where did i come from?

Unpacking old boxes so I can repack them again for return-emigration (go figure), I’ve just come across a dusty copy of Where Do I Come From? I have no idea why it's still in my possession - I didn't know it was; and there it is - bam! - a bold font cover that tugs me straight back to my own childhood, hitting me about the head with recollections of page-pawing and innocent wonder. And its revival comes, oddly enough, after the recent umpteenth quizzing by son and daughter on the subject of procreation. Although the question yesterday - having got nowhere with 'how did daddy get a seed into your tummy?' - was ‘how do big dogs make little dogs, mummy?’

I resisted the temptation to say ‘with teeth’, and battled off my lewder side, having ‘doggy style’ at the brink of my lips, and instead came out with: "what do you want for dinner?" What a flake I am.

I have talked here about having the sex talk before. And despite my promises back then I’ve not seriously thought about it. But I think the time has come to stop talking about talking, and probably to stop worrying about thinking that I haven’t thought it through enough and go for it - time to grab the tadpole by the tail. An act of syncronicity, the refound Where Did I Come From? with its lovey-dovey Ma and Pa Larkin characters, its tickled-pink wording and puff-cheeked sperm, is surely a sign.

So this evening the children p-jayed and praying for their favourite Aesop fable will instead get an altogether bluer bedtime story. I’m half expecting a shrug, a ‘whatever’ and a ‘Holly at school’s sister in Grade 3 already told us’. Please don’t let it be that a prematurely worldly child has stolen the moment from me – although a kid, unencumbered by adult-initiated stigma might possibly put it more coherently, more directly, without sounding like she needs a double dose of codine linctus.

I don’t see myself as affected or silly when it comes to the facts of life, but the anticipation of reaction can be far more daunting that the imparting of sensitive information. Willies are funny and girly bits generally need a good clean – the function of genitalia rests as such at good clean fun. But now M has taken to exploring her nether regions and B, as I have mentioned before, is practically bewildered by the extent of his own delight when feeding Os from his bathtime foam alphabet onto his member, I think they should probably learn why.

What will they say? After all, boys are horrible things and girly are bossy and bitchy; after all, M could only ever imagine loving her girl friends from school and B, I should imagine, would more readily contemplate sticking his willy in hundreds and thousands. So yes, if Holly from school’s sister in Grade 3 hasn’t got to them first, what will they say? Will they shriek, oo-pee-ew or act fearful - will they be traumatised?

Probably not, if our Billy Elliot experience is anything to go by.

Last week, not realising that it is in fact a grown-up film, we watched the tale of a boy who wanted to dance. Until the very end it was a pretty grey and gritty film, and the boy's father had a lingo more gutter-ish than that of Gordon Ramsay. Although, merficully, he sported a Scottish accent which allowed me to suggest: "that must be  one very naughty fox he's talking about. I haven’t seen one in the film yet, have you?"

To which, Matilda turned her head slowly, boredly and said: “Fucks, mummy, he’s saying ‘fucks’.”

Four fox ache.