IT'S A DAD'S LIFE: "What is sex, daddy?" Four words you don't want to hear from your daughter. Ever
WHEN YOUR kid goes to school you, as a parent, move from being a primary source to a secondary one. You are no longer the oracle, you are the sounding board against which theories, philosophies and practicalities first heard in the playground are clarified.
Information divulged in the classroom is far easier for them to swallow than the garbled messages they exchange with each other during break.
These messages are verbal, physical and emotional. Like any other group scenario, there is an ongoing power struggle, although it’s probably more overt in first class than in most boardrooms. When last I spoke to her, the elder’s teacher admitted she worried about a ‘bitch’ factor in a mixed class dominated by girls (20:4, pity the poor lads) but they seemed to be a well-united group.
And united they seem. They sing and dance around the place and, so far, more than six months since the elder joined the class, there has been no bloodshed. She comes home asking for stuff she’s envious of: new pencil case, trainers, a pony, but in general they get along at least as well as the EU member states.
Still, you can see trouble coming down the path. And I should have known what it would involve. Isn’t sex at the heart of everything?
She comes home humming a tune and wiggling hips. I pick up a few words, but can’t quite believe what I’m hearing: “Hey baby, why don’t you come over here and sex me.” I ask her to repeat. I was right first time.
So I ask where this line of rhetoric came from. A friend. Singing it at the boys on the bus. Oh man. I know where my words will take me but say them anyway and suggest that her friend doesn’t really know what sex is and that I’m pretty sure the elder doesn’t either.
“What is sex, daddy?”
Four words you don’t want to hear from your daughter. Ever. And if they have to come, you want your missus present to take the bullet as you make busy hanging a shelf.
You don’t want to be stuck in a car, alone, with her upturned face expressing curiosity and innocence just moments after she’s been bumping a grind to the lyrics: “Why don’t you come over here and sex me?”
I contemplate the stork and the baby in a napkin, but we’re way past that. I think about hiding the physicality of it all with the, “When two people really love each other” line but don’t want to patronise her and, besides, I am painfully aware of her ability to sniff out a smokescreen. No, there’s no way out of this but to put the head down and go for the line.
I give her the unabridged version with a start, middle and end. The end being a screaming baby. The start being arousal, as opposed to plying your intended with cheap cider. The whole thing is delivered in a relatively considered tone, voice does not break, no audible squeaks or stomach growls. She assesses me warily and I realise with some disappointment that, one, I may have been too technical; and two, like most women she is size obsessed.
“How big does it get, dad?” Well, ehm, that varies, but it increases in size.
“How does it fit in, dad?” Well, ehm, the whole thing is kinda manufactured to work well together.
“You and mum do this? Where? When? How often? Do you take all your clothes off or just the bottoms? Did I ever see you do it? Does mum mind? And seriously, how does it fit?”
“Look, right. When two people really love each other . . .” Fortunately our car journey is at an end. I can see the light of our living room glowing from the driveway, the missus’s head bent over her laptop. We rush in and I blurt that the elder and I had a discussion in the car on the way home. She has some questions now and would appreciate her mother’s clarification on a number of points.
The missus looks at me and raises a brow. I nod. In that one expression she knows I’ve presented the subject like an explanation of the mechanics of a catalytic converter.
Simultaneously, she also knows I am floundering and wondering did this happen too soon. She pats the cushion beside her and asks her daughter what she needs to know.
I stroll off to get a beer from the fridge, an enlightened parent. I realise I’m humming the tune to “Why don’t you come over here and sex me?”
abrophy@irishtimes.com