Classic Content: Awkwardly Fathering the Facts of Life

This is a column I wrote sometime around 1993, back when I was a sports writer for a small newspaper in New Albany, Ind. I was a young father at the time, trying to find my way through parenthood. My son was always up for providing me a challenge, as this memory will attest.

* * *

I can still remember the first time I began to understand the word “sex.”

I was in the fifth grade, and my best friend Hugh Hefner (not his real name) showed me his collection of dirty books. I distinctly remember the name of one of these publications being Girls in Action. It should come as no surprise to anyone that when my parents finally had “The Talk” with me, I didn’t have many questions.

Well, in spite of my inauspicious introduction to the time-honored tradition of sexual intercourse, I managed to grow up with a relatively healthy outlook on the matter. Once puberty passed, I hardly ever bought copies of Girls in Action at all. And as I grew into adulthood, those times spent staying over at my buddy’s house and peeking at girlie mags with flashlights seem pretty innocent in retrospect.

As the gods have a wild sense of humor, however, it so happens I now have a son, one who is rapidly approaching the age I was when I first saw Girls in Action. My young one, Scott, is but a first-grader, but 20 years have passed since my relative loss of innocence occurred. America has changed dramatically, and our children are learning way, way too much and way, way too early.

I figured this out the hard way the other day as Scott and I were relaxing at the movies. During one scene, one character leaned over to kiss another, mouth open.

“That’s French-kissing,” my 7-year-old said in the same tone he might use to say, “Can I have some more milk, please?”

Not that he would ever use the word, “please.” But I digress.

Even though my brains seemed to be oozing slowly from my ears and nose, I asked him as calmly as possible, “Where did you hear about French kissing?”

“I heard somebody at school say it, and I’ve seen people on soap operas do it,” he replied.

Oh.

A few minutes later, another character had a sandbag drop into his lap.

“Man,” Scott observed, “that’s a real crotch-hurter.”

Gray matter now oozing all over my shirt, I casually asked, “Uh, where did you hear the word, ‘crotch’?”

“I heard somebody at school say it,” he replied.

That’s when my head exploded and one of the ushers asked me to please quiet down.

No, my head didn’t really explode, but I did ask Scott to please, please, please never ever use those terms again or he might possibly find himself sequestered to his room until his 40th birthday or judgment day, whichever comes first.

Do I blame the school he attends? Of course not. Do I blame other children for corrupting my angelic son? Darn right I do. No, just kidding, I really don’t. The fact is, our society is becoming more and more permissive with what is allowed to be shown on television, portrayed in advertisements and viewed on video game screens. So what can we as parents do? Remove all televisions from our homes, allow no video games and never, ever let our children read anything that doesn’t involve Curious George and an ice cream cone?

My point is, it’s an impossible task. I can only hope I can give him a head start before someone shows him a copy of Girls in Action or another such waste of pulp an ink. Unfortunately, now I know the time grows near for me to have “The Talk” with Scott. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that he has lots and lots of questions.

This post was originally published by The New Albany Tribune, which is now known as The News and Tribune.