In the throes of a vicious migraine, I was blearily sitting in my kitchen, mumbling to my husband, The Daver, and waiting for the Vicodin to kick in. My eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out of my skull and onto my sandwich.
My eldest son chose that very inopportune moment to march into the kitchen with a horrified look on his face.
He'd been reading, I knew, from a book that The Daver and I had bought him when we'd found out that we were pregnant with his brother Alex. Why the renewed interest in baby-making, I didn't know, but he loves the book, which is good enough for me.
"LISTEN TO THIS," he said to us, a look of awe and disgust on his face.
I couldn't see what page he was on, but already I knew I wasn't prepared. Even with my eyeballs about to pop out of my skull, I knew what particular bit of the book he'd discovered.
"LISTEN TO THIS," our son crowed. "THE MAN PUTS HIS PENIS IN THE WOMAN'S VAGINA IN A SPECIAL SORT OF SLEEPING CALLED MAKING LOVE, OR HAVING SEX."
It was like we were in a Woody Allen movie or something. He said it so loudly that the whole neighborhood must've heard. It wasn't what he said, as much as the tone mixed with the horrified look on his face; it sent me over the edge.
I snickered into my hand. I didn't WANT to. I mean, I'd been preparing the sex talk for YEARS. And yet, here I was, laughing. It was just the way he said it.
After I regained my composure, I scooped up the results of my "special sleeping," who I like to call "Amelia," and dragged my headachey ass into the living room. No longer giggling, I asked if he had any questions.
He seemed to be mostly concerned that this "making special sleeping" was lurking around each corner, threatening to pounce on top of him, and was therefore relieved to learn that sex is something adults -- not children -- do.
We discussed puberty a bit as part of me quietly died inside as it was made evident my gangly 9-year-old was no longer a baby.
He seemed to accept it all remarkably well, considering. Once his fears about the rogue "love making" were resolved, he was concerned primarily with his voice changing. Typical, I thought. Promising to order him a book about puberty and continue the conversation as soon as he had more questions, he bopped off to bed.
As I sat holding the products of my "special sleeping," Amelia, I could feel the hairs on my head become grayer. Now, I'm waiting for the irate parental phone calls after Ben teaches his class about sex.
And the therapy bills. Luckily, I suppose, I have time to save for that.
What was your sex talk like? Did you get one? Did I just ruin my son for life?