Birds, Bees & Other Unmentionables

For the last time, it was that time, again.  I had to have "the talk" with one of my sons.

I had been getting hints from Christy for quite some time, but I kept putting it off.  It's not a comfortable thing.  Very rarely do two such simple words instill such fear in the hearts of men: "the" and "talk."  Really, who came up with this whole idea anyway?  Could anything be any more difficult to explain to an unwitting innocent child?

Of course, I would have put it off further, but we got the letter from school.  The one that you have to sign saying its okay for the school to teach your child about the Reproductive System.  I couldn't send my son into that clinic of giggles and finger pointing without some preparation, some knowledge that would help it all make sense, so that he wouldn't have to ask the teacher for a bucket to get sick in.

You've got to remember what its like to be a fifth grader.  I kind of remember getting "the talk" from my own father.  We were riding in the car and he was trying to drive and explain at the same time while making hand gestures like some sort of wild puppet show from heck.  But I appreciated that father-son moment, I appreciated his effort, as difficult as it must have been for him, and most of all, I didn't ask for a bucket to get sick in.  Of course, like every kid, I already knew all about it by the time my father got around to telling me the facts of life.  In fact, I was giving "the talk" to my friends, all poor unenlightened sons of procrastinating fathers, ever since - well, the fifth grade.  So, at least I had that experience to fall back on.

I also had two older sons who got "the talk" but I'm not even sure they remember it.  Some folks tend to block out unpleasant memories, myself included.  I think one was in a fast food restaurant, and one was on a drive somewhere.  (Without the fancy puppet show, of course.  I believe "the talk" was never intended to be a multi-media event.)  Of course, one of my sons claims we never had "the talk,", but I'm sure he's wrong.  I'm equally sure that a lot of dads think they are giving "the talk" when actually, when all is said and done, their sons walk away with no clue what the old man was mumbling about.

And so, the day of reckoning arrived, and I was going to make sure I did it right -- at least once.  I asked my son if he'd like to go on a walk.  His little sister responded first, with much enthusiasm.

"No, you can't come with us, sweetie."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to talk to your brother."
"About what?"
"Uh.  Something.  It's a secret."
"I want to know!  Can you tell me the secret?!"

I was already blowing it and we weren't even out the door yet.  After some promises that her mommy would tell her later (much later), my son and I started off around the neighborhood.  We walked, we small talked, and we walked some more, and all the while I was wondering, where do I begin this conversation that overlays its devilish designs upon mere innocent souls?

Wait, what did he just say? Something about an animal or plant or something.  Birds, bees, flowers.  There's my opening.  I never really thought that would work, but I'll take it.

"So," I said casually, yet with all manliness, "what do you know about how flowers make other flowers."  He knew all about it and gave me a lecture on pollen and chlorophyll and some other stuff, which may or may not have been correct.  I wasn't really listening - I was planning my next move.

"And so, animals are like plants.  They have to make other animals, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And do you know how they do that?"
"Sure.  Well, maybe.  Uh . . . not really."

At this point, I had my big question ready.  The one I had rehearsed in front of the mirror and that would make it all make sense, that would bring it to a spiritual level and enlighten my son with truth.

"Do you know the one god-like power that Heavenly Father gave us?"
"Ummm . . . repentance?" 

That's my boy.  Go back to the primary basics when you have no idea what the answer is.

"No, not repentance.  He gave us the power to create life, and its inside of me and its inside of you."

I was on a roll now.  From there I explained the power, and its sacredness, and how it was only to be used at a certain time and never before then.  I talked about why boys are attracted to girls and vice versa.  We talked about how boys and girls are different and how bodies change when they get older, and how boys and girls want to be close to each other when they are in love.  It was all starting to make sense, even to me.

And then we got to the part where I had to get into the details.  And that's where I sort of stumbled a bit.

"And so you've heard of this thing called 'sex' right?"
"Oh yeah, I know all about that." 

For a moment I believed him.  What goes around, comes around.  Some other fifth grader had gotten the jump on me.

"Really?  Well what do you know about it?"
"Um, well.  Uh . . . I don't really know about it."
"You hear about it on TV, and probably your friends talk about it, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what it is, is . . ."

And then the moment was upon me.  I had to tell him.  He was going to learn about it sooner or later.  I had worked up to it with all the proper prefaces, all the importance of how it was sacred, and only reserved for married people, and that it was natural and it was okay, and one day it would all make sense.  I had done all I could to prepare him for this revelation, this right of passage.  And so, without any puppet shows, I told him using just plain words.  Then I waited for a response, but received none.  So, I told him again, just to make sure he understood.  He remained silent.  I said, it'll make more sense when you're older.  Still nothing.  I said, you'll actually WANT to do that someday, with an emphasis on the someday being after he was married.  Silence. 

And then, it occurred to me.  It was sinking in.  Innocence was fading before my eyes, but I had succesfully done my duty as a father.  The knowledge of generations was passed on.  We had gotten through it.  My youngest boy was growing up.  Ahh, I had done it, and he had survived unscarred!

After a few moments, as I basked in the glory of a job well done, I sensed he wanted to speak.  What would he say?  Thanks, dad, you're the greatest?  Wow, dad, you've enlightened my soul?  Gosh, dad, never have such challenging thoughts been expressed so eloquently?  What words of newfound wisdom would come forth?

And then he broke the silence.  "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I need a bucket."