The Birds and the Bees Revisited

When we last left the romantic lives of the Dictator and the Anarchist, things were getting a little out of hand. The Dictator was being avidly pursued by an amorous neighborhood boy stalker. The Anarchist was planning her marriage to an American Girl doll "in a state where that's legal." And I was trying to find the attic so that I could lock them in it for an untold amount of years (read: forever).

Things are looking up. This pile of dolls
is no longer a pile of potential
daughters-in-law.

Flash forward: the Anarchist has stopped trying to wed the cat, the neighborhood boy stalker hasn't been seen in months, and I think that I'm getting close to locating our attic.

Things are looking up.

In fact, the Dictator has stopped associating with boys altogether. Having reached the age where associating with boys is considered "weird," she has successfully found for herself a group of (very tomboyish) girlfriends. She is the token girly girl, a shining pile of pink fluff and sparkle in a sea of jeans, tennis shoes and Minecraft shirts. And she is safely tucked away from the prying eyes of little Romeos. This is good, because while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about my nine-year-old having romantic escapades. I'm not sure at all.

Meanwhile, the Anarchist is gradually moving away from her romantic interest in inanimate objects/nonhumans. Which is good, because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about the grandchildren having plastic limbs/furry cat ears.

But we're not in the clear yet. Because the Dictator is nearing the age where the school starts trying to educate her about the birds and the bees. And we can't have the school doing that because the school also teaches the children Everyday Math.

So:

man parts+lady parts=baby 

might very well become:

man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3.  

And, while I like to consider myself progressive, that just sounds like the work of the devil to me.

Clearly, I've got to find a way to teach the Dictator about the birds and the bees. The perfect way. The good, wholesome, evolved-parent way. The way that will turn her into a self-actualized feminist intellectual who is also totally not interested in sex until she is at least 30.

So I've decided to awkwardly leave a copy of What's Happening to My Body on her bed and hope for the best. Maybe I'll mumble something helpful about being willing to answer any questions she might have. Unless those questions involve the word labia. Or the word scrotum. Because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, it turns out that I am not. I have the mind of a twelve year old boy and I giggle like one every time I hear those words. Every. Single. Time. And I have a feeling that this is neither perfect parenting, nor evolved parenting. So maybe I will just tell her to go to the internet with her questions. That's what Google is for, right?

Okay.

I just thought that one all the way through. And no. I suppose I will not encourage my precious child to Google labia and scrotum. That actually sounds like the Very Worst Idea. It will probably be better if I just raise my eyebrows disapprovingly when she asks these questions and say, "Nice people don't discuss such things in polite company." Or somesuch.

Regardless, I need to come up with something. Fifth grade is fast approaching.


And there's also the Anarchist.

Yesterday, the Anarchist came home from school giddily skipping.

"There's a boy who loves me!" she said. "He sat by me on the bus. He wants to get off the bus with me and walk home with me."

(Aww...so cute!)

One of the Anarchist's multiple suitors.
Note the ominous kissy lips.

"He wants go to snack time with me and go to dinner with me."

(So sweet!)

"And he wants to go to dance class with me. And then he wants to come home and to to bedtime with me!"

Nope. Nope. Nope. That's where Mommy draws the line, dear Anarchist. Because while I like to consider myself fairly progressive, no child of mine will go to bedtime with anyone until she is at least 40, thankyouverymuch.

Why? Because anatomical words still make me squeamish. And because I'm secretly a puritan. And most importantly because man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3. 

THAT'S why.

And don't even think of challenging me, lovies. Because I think I've finally located the attic.