K-Says...The Birds, Bees and Kids

The Birds, Bees & Kids
By: KK

I always promised myself that I would be open and honest with my children about sex. I never really saw how the one time "Birds and the Bees" chat really accomplished anything other than embarrassing the child and pushing the humiliated parent into downing a bottle of Prozac. I figured that if sex was an open issue from day one and things were explained as the children grew up, the whole sex issue would be much easier to handle for everyone. So far my seven year old daughter and nine year old son trust me enough to ask questions. I on the other hand, keep a firm grip on my Prozac bottle for the untimely moments that they choose to announce their latest findings or ask the pertinent, detailed sex questions in front of the neighbors, their friends parents or Grandma.

When the kids were toddlers they began to explore there little bodies and were curious as to what the interesting playthings were between their legs. I was never a fan of anyone calling genitalia pee-pee's, coochies, cha cha's, wee wee's, tinkles or any other ridiculous pet name. I would be mortified to find out that my son was in high school flashing his ding-a-ling in the locker room. My mother always referred to the vagina as stuff. What the hell is stuff? That word alone could get a girl in trouble. Stuff my stuff baby. Do you want to see my stuff? My stuff has it's period today. My stuff is dirty, I need to clean my stuff. My stuff is tired.Do you get my point now? So, I decided that I would teach my children the technical names...penis and vagina.

At three years old they each decided it was time to tell the world about their private parts. In the grocery store my son would point to people and exclaim loudly, He has a penis Mommy! or She has a vagina Mommy! If there were fifty-three people in the store, then fifty-three people were informed as to what type of genitalia they had. My son thought that maybe they didn't already know and they should be educated. He was extremely proud of his revelations. My daughter decided that telling people about their private parts was not good enough. She was going to show them what a vagina was. She proudly walked through restaurants, malls and school lifting her dress, pointing to her panties and blurting out, I have a vagina! Then she would explode in fits of giggles. My kids were fully aware that they were successfully humiliating the crap out of me and they were loving life. I survived that stage with hard liquor and pills.

Last year the kids decided to hit me with the Where do babies come from? question. This wasn't the first time I had heard this question. The children have always known that babies came from Mommy's tummy. At breakfast one morning, right before school they decided that the tummy thing wasn't a clear enough description. Not only had I not had my coffee yet, I was out of Prozac and the children would not let up. They tag teamed me.

"Mom, where do babies come from?"

Me: "From Mom's stomach."

"Yeah, we know that. But how do they get in there?"

Me: "Mom and Dad make the baby together."

"Yeah, we know that. But how?"

(I'm choking on my Cheerios now and will soon need the Heimlich maneuver. Which I'm certain my kids don't know how to perform.)

Me: "They have sex. They make love."

"Yeah, we know you love each other. But what exactly is sex?"

(I pour some Vodka into my coffee. The air is getting thick and I'm feeling faint.)

Me: "Ok, listen up. Mom has eggs inside of her and Dad has sperm inside of him. Sex is when Dad's penis and Mom's vagina meet for a date. The eggs and the sperm decide if they want to party and if they like each other they stick together and turn themselves into a baby. Mom suffers for nine months while the party continues and out comes the baby."

(Of course I am stupid enough to think that I have answered their questions at this point.)

"What kind of eggs do you have inside Mom? Are they like chicken eggs? What is
sperm? Does sex hurt? How old do you have to be to have sex? Does it hurt when
the baby comes out? Do you need drugs for that?"

(The dog looks at me with a big grin on her face and I swear I heard her giggle. I grip the countertop and control the desire to kick the dog. This conversation started at 7:00 am and it is only 7:03 am. The pressure is going to make my head explode and I'm out of Vodka.)

Me: "No, my eggs aren't like chicken eggs. The sperm description will have to wait until biology class. Sex does not hurt and since you are my kids, you will never be old enough to have sex. Since your father is an attorney, this means sex is illegal for the kids in this house. We will have you arrested. It's excruciating pain when the baby comes out and I would opt for bamboo shoots under my finger nails next time. Drugs are not only a requirement for childbirth, it is also required to have a sex talk at breakfast with kids.Any other questions?"

"Can we have another Pop Tart please?"

They abruptly ended the interrogation and I had to quickly cover my ass and throw in the moral stuff. I informed them that they were not to go to school and educate their friends about sex. I didn't need parents calling me and ripping my head off about sperm and eggs. This was a private conversation that stayed in our home. I also told them that people only have sex when they love each other, blah, blah, blah. They didn't even look up at me. They gnawed away at their Pop Tarts and left the table.

Last month I overheard my daughter talking about French Kissing. I pulled both kids aside and asked if they knew what it meant. It's when two people stick their tongues in each other's mouths. They told me they heard this at school and I verified that their definition was technically correct. I also let them know that it is incredibly gross to swap spit like that and if I caught them doing it before the age of forty-five, then I would cause them bodily harm. Maybe next month they'll educate me on the meaning of foreplay.