After my oldest son’s first week of kindergarten, he came home and asked me a very special question.
“Mommy,” he says very seriously, “Conner said that boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas. Is that true?”
After I picked up my chin which had fallen all the way to floor (leaving quite a noticeable bruise, I might add), I looked closely at my son. He still looked like he was only five. I considered his friend, Conner. Conner was the youngest of three boys. My son was the oldest of three boys. The youngest of a set of three of anything learns things at a much younger age than their older siblings.
I pulled my son to me, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Yes, Scott, what you heard is true, but listen closely, because this is important. Boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas, but NOT UNTIL THEY ARE TWENTY.”
My mother died when I was eleven, so I feel fortunate that everything I had needed to know was explained to me well before that.
She was always quite open to talking to me about anything – even before I even knew there was anything to talk about. I remember her and my father sitting me down and telling me that it was time for me to consider wearing a bra. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind yet, but I just shrugged and said OK. It was simply no big deal.
One day when I was about eight or nine I guess my Mom decided that it was time to answer any questions that I had about sex. Perhaps she thought I was too shy to bring it up myself? Honestly, I think I was just a bit too innocent. I never thought about sex or wondered where babies came from. In retrospect it seems a bit unnatural my lack of curiosity.
My Mom sat me down at her friend’s place with a book, and told me about sex. She explained that a man put a penis in a woman’s vagina and that’s how babies were formed. She also explained about menstruating and what to do, and why it happened. She used all the correct words and didn’t sugar coat anything.
I was astonished by the whole thing. I simply had no suspicions that such an act ever occurred. I had a bit more idea about the period thing since I had seen her supplies around the house–but it just seemed like a grown up thing, and I didn’t fuss about it.
I’m glad that I had it all explained to me while I had the chance to absorb it, with the opportunity for follow-up questions. I didn’t get my period until I was twelve and she was gone – so at least I didn’t have to burden my poor father with my ignorance.
All in all, I think I had the best possible experience with “the talk.”
One sunny spring morning I was helping my mother with the dishes while a soap opera played in the background. I was six or so, and for some reason kept running between the rooms.
At one point, a woman was straining to have a baby. Her brow was moist. Her hair messy, but still pretty. She was wearing an ugly hospital gown and screaming. AND screaming. Pan to a shot of giant open mouth, cut to a shot of squalling, screaming baby.
Well I thought…I know a secret!
I ran back to the kitchen, and tugged on my mother’s wet sleeve.
“Mom!” I proudly crowed, “I know how BABIES are made!!!”
There was a pause. A moment later,
“Really?” This came out slightly strangled.
“Uh-huh. That lady was screaming and the baby, it came out of her mouth! Then she stopped yelling.”
I don’t remember my mother’s face, but I do seem to recall her hands gripping the counter tightly.
A week or so later, I was messing around in the area we called “the library”, really just eight shelves of books and a giant eight-track player. Sitting on top of the eight-track was a very pink, and very cutesy book, the name of which escapes me at the moment. I do remember that it was clear on one thing-when a man and a woman love each other, they become VERY close, and nine months later, a baby comes. Through the vagina.
Reading the book alone, I didn’t really get it. I sorta knew the parts, but really, I didn’t. But the pictures were fun.
Flash forward to my own daughters. By three each knew the proper terms for their “equipment,” and boys’. And it’s not a big deal-as I explained to my eldest, you wouldn’t give your elbow some silly name, so why your vulva or penis?
One day, rooting in the book bins at my favorite thrift store, I found a new copy of A Child is Born and immediately snatched it. It was exactly what I would have wanted to have, and wanted my daughters to see. Exactly how a baby is made, created, and birthed.
Showing them was not traumatic. Uncomfortable yes, especially for my husband at the page with the erect, infrared penis. Sitting with my girls, and showing them, exactly what their bodies can do if they want, and how they do them, was freeing. No more soap opera babies or white knuckle conversations. Just glorious pictures of the miracle of our bodies.
When I was in second grade, a boy on the bus said I had “sexy legs.” I had never heard the term so when I arrived home, I asked my mother what it meant.
I honestly don’t know what she said in response, but a few days later we found ourselves at the local park. My mother had decided that with the “sexy legs” comment, I should better understand sex. My mother went through the biological description, using the scientific terms and explaining the reason for sex.
At no point did she mention that it was also done for pleasure and until I was in high school, I genuinely thought my parents had had sex twice: once for me and once for my brother.
I remember when my mother gave me the sex talk. I was seven years old. It was 1975.
She dispatched me and my two younger sisters, ages five and three, to the kitchen to “discuss something important.” Before she went about the business of making dinner, she instructed the three of us to sit together with our backs against the fridge. I remember its motor a gentle, lulling resonance as we all wondered what could be so pressing an issue as to pull us away from our Barbie dolls.
I don’t remember her exact words, just that they carried much weight, as if she had a burden to unload but was afraid to overwhelm us. I do remember that after she was done talking she showed the three of us a book. It was a hulking coffee-table book that was chock-full of graphic, 12 x 16 images; black and white photographs depicting people naked. I thought the pictures were fascinating, wondrous, and inherently beautiful. Inside the pages were artful photographs of nude, long-haired hippie women nursing their naked babies. In some pictures the father appeared beatifically peering over the shoulder of the mother, he too, free from the constraints of clothing. The second section of the book depicted children, also in the nude, and in various stages of explorative body play; a tweak at a child’s nipple by a curious four year-old or a point at a penis by an inquisitive toddler.
Many years later Mom learned that the (apparently) titillating tome had been banned from reproduction and distribution on the grounds that it constituted child pornography. However, I was not distressed at all by any of the pictures I witnessed. Nor was she. She was sure it was an appropriate introduction into the world of sex. What child would not be curious? In fact I was in awe. And it was an admiration that I would carry with me for many years.
I remember clearly during the summer break of the 3rd grade, while my mother was at work, babysitter planted in front of the television, my sisters and I making our way, quickly and quietly to Mom’s closet and unearthing that book hidden under clothing on a shelf. We would surreptitiously thumb through the pages, admiring curiously the candid, naked shots of these fascinating people. The last sections of the book were all pictures of men and women making love. On one page, the shot was a close-up of the shaft of a man’s penis, testicles dangling. Its girth filled the woman’s vagina, its glory masked in black, soft, bushy pubic fur. Other photos were less graphic, but they were still photos of men and women fucking.
And in the very last pages, there were pictures of babies. Babies being born, vaginas opening up, tiny heads crowning. And finally, couples looking into the eyes of their newborns and each other as if to say, “It was all worth it.” And, I remember that in all of the pictures in that book of photography, in the faces of the people who were literally laying themselves out there for the sake of sexual education and perhaps art, I saw something that I now, as an adult, equate with having sex. I saw ecstasy.
My mother showed us that book because she was adamant that my sisters and I be educated about sex. She herself was NOT and she paid for that lack of knowledge dearly. Mom had, before I was born, relinquished not one, but two babies for adoption.
The summer after I turned 21, and after my parents divorce was final, my mother sat the three of us down one afternoon at the kitchen table, much like she did the day she gave us the sex talk. She told us her story.
They were full siblings. My father’s children too; a baby boy and a baby girl, just one year apart.
I always knew I had a brother. From a very young age I could feel it in my soul. A charcoal drawing of me when I was three years old, with my bowl haircut and cable knit turtleneck could have been a portrait of a boy. I told everyone that inquired about it that it was my brother. Similarly, my imaginary friend, Tom, was my brother. In my mind, my brother had died. But, as I sat there that afternoon at the kitchen table as my mother told her story, I realized he was alive. The four of us decided that we needed to find him. We also needed to find her.
Mom wasn’t completely keen on the idea initially. She hated to disrupt their lives and she feared the rejection that was potentially imminent. But, after some persuasion by the three of us, aligned in solidarity by the notion that we had been denied their presence for so long already, she conceded. How could she possibly stand in the way of us getting to know them?
During our quest to find them, which included various methods, including private investigators, lengthy telephone calls to adoption agencies and letters put in their adoption files with information on how to contact my mother should they so choose, it dawned on me for the very first time ever, that my mother was a sexual being. She had not planned to have those babies. She hadn’t planned to birth any of us, except my middle sister. She had become pregnant because she liked having sex with my dad but was completely uneducated to the fact that a child could be produced from her pleasure. It was a revelation to me, to realize this other part of my mother. And it is truly when our relationship changed and we became not just mother and daughter, but also friends.
We eventually found the two babies who of course were by then grown up adults. And the relationships we’ve had with them have been somewhat awkward, often sporadic, and occasionally tumultuous. Which, given the circumstances, is to be expected really.
But I am happy to say that my brother, the one that on a deeply subconscious level I always knew was there, is in my life. Again. Finally.
And for that I can thank my mother. My mother who, because she liked sex and assumed that her daughters might too, enlightened us early as to what it is, what it means and how it works.
With pictures and everything.
–Submitted by Sexy Sadie, from Confessions from My Open Marriage
Ever since my nephew was a little boy, I’ve watched him so my sister could do many of her daily chores, work and go to class. As his daily companion, I’ve answered hundreds of questions regarding everything from the nature of existence to the actions of the birds and the bees. My family has always been very open in its discussion of sexuality, though my parents used euphemistic terms.
When D was ready for preschool, he became very aware of babies, daddies, mommies, and all their differences. My brother’s wife was having a baby, and suddenly D had to know where they came from. Turning to me, he asked with beaming curiosity, “Where will Uncle H and Aunt J get their baby?
I don’t believe in lying about these things–I feel sure that demystifying sex leads to a healthier understanding of it and healthier practices later. So I explained to the best of my ability in terms this bright child could understand.
Several months passed, and I had agreed to substitute in D’s school for the day; his teacher was a friend of mine, and I was pleased to have a day with children, my favorite of all people. During nap time, D asked if I could read to him, and I happily nestled into his cot to read a book he had chosen from the shelf.
The theme of the week was Knowing Our Bodies, and the book he brought to me was filled with transparencies and rather graphic descriptions of intercourse. I read quietly to him, but when a little group began to gather around us, I said, “D, perhaps we should choose another book.” My feeling was that parents have the right to decide for themselves how much their three-year-olds know about sexuality. I’d be open to tell them all about it, in metered terms, but for a serious respect for others beliefs and approaches.
When I said this, one little girl, the one whose parents I most worried about insulting chimed, “Oh, don’t worry, D has already told us all about how a man uses his penis to put the sperm in the woman’s vagina, and when the sperm finds an egg there it fights its way in to make a baby.” I just about choked, but all the children just smiled at me.
Later in the week, I bumped into the little girl’s mother, a colleague of mine. She said sweetly, “Don’t worry about a thing. We’re so glad she understands. It just isn’t a problem at all, and we never would have known how to tell her.”
I don’t remember when I first asked my mother where babies came from. She insists I asked almost as soon as I could speak. So she rented an animated cartoon for me to explain everything. When I was ten or eleven she rented the cartoon for me again along with another film in the series about puberty.
My mom was really good about talking to me about these things but she knew I liked my privacy. I was always screaming about my privacy. I hated my brother or sister coming anywhere near me or my room. If my mother and I were talking, especially about private matters, I would beat the stuffing out of my siblings if I caught them eavesdropping.
So when my mother wanted to make sure I really knew everything I needed to know about sex she did it in a way she thought would get the messages to me and respect my need for privacy. I came home one day and found It’s Perfectly Normal sitting on my bed.
The book was amazing. It was full of wonderful illustrations and cartoons. I got to follow a little cartoon bird and bee through their learning about sex and puberty.
I invited my friends over and we giggled over the pictures. We particularly loved an illustration of a boy dropping a stick of chalk in shock as he stood before a blackboard with an erection.
When we started to learn about sex-ed in school we were shown some of the videos I’d seen already. I happily bragged about how I already knew this stuff. I think our hapless gym teacher was a bit flustered by my attitude and wanted to know how I knew so much. So I brought in my book and lent it to him! I still remember how baffled the class was when we got some photocopied handouts from that book. No one could believe that the quiet, well-behaved little girl would have a book like that or that I’d be so fine with chatting about it.
It never occurred to me that other children didn’t know this stuff. I thought it was perfectly normal to know about sex. I was happy to chat about it with friends and even strangers. Only my poor mother got the cold shoulder when it came to discussing the topic.
Someday I really will have to thank her for that book. Strangely enough despite my distaste for discussing these things with family I passed the book on to my younger siblings. I hope they appreciated it as much as I did.
“How big is your bladder?” my dear son asked me one night a few weeks back.
I told him it all depended on how much urine the bladder was holding. “It’s like a balloon. If there’s a lot of fluid in it, it gets big. If there’s not a lot in there, it’s smaller.”
“So, if it’s empty, how big?” he asked.
I made a circle with my thumb and index finger. “About this big most likely. Why?”
He looked at me with all the seriousness an 8-year old can muster. “Well, I have these two things that are like balls down here…” patting his groin.
I had to keep myself from laughing as I moved his hand up just a little higher. “This is where your bladder is. Those ‘balls’ are your testicles, sweetie. And, guess what? Some people do call them balls.”
“They do?”
“Yes, they do.” Mr. Wide Eyes then asked what testicles are for. “Your testicles produce sperm when you get a little older. Sperm is half of what is needed to make a baby.”
I figured I’d offer up a little more information because I knew he’d ask. “How does the sperm get from your testicles to where the baby is made?” Little Dude asked.
“Inside your body are these little tiny tubes that are all coiled up. They go from your testicles, meet up just below your penis, and then there’s just one tube. It takes the sperm from there to the end of your penis. It comes out there.”
LD didn’t believe me. He started to ask another question and stopped. Several times. I asked him if he wanted to know more. He looked at me and frowned. “Is this the part where girls are involved?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks. I’m done for now. I just really wanted to know if these balls were where all my pee is stored.”
“Nope, not there, buddy.”
“Okay, good. I don’t think I want to be playing with these if that’s where the urine is. I didn’t want to squeeze them and end up peeing my pants because of it.”
“Oh, okay.” What else could I say? “Um, just make sure, if you’re going to play with them that you do it at home and not out in public, okay?”
“No way, Mom! I wouldn’t do that. These are mine. I don’t want anyone else to see them.”
Yeah, yeah. He says that now. In a couple of years it’ll be a different story. And I’ll be ready to deal with that when it’s time.
–Submitted by DaGoddess (A warning: most people who come to my site aren’t always looking for this sort of tale, preferring, it seems, transgendered experience, which is okay, but is nowhere near what my son and I discussed. On the other hand, it’s a great way to bring in new readers! Especially those who are sex positive.)
|
|
Recent Comments