The Birds & the Bees and the Fairies

Well the puberty talk popped its little head up again. You know that’s a little funny.

On a recent Saturday morning I am laying in bed reading. Kira, my wife, walks in with my oldest son Nicholas in tow. “Nick needs a little help with something. Go ahead Nick, ask your father, it’s okay.” I have an inkling what it’s about, Kira has been trying to get me to talk to Nick about the birds and the bees. Nick looks out the window, he shuffles his feet, eventually, he looks at me. “I don’t know. Dad will make fun of me.” I assure him, “Nicholas. If this is a sensitive topic, I will treat you with respect. You can ask me anything. I promise I won’t joke around.” Nick concentrates on his slippers. I still don’t know what the topic is, so I prompt my wife, as she sits on the side of the bed. “What does this concern? Is it something that happened at school?” “No, Nicholas has some questions about puberty, about how his body is going to change.” After some coaxing, Nick asks his question. “Dad, where does pubic hair come from?” How to answer this? We’ll come back to this later..

Usually my boys will ask these questions at the most inopportune time, causing me to spit my pea soup out in front of the waitress. So far, our efforts in the Spinner household to teach our boys about puberty and sex have been a series of feints, deflections and awkward non-sequiturs. Sitting in the living room I’ll hear Kira say, “Go ask your father, that’s his department.” My pat response has been, “Your mother is a nurse, she knows about stuff like that.” Usually, if I’m pinned down, I make jokes.

The boys are just as uncomfortable, I suppose the parents are supposed to be the mature ones right?  I call the conversations Nick and I have had, The “You Know” Tennis Match. We’ll be watching “2 ½ Men” and Charlie Sheen will make a joke about sleeping with women and Nicholas will laugh. I’ll pause the TV and ask, trying to figure out how much he knows.

“Nick, why did you laugh? Why is that funny?”
“Oh, you know Dad.”
“Nick I know why it’s funny but why do you think that’s funny?”
“Oh, you know. He’s talking about sex and stuff.”
“What does that mean Nick? Sex?”
“Dad, you know.”
“I’m not sure what you know is the point. And I want to be there for you if you have any questions about this stuff. So what does it mean? Sex?”
“Daaaaad, You know.”
“Just talk to me Nick.”
“You know, hugging and kissing and stuff.”
“Yes I do know. But it’s the and stuff I want to know if you know.”
“Yes DAD I know. Can we leave it alone?”
“Sure we can. But know that you can always ask me anything.”

Truth is, I am as relieved as Nick when these conversations end. I want to be the understanding father who my kids can come to and talk about anything. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to be that father. My father and I never talked about that stuff. Shouldn’t it be a little uncomfortable to talk to your dad about boners and pubic hair? Parenting is interesting because we want to take all of the good things our parents did with us and we want to tweak the things that maybe we see could have been improved upon. I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood in the 70’s, my father and I never talked about that stuff. And I think I turned out okay? I’m just not sure where I stand on this sex talk thing. I’m sure I’m probably dropping the ball. I act like I am there for my boys, I say all the right things, but at this point, in terms of the bird and the bees talk, I’ve been pretty slippery.

I avoid it because my friends and I learned it on the streets. Shouldn’t Nick learn about puberty like I did? Johnny Palladino, who started shaving for his Confirmation, pulled me and my buddy Tweety into the bathroom of my boyhood home. “Pssst, check this out!” Johnny Boy pulls his skivvies down revealing his adolescent starter kit. Now isn’t that better than some brochure from the school counselor? Or worse, something to be learned from his father?

I remember exactly where I was when I learned what the “F” word really meant. We were in 5th grade and my friends and I were on our walk to school. A few doors down from my house, we stopped in front of Mrs. Brody’s house. The Brody’s had this really cool climbing tree that the branches hung over the sidewalk. We used to hide in the tree at night and drop rubber bats, tied on fishing line, down on unsuspecting pedestrians. And it was under this tree that, with the help of my friends, I connected the dots on the sex act. My buddy Tweety was there again, explaining the science of it he says, “I’m telling you Spinner, look at how they are shaped! They go together, like this.” The evidence was overwhelming; I knew he was right. Then I had to gather myself for the walk to school. What a scene, me in my Catholic schoolboy uniform, thinking about my mom and dad doing it. Ugh! At least how many times? And my teachers! Ewww! Do I want to deprive Nick of these memories?

Of course you want your kids to have a healthy respect for the opposite sex and you want them to protect themselves etc…I’ve been taking an impromptu poll as I have been writing this piece and my friend’s stories are all similar to mine. Their responses, eerily the same. We recently visited an old Wall Street crony of mine, Steve Boyle. In discussing this topic over a few beers Steve said he had recently embarrassed his 7th grade daughter with a discussion of first base, second base. It sounded a lot like mine and Nick's verbal tennis game.  I asked Steve how he learned of the birds and the bees growing up in Verona, NJ... “My father and I would never talk about that stuff. He didn’t help me with that at all.” And Steve's been happily married for longer than I have.

I know the old method is not foolproof. We all made some mistakes along the way. I know I bumbled and fumbled my way through puberty but didn’t we all? I remember in 8th grade, the scuttlebutt was that Kevin J and Debbie V were “doing it.” Whispering in the hallway between classes someone told me that “Kevin had a condom in school!” I wondered, sitting there in my next class, if Kevin had to wear the condom all day long. And if so, would that be uncomfortable. So, maybe I could have used some help. Not sure how much help though. And should it have come from my dad?

My worry today is how much information is too much? Nick still believes in Santa Clause, do I want to take him to a birthing unit? Is it my responsibility to connect the dots for him? Nick believes babies come from hugging and kissing. Should I leave it at that for now? Do I want him to associate ME with this crashing of his innocence party? My fear is that I am going to give him a description of the actual act and of placentas and fluids and C-sections and he’s always going to connect that to me. I can’t have that. It’s too much pressure! His images of this should be more like mine. Don’t you agree?

When our dogs are humping on the front lawn as the yellow school bus pulls up in the morning, the windows are filled with laughing elementary school children. The dogs are both fixed by the way. In the Spinner house, the euphemism we use is the dogs are “dancing.” Nick says to me recently, “Dad, you know even Lenny the bus driver laughs when our dogs do that on the front lawn. And I know it’s not dancing.” So despite my avoidance and my ham-handed efforts to help him, he is learning something. I’m just not sure what.

We’ve all seen what happens when kids get too much info from their parents. The guys will know this. Weren’t we all lucky enough to date a girl who said, “My Mom and I are best friends. We tell each other everything.” Every guy can tell you, if you hear that while sipping margaritas you are in my friend. Kids and parents should be close, but best friends? Eating Mexican food at Panchito’s in the Village, I had this girl tell me that her mom took her for her diaphragm when she was 15. "Check please!"

I do know, as I am avoiding this talk, that I have to do something. I have sought help. Recently I went to a friend, Lee Hubbard, the Health teacher at my school. Lee teaches classrooms full of 8th graders about hormones and menstrual cycles. She hands out mimeographed pictures of the male and female genitalia, to 8th graders! She is the parent I want to be. Lee is accessible, patient, intelligent and mature; all with 25 giggling, squirming students in her class. Right now, I just want to do it with ONE. So one lunch period recently I stopped by the Health room, “Lee, Nick is asking questions, stuff comes up when we are watching TV. How much should I tell him? And when?” Lee told me this joke…Mom is in the kitchen with little Johnny, explaining to him in detail about sex, about where babies really come from. Johnny stares wide eyed during his mother’s lengthy, graphic lecture. When she is finished she asks, “Do you have any questions Johnny?” To which, Johnny says, “No Mom, that’s all very interesting. I was just asking because Brendan next door said he came from Ireland. I was just wondering where I came from?”

After the joke, Lee gave me some really good advice. She said to fish around to find out what Nick knows and then give him the additional information that you think he will need. This way you won’t give him more than he can handle.

Armed with Lee’s advice, let’s go back to my bedroom. Remember Nick had just asked me, “Dad where does pubic hair come from?” I put my book to the side, I sit up in bed to give this some thought. I am so proud of Nick for feeling comfortable enough to finally talk to me about it. I can feel Kira’s eyes watching me. Eventually I think of the perfect way to explain it. I suppress a smile, “Nick, you know how there’s a tooth fairy? And you put your teeth under your pillow and the tooth fairy comes at night and gives you money for your teeth? There’s also a Pubic Hair Fairy. And when you are asleep, this big hairy guy comes around and sprinkles pubic hair on you while you are sleeping.” Nick and I thought it was hysterical, Kira, not so much.