A few weeks back, I was climbing into the van with Katherine, preparatory to our all going somewhere, when she asked me from the back seat, “Daddy, what does SEX mean?”
It’s one of those defining parental moments — for me an odd admixture of “OMG OMG OMG!” with “Huh, wonder how this subject came up” with “Don’t worry too much, Dave, but do be aware that whatever you answer will likely affect her entire attitude toward sex for the rest of her life” with “Okay, how can I answer this in an honest, thorough, interesting, positive yet cautionary, inclusive, productive fashion, tailored to a six-year-old but in a way that won’t come back to haunt me?”
I don’t recall precisely what I began to calmly stammer out — something about interpersonal relationships (though I didn’t use that term, obviously), genders, and kissing, I think. I think I also started flitting about, hummingbird-like, regarding in 6-year-old terms things like values and cultural norms and —
Margie got in the car. “What’s up?”
“Katherine was wondering what SEX meant?”
Margie, of course, asked the return question I ought to have. “Why do you ask, pumpkin?”
“Because it’s written over there.”
And, yes, sure enough, up on the wall of the garage, some former teen residents of the house had put the word SEX up on the wall with those adhesive letters folks use on mailboxes. “SEX” And Katherine is in a stage where she reads everything that’s around her. Because she can.
“Oh,” I told Katherine. “That’s just something that some kids put up on the wall.”
“Oh, okay.”
And we drove off.