Behind the Arena

My post last Friday reminded me. I have lots of reasons I think we should teach some form of sex education in schools. Mostly because I think if we could leave off the birth control and abstinence, we could actually teach people about what is happening to their bodies, and that would be useful. Also, because it's less traumatic. Honest.

I was 8. I'm pretty sure. I was in grade 3, which according to my calculations means I must have been 8. (such is the virtue of a September birthday). He was too. And he kissed me behind the skating rink, much against my will. Nowadays, we would likely scream about sexual harassment and drag him off in handcuffs, and while my memory indicates that Billy Johnstone was a miscreant, I'm not sure that's a completely sane way to handle situations of this nature. But, I digress.

I was, in a word, hysterical about this kiss. No seriously. I was screaming and crying and convinced my family would dis-own me. This was not exciting, and let's face it, 8 year old Billy was not a true romantic. Or even a gentleman.

Why? Why was I hysterical? Oh, yes.

You see, in the background is a cousin, who is pregnant out of wedlock. This is a huge controversy in the family, filled with yelling and shouting, and tears. Oh good grief, the tears. And then the shouting. And the rushed wedding. And the tears. More shouting. And the maternity wedding dress. (And if you were interested, they are still married, some 22 years later.)

I was a smart kid. No really, don't snicker. I was a smart kid - my teachers even said so. But. . . I had a great idea on how babies got in their mother's tummies. I don't think I'd even given a lot of thought to how they got out, but I was convinced I knew how they got in. I didn't need someone to tell me how babies got there, I knew.

Kissing. (1)

And Billy Johnstone had kissed me.

And if you were 8 year old, logical Mrs. Spit, of the neat clothes and the double barreled first name, this was a disaster. A - does the circus accept pregnant 8 year olds because you aren't going home - disaster.

So please, whatever you feel about sex education, could you spare a few moments to explain to your kids that kissing doesn't cause babies. Because Mrs. Miller wrote some sort of note to my mother, and I'm not sure what it said (and I should ask her tonight, but anyway) however funny the letter probably was, it would be better if your kids didn't need the letter.

Me, with my blood running cold. Mrs. Miller's feelings of wretchedness as she tried to explain this whole mess to my mother. "Dear Mrs. Spit's mother, please explain to little Mrs. Spit where babies come from. This lack of knowledge has caused an uproar in my third grade classroom today, and this simply cannot continue. . ."

Chop Chop, go explain the cabbage patch, the Easter bunny, the baby fairy, whatever. Just make it clear, kissing doesn't cause babies. Also, neither does swimming in a hotel pool.

I'm going to mention it to TGND, also that boys have cooties, and that Mr. Spit has a temper, and can be relied upon to greet any dates at her front door. If need be, he can probably also borrow a shotgun to clean. All night. Large shotgun. Piles of ammunition. Well, you get the idea, right.

(1) And I can already tell what some of you are thinking. Yes, I did straighten out how babies got there. Honest. I'm all good now. Something about a stork and a black midwife's bag, right?