Catholic parents, let me take this moment to commend you. When it comes to education in . . . well, you know, the — ahem — facts of life, you have bravely stood up for parental rights. You have said: “These delicate matters are for parents to attend to! No one must usurp this right! It is a solemn duty that comes from above!” Papal documents in hand, you have prevailed.
I congratulate you, brave parents. You did it. You won this battle not just for yourselves but for all of us. I have you to thank for preserving my God-given right to discuss certain . . . unmentionables with my children. Thanks a lot.
By the way, do you think you could help me out? I’m a bit overdue on the little “talk” and I figured — you being brave and smart and all — you could just fill in for me. I know — it’s my job. Okay, you could pretend you’re me. I won’t tell. I’ll even let you wear my clothes. Here, use the car. Heck, why don’t I just give you the car? You’ve earned it. I know: You could take the car and drive my kids out to some remote location and explain it to them. As soon as they reemerge from under the seats, bring them back.
The fact is, I come from a long line of cowards. Don’t ask me how cowards like my Yankee ancestors produced long lines; they aren’t generally believed capable of it. But I’m here to say, they did manage.
Funny how inhibited societies are so fertile and this present one — in which women buy girlie magazines in the supermarket — is so sterile. It doesn’t make sense. Did you see those ladies who were part of the polygamy compound? Necklines up to their chins, sleeves down to their knuckles — 17 children apiece. The cover girl on Cosmopolitan owns a cat.
Anyway, my ancestors left me nothing to go on. There are no words I can repeat as heard from my mother, and her mother before. My mom tried to have the talk with me. In her mind, I’m sure she did. That’s the flip-side of being a Yankee: You do what you have to do, and like it. Which is probably where the long lines came from.
So she told me in very candid language — which is best for such occasions: “Don’t sit on boys’ laps.” “Why?” I asked innocently, a mere child of 17. “Well, er . . .” she went on, “boys, when they reach a certain age . . . want to . . . become fathers.”
This struck me as odd. I tested the information on guys I knew in high school. Take Keg Barnacle, the guy passed out in the cafeteria. As he lay under the table, was he in fact dreaming about pushing a small child on the swings? Or Thug Simpleton, the guy peeling out of the school parking lot. Was this a ruse? Did he nurture a secret desire to own a station wagon?
I didn’t get it. But when the time came, it didn’t stop me from dutifully bringing children into the world. Children that are now coming of age. Oh, don’t remind me.
Hey! How about a book? Books have been the tried and true method of copping out for decades. I mean, why else do you teach kids to read but to get out of having to talk to them about this stuff? Lots of respectable parents rely on books.
Wait a minute, I forgot. In the immortal words of a respectable parent, who once bravely won for me the right to not shirk my sacred duty: “Books are indecent.” Oh.
Well, there are always more traditional methods — like bad companions, PG-13 movies, and billboards advertising beer. Hey, it was good enough for me.
Yet the gutter alone is not sufficient. No, I need something spiritual. Something that teaches the kids the truth, beauty, and meaning of all this sort of thing. Somewhere out there, there must be a book that can aid me in my duty. One to which even really strict parents would grant an imprimatur.
I found one. It was written before Vatican II by a priest, which makes it sound. (Perhaps the author was one of my ancestors.) In it there are several pages devoted to birds, bees, and flowers. There are none involving kegs and station wagons. There are no pictures. Everything presented is sacred and pure and may be observed going on in one’s own backyard in broad daylight. Binoculars are recommended.
I am giving the book to my children without reserve. Soon they will know all there is to know about botany.
As for the rest of it, they’ll just have to figure it out the way their ancestors did.