by J.C Phillips 

The reality of how brief childhood is recently hit me with the force of a hammer. My wife and I received a permission slip for our fifth grader son to attend his elementary school’s sex education program. The curriculum consisted of a film followed by discussion with a nurse and a faculty member – male for the boys, female for the girls.

Prior to receiving our permission, the school invited parents to view the film and thumb through the material. I took them up on their offer. This is California after all. 

In fifth grade, students are being introduced to puberty and hygiene. Piece of cake! I can talk about deodorant and acne all day. It’s all the other stuff that gets me stuttering between too much information and not enough. 

A few years ago while watching the Super Bowl halftime show, my sons commented that the musician Prince looked like a girl. The adults snickered. I then offered that when I was a boy, my mother never allowed me and my sisters to watch Little Richard on television. My eldest asked, “Why?” That’s when I began to stutter. I looked to the other adults in the room for help. My friends were more than willing to scarf down my food, but suddenly they didn’t know my name. Even my wife pretended to be busy as I tap danced through my answer. 

I noticed a similar tap dance when the nurse began to answer questions the parents asked following the film: “What about homosexuality? What about premarital sex?” These are sensitive issues and the nurse’s answers were political to say the least. I couldn’t fault her. She is really between a rock and a hard place. As an employee of the school district, she is not allowed to mention God. Outside of encouraging kids to use protection, she can’t suggest any behavior is right or wrong. She is not allowed to offer any moral judgment. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t want her to. (This is California after all.) The school should teach biology. Putting it in a moral context is the job of parents. 

As I listened to the discussions of the parents, it became clear that as awkward as I may find such conversations, I need to do my job and have the conversation — the sooner the better. He will have questions. I know I did. And I have to do a better job at answering them than my father did with me.

Following my sixth grade sex education class, I came home eager to share this new knowledge with my father. Unfortunately in the time between the class and my father getting home, I had forgotten half of what I learned, and mixed up the rest. My father, the pediatrician, grew impatient as I fumbled trying to relay all that I had learned. “That’s incorrect,” he barked. “You have it backwards,” he sighed. What I remember most from that talk is a lot of exasperation on his part. It isn’t surprising then that as I got older, I never went to him again. 

As all of my sons mature, if I want them to come to me with their questions, if I want them to trust that their father will give them the straight scoop on life, love and relationships, it is essential that I make certain they know that I am available, willing – even eager to sit down at any time and answer questions with love, humor and patience. 

I have heard that children need to be exposed to a concept three times in order for it to really sink in. I have had some introductory talks with my eldest. I will count that as one. His viewing of this film will count as two. When he gets home, I had better schedule number three. 

Immediately prior to viewing the film, I had been going through a stack of baby pictures, remembering fondly our very first family portrait and how my son spit up on my black shirt immediately after the photographer finished. Now here I was preparing to have the first of what will no doubt be many talks about the birds and the bees. It happened so fast.