The Talk

Photo by Karen Barefoot

Maybe we should sit down for this.

I made a recent trip to the bookstore for some help. Daughter Dearest is starting to ask questions that I'm not ready to answer.

I mean, I could answer them, but not in a way that won't scar her for life (remind me to tell you sometime what Lauren Myracle, Harriet Tubman, and erections have in common; after that conversation I stopped saving for college; I'm saving for her therapy).

I was standing in the Parenting section, thumbing through books about how to talk to our kids about s-e-x, and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole because holy moly there's an illustration of how to put a condom on in this one, and I am not ready for that discussion!

Blushing, I re-shelved the book and noticed an adorable pregnant woman standing beside me, looking over What to Expect When You're Expecting.

I hated being pregnant. I was, without a doubt, the world's worst pregnant lady. I spent almost ten months (x2) of my life feeling like my body had been overrun by aliens. Mean, cranky, kick you in the kidney while you're trying to sleep aliens.

But watching this woman grimace over the illustration of the baby's head crowning, jealousy flooded my veins. I wanted to shove the condom picture at her to prove that hers was the easier of our tasks.

In the end, I bought the book with lots of sidebars, conversation starters, and pictures of happy families laughing (as they talked about s-e-x). I got home and shoved it in a closet. Sometimes, at night, I can hear it taunting me.

I know we have to have the talk because Daughter Dearest cornered me the other day to ask, very seriously, if teenage pregnancy was a disorder.

What?

I was reading Lauren Myracle's THIRTEEN on the floor of Daughter's room when she interrupted with this question.

"You know," she says, hand on hip and speaking slowly so her idiot mother can catch up, "like gluten intolerance or ADHD?"

Uh, no. Not a disorder.

"Then what is it?"

A series of bad choices? I answer, hearing my voice rise at the end like a pubescent boy.

She sits across from me, arms folded over her chest, waiting for my explanation.

Remember when you asked, '"What does erect mean?'" And we discovered it has different connotations depending on how it's used in a sentence. Remember? 

At this point in my babbling, she holds her hands up in surrender. "Yes! I remember."

Oh, good.

I glance around wondering why I don't keep bottles of wine stashed in her room for moments like these.

Remember how I said there was more to the discussion about erections and girl parts and boy parts and babies?

She nods, her eyes wizening.

Teenage pregnancy kind of goes along with that discussion. You said before you weren't ready. Are you ready now?

I say this real calm and cool, like I'm totally prepared to tell a ten-year-old all about s-e-x.

Because if you're ready, we can talk.

She studies her hands before hopping up. "I think I'd rather brush my teeth and go to bed."

Silent cheering in my head.

Okay, honey. If that's what you want. We'll wait.

Next day, I was staring at illustrations of erect penises at the book store.

I'm a reader. It's what I do. Am I going to share all the information in that awful book with my little girl? Hell no.

But, I like to do my research, and I'm thinking the "You might say . . . " portions might come in handy because if there's a script maybe I won't end up having another "Harriet Tubman" conversation with Daughter.

I do find some relief knowing that my mom's method for having "the talk," is also not in the book.

My mom is the awesomest mom I know, but even she kind of screwed that one up.

I found out about sex from some jerk on the school bus. I went to my mom for reassurance that what I'd heard was NOT true (how could THAT be true?). She patted the couch for me to sit.

It was true. All of it.

"Honey," she says, "it's no big deal. Really. The boy puts his . . ."

She trails off, and I'm fidgeting because my mom's about to say penis, but she doesn't say penis.

Oh, no.

She says, ". . . dick . . . in the girl's . . ."

My mom just said dick! And she's pausing again! What in the hell is she going to say next?

I shout out--

Vagina!

--like I've just solved a puzzle on The Wheel of Fortune. Anything to stop the carnage.

"Good, honey." Mom pats my leg.

I blank out after that. The next thing I remember is hopping off the couch, excusing myself to go brush my teeth and go to bed.

Like mother like daughter.

So, yeah. I'm going to read my book first.

Which, I'll have you know, does not say dick.

It says shaft.

I'm in so much trouble!