"The Talk"

Our pediatrician presented me with a nice little booklet when Max turned five. You know the one - filled with all those black-and-white 50's photos of bunnies and calves, and profile slice-views of gravid creatures great and small. It was titled "A Doctor Talks to 5-to-8 Year Olds." Only, as luck would have it, the doctor had no plans of following me home to do the honor.

I dutifully set it aside, waiting for what seemed like the proper moment. And it dutifully sat for some 2 ½ years - staring at me, calling me, eating a hole in my stomach lining.

Eventually I got a pertinent question out of my little Max regarding some fundamentals of raccoon reproduction, and decided that the time had come. Or that I might as well just get it over with before I lost my nerve.

As previously agreed, I provided the appropriate warning to my husband, whereupon he swiftly left the premises for his previously appointed bomb shelter - presumably to return when things were once again "safe." Presumably.

You see, we had discussed this eventuality before we even started our family. After much debate, we decided that he would be in charge of: providing food, clothing, and shelter for the family; protecting us from all manner of wild carnivorous beasts; and the grill. I, in turn, would be in charge of "The Talk." He walked away from that transaction with a smug look that suggested he'd bagged Manhattan for a pocket full of Mardi Gras beads.

Now it was payola time. So I invited Max into a cozy corner with my handy-dandy little tell-all book, and a knot in my esophagus the size, apparently, of a four-month old giraffe fetus.

This is where all those years of reading aloud to my kids paid off. I just clicked on the reading autopilot and cruised through the first three chapters like nobody's business. The fish roe part: cakewalk. Chickens: a breeze. Dogs and cats: a little more graphic, but nothing to get excited about.

But then we hit the dreaded chapter 4 - the part about the "stiffening" of the Tab A and the "inserting" into Slot B - it was excruciating. In my opinion, they do not make enough mood-altering drugs for the reading of chapter 4.

It's amazing how one can cover page after page of biology basics in one's jauntiest story time voice while simultaneously scrubbing oneself with lye soap on the inside.

Conversely, it's amazing how one's SON can be listening astutely while simultaneously asking questions such as, "How's my tongue connected to my mouth?" and, "Does a mosquito die after it bites you, like a bee?"

He was no help whatsoever.

I soon realized that the very reason our doctor instructs parents to tackle The Talk early is that a normal 5-to-8 year old, while capable of understanding basic body mechanics, is pleasantly unable to grasp the embarrassing emotional component. Thus he doesn't recoil instantly into rigor mortis, or sputter whatever the modern slang equivalent to "Gross Out!" happens to be these days. Instead he begs you to turn back to the "Frog Rear-Entry Kama-Sutra Position" part and asks you about the baseball cap on the wholesome-looking kid whose picture is on the facing page.

Three centuries later, and sporting a brand new facial tic, I made it to the end of chapter 4. I then breathed a sigh of sweet relief because all I had yet to cover was pregnancy, birth, infancy, childhood, and puberty!

How many pages is this booklet anyway? EIGHTY SEVEN? Kill me now.

Birthing.
Lord - did I do that? He cracks nary a smirk. He's very interested in the doctor's mask, however. Can we make one after we're done reading?

Infancy.
Look! The mother birds are feeding their young regurgitated worms. Have I mentioned how much I love birds!

Nursing.
They leave this part mostly to garden-variety farm animals. I think they're trying to drive home the MILK connection. Very subtle. I get it.

Home stretch!
Puberty.
Blessedly brief, unlike the actual process, which in boys has been known to last for decades or longer - especially if you're David Spade. There is inexplicably a picture of Timmy and Lassie on this page. Lassie! Mommy can't get "menstruation" out without choking. Go get help!

The "Bleck!" prize in this 87-page tome ultimately goes to the umbilical stump on the new baby picture (ref pg 59). And the *only probing question is whether the snipping of said disgusting umbilical hurts or not.

My answer is a tad curt, certainly unimaginative, as I'm mostly repeating "One kid down, one to go" over and over in my mind, and mentally scanning the contents of the refrigerator for leftover cooking sherry.

When I notice the last page.
Inside the rear cover.
"Enjoy our entire SERIES of mini books!
Premenstrual Syndrome
Breast Self-Examination
Sexually Transmitted Disease
Birth Control and You"

I hope that bomb shelter is well stocked.