You know what I love about having seven kids? Seven individual opportunities to hear the little buggers awkward up a conversation by asking what sex actually is and then to watch as the realisation hits them it’s been going on right under their noses their whole lives.
And while I don’t mean literally right under their noses, they don’t have to know that.
It’s totes hilarious.
We have these sorts of conversations with most of our kids from time to time because I guess sometimes they need a refresher. You know, to ensure they’re going to have anything interesting to chat to their psychiatrist about. To be honest, I don’t quite know how the topic weaved its way into a sex education lesson – one I’ll be writing in our homeschooling diary because he definitely learnt something – but it quickly got to the fun bit.
Fun bit for me, that is.
“Lucky you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing anymore, Dad,” said Master12.
He wasn’t joking.
There was a pregnant pause here which was expecting triplets.
“What,” I said carefully, “makes you think I don’t have to worry about that sort of thing anymore?”
“Well. Because you’re…you know….old.”
“I’m not that old,” I assured him. “And neither’s your Mum.”
“Mums ten years younger than you,” he grinned. He genuinely thought he’d won a round.
“So she’s young enough to be having sex but I’m not?” I asked.
“So if not me,” I went on, ignoring his head shaking which I’m pretty sure was his signal for me to please stop talking, “who do you think your mother’s having sex with?”
Our conversation must have been holding a pre-natal class because another very pregnant pause entered the room to stand with the first.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Yes, I am.”
The rest of the class and their partners arrived, after which he exploded.
“STOP TALKING! Dad! No! You don’t mean…,” his face was one of horror and he seemed unable, or unwilling, to finish the sentence. But in the silence he managed to thrust a hand behind him to point to the end of the bus where all our family’s bunks are located. Then he found his voice again, and his tone was an interesting blend of genuine, anxious and sickly concern. “But,” he stammered, “I sleep under you guys!”
For the record, when she came running to find out why there was a god-awful sound coming out of our anguished son, Tracey assured him we don’t do anything like that over his head.
Also for the record, I’m not a total git. I’d have told him that too.
You know, eventually.
Raising a family on little more than laughs
Currently reading The Purple Economy