It was just a simple freaking question. I am not really sure why my mother had to go a screw it up. Now to be fair, I am sure mother had good intentions. However, it had the same results as dropping the atom bomb on your backyard and then saying “I thought it would reduce the grass cutting chore.”
Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.
“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”
There was a pause…
“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”
So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.
“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.
A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.
At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.
In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?
Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.
There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.
“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”
Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.
“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”
“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.
So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.
As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.
So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.
