If there is anything in my mind that points towards the Theory of Evolution, it would be sex.  I have a hard time imaging God, with his clipboard, saying “Walking apparatus, check.  Nutrition system, check.  Beelzebub, do you have the reproduction system ready to go online?”  And, from the bowels of the earth, comes an evil laugh.

Can you imagine the conversation between Adam and Eve?  You want me to do WHAT?  Did they even have tennis bracelets then?

Sex is funny.  From the time The Goose and I got together, sure we had invented great sex, we would sit in church (Quick aside, our entire family has a real problem behaving in church.  Not one of us can be quiet or control our laughter and The Goose frequently chooses this time to whisper something dirty in my ear.  Latent rebellion to mean Sunday school teachers, I’m sure.) and covertly point to old couples and whisper “they do it”.  Our worst insults have begun “yo mama ….” and we don’t even have to finish with what.  Nothing says gross like parents doing, uh, that.

Once, The Goose was on the phone and then handed it to me saying that his mother wanted to talk to me.  I didn’t believe it because his mother NEVER wanted to talk to me.  Thinking there was no one on the other end, I put the phone to my mouth and went on to describe exactly, in graphic ugly detail, what his mother could do to Hosea Williams (why him, I do not know), only to hear his mother stammer weakly, “what…?”.

One would think this would have dissipated over the years, but we still glance at other couples and raise our eyebrows to each other.  The picture in our minds is just too funny to ignore.  I mean, really, Barbara Bush?  My 4th grade math teacher?  Mr. Rogers???

Sex becomes completely unfunny, however, when one has kids.  The first time I realized this is when it came time to name their private parts.  Those of you who feel kids must learn anatomically correct names can stop reading here, take your kids to their “Upward” sports games and hand them an organic celery stick because I feet it perfectly acceptable to use those time honored, more mannerly names, “whooha” and “willie”.  I feel confident that if they are in some sort of accident involving these parts, they will be able to adequately convey to the emergency room doctor what their problem might be.  “Bit’s and pieces” can be substituted in a pinch, as can “tompan, tallywacker, coochie, ladytown, jimbob, thingie, twinkie, ding dong, junk or bidness”.

Left up to me, my kids would still believe a public toilet seat, a house with no parent home, hot tubs and sharing swim suits can all cause spontaneous pregnancy.  I felt this covered two great issues, early pregnancy and germs, but the The Goose took it upon himself to educate them at a very young age.  Driving them home from a baseball game, when the kids were around 9 and 7, he apparently blurted out a convoluted version of where babies come from that included Tim McGraw, our neighbors and Subway sandwiches.  During this talk, when my poor daughter asked why anyone would do this, instead of answering that it’s a sacrifice we made so we could have our wonderful special children, he answered “because it’s fun”.

I sat with each child as I put them to bed that night and asked if they had any questions.  True to their individual personalities, Cricket’s eyes welled up and she said “please, please, promise me you’ll never let him do that to you again” and I crossed my fingers and swore, agreeing it had been a cross to bear.  Moving into The Boy’s room, his eyes shining with new and evil gleam, I asked if he had any questions.  He said, in his gruff little boy voice “So, does my willie have to be way up for this, like when we go over the railroad tracks in the car?” and I stammered “It helps” and he nodded sagely, “I thought so.” and I sadly turned off the light and left him to his imaginings about the pigtailed little girl in his class.  I then went downstairs and informed The Goose he’d ruined my children.

One never wants to think that their child might someday, well, you know.  We have talked, ad nauseum, about “the deed” and tried to make it as horrible and scary as possible.  We have used time honored sayings, some from The Goose’s mother and handed down in the family such as “a willie has no conscience” and “alcohol can cause someone to slip and fall on a tallywacker” but they have fallen on deaf ears. I have described millions of diseases that can make willies fall off, pregnancies wherein, if a girl is under 25, 6 legged monsters with whiskers and horns are formed, and the unimaginable physical agony involved to teens participating in this practice necessitating a call to the fire department, all negated while The Goose makes lewd gestures behind my back, smacks me on the tee-hiney and whistles happy songs coming out of the bedroom.

It has helped, though, as they’ve grown, that they are as disgusted with us as we might be about them.  I feel this might be the greatest deterrent ever. Because they are nearly grown, The Goose and I can spend a lot of time away together and the tables have turned.  When they start to get uppity, we play it to the hilt and mime deep and amorous kisses at every chance, allude to romantic dates and try to throw the word “snuggle” into our conversations within their earshot.  This bothers them greatly.  It worries and disturbs them. My son shakes his head and whispers “no…no” and our daughter coughs and gags. They say we burn their eyes.

This weekend, Cricket was spending the weekend downtown, with friends, and I texted her and asked her when she was coming home.  When she had the audacity to ask why, I responded, “because it takes a lot of time to roll up the trapeze and put away all these handcuffs properly” and I got the response “I just threw up”.  In this way, I know my ploy is working I am still doing my job as a responsible parent.