get some candy. He denied my request, and said something about me needing to learn the value of money. I’ll leave it to your imagination, dear reader, to picture the look on his face when I jokingly said, “Grandpa, you’re a big !@#!”

For that matter, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on my mom’s face, either.

Even worse, when my grandpa finally caught his breath and was able to speak, and asked me, “What did you say?” – I repeated it.

Later that evening, my dad had a long talk with me, and among other things, made me promise that all future vocabulary questions be directed towards him.

About a year later I was still pretty ignorant. One day in fifth grade, our teacher was telling a story in religion class (at St. Roch’s we had a religion class every day) about a young unwed mother, and all of the complications in her life as a result of her sin. I listened to this for a while, but became perplexed, because we had previously been told that babies come from God.

So I raised my hand in class, and asked the teacher why that unwed mother should feel bad, since she couldn’t help it if God had decided to give her that baby before she got married. I knew right away, from all of the giggling, that I had said something stupid, but again, I wasn’t smart enough to know what it was. (This has been a recurring problem my whole life, by the way, but that’s another column.)

Unbeknown to me, the teacher called my parents that evening, told them what happened in class, and suggested that they have a talk with me about the facts of life.

We were a large family living in a small house, so it was hard to find time for private conversations. My parents decided that the best way to talk to me alone would be to wait until all of us children had gone to sleep, then wake me up for “the talk” while my younger brothers and sisters were in dreamland.

So it happened that late one evening I was awakened from a sound sleep, led into the living room, and seated across the coffee table from my parents. I could tell they were uncomfortable. They hemmed and hawed and beat around the bush, asking me if I had any questions about girls. I was still half asleep, wondering what the heck was going on here, and why was mom blushing?

Before long they got on with the program, and they were showing me anatomy diagrams from some big book, and explaining how moms and dads who love each other can have sex and make babies…well, you know the drill. I was doing my best to keep up, still being sleepy and all, but when they got down to the real nitty-gritty about the mechanics involved, I just was not connecting.

This all sounded kind of rough to me, trying to look at it from the female’s perspective. For some reason I had this mental image of the girl being hurt by all of this probing activity. I was thinking about pain and ripping flesh and bruising. I just couldn’t get past this idea of force, and I thought, why would a girl ever want to do this?

The more I questioned their explanations, the more embarrassed my mom became. I could tell that dad was getting frustrated, since he kept getting louder, somehow believing that would help me to understand. They kept trying to explain things to me, and I just was not grasping the concept. I thought mom was going to cry. Dad was getting so loud I was afraid he would wake up the whole house, and I was already embarrassed enough.

They were pitching, but I wasn’t catching.

Finally, in exasperation, my dad threw has hands up, and then slammed them down onto the coffee table. He glared at me, with his jaw clenched, and said, “Dammit son! When you eat a banana, do you force it into your mouth?”

At that moment, the scales fell from my eyes. I finally saw the light, and my expression of comprehension must have been revealing, because I swear my mom let out an audible sigh of relief. This whole ordeal had been rough on her.

Dad wanted to follow up and make sure I was connecting. “Do you get it now, son?” he asked, in a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, dad, I understand. Can I go back to bed now?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people so happy to end a conversation in my entire life. They both hugged me. “Go back to bed, Davey. If you have any more questions later, just come and ask us.”

Right…like I’d ever get into this discussion with them again!

Looking back, though, I do have to give my parents credit. They did make a sincere effort to talk to me about a very important subject. They could have thought it through a bit more, but their hearts were in the right place. Too many parents neglect their duty to help their children understand and navigate some of the more complicated issues in life, sex being at the top of that list.

So, patient reader, indulge me here while I make a posthumous testimonial: “Thanks, mom and dad. I miss you both. Thanks for doing your best to help me grow up. You weren’t perfect, but neither was I. Thanks for having your hearts in the right place.”

“I can’t help but think of you every time I walk through the produce aisle.”