You know, fifth grade is not for the faint-hearted. Oh, sure,
there are other grades that cause a parent to reach for the
Excedrin more than he or she ever thought possible
– but fifth grade is just a pain in the butt.
You know, fifth grade is not for the faint-hearted. Oh, sure, there are other grades that cause a parent to reach for the Excedrin more than he or she ever thought possible – but fifth grade is just a pain in the butt.
You see, in the fifth grade, kids learn about sex.
I can’t tell you how horrifying this is. Look, once all the fifth-grade boys I’ve ever met realized that they would be learning about sex this year, it’s all they talk about. They obsess over it – setting the stage for their high school and college behavior, no doubt. But every one of the boys compare notes with other boys. And boys like Junior, who have no older sibling to talk to, get tons of information from friends.
Trust me when I say this isn’t a good thing.
Now I’m no prude. Harry and I are modern, progressive parents. We have never shied away from answering any of Junior’s questions as openly and honestly as possible. In fact, we’ve had The Talk with Junior. We’ve explained about men and women and babies. That said, we are completely unprepared for the fifth grade sex stuff.
Look, all we’ve heard about since September is sex, sex, sex. It’s enough to drive me to a convent. I’ve answered more questions about sex than I ever thought possible. And frankly, 90 percent of my answers has been to correct information he gets from friends.
For example, a month ago, Junior came home from a friend’s house and asked if he could say the word “wench.” Now, when your child asks to use a word, it’s usually for a very simple reason. They believe it’s a bad word and want to see how you react to it.
So I asked Junior what he thought “wench” meant. Turns out Junior’s friend told him that the word meant a part of the female anatomy that doesn’t get mammograms. And if you still haven’t got it, let me just tell you that in place of the “n” in that word for the female parts, he used an “r.” And no, I don’t know why. So now I have to: a) define wench; and b) tell him about his misplaced “r.”
I’m telling you, this motherhood gig is not as easy as you might think.
Anyway, with the word “wench” firmly defined and relatively unused in our house, I’m thinking I’m OK, right? Wrong. You see, he’s still a fifth grader. And yet, I was completely unprepared for what happened next.
On a drive to Southern California to see family, Junior is in the backseat, watching the movie, “Talladega Nights.” Now, we’ve all seen this movie. Heck, the first time we saw it in the theater we saw it with Junior’s grandparents. And there were some innuendos in it – but they went right over Junior’s head.
But there’s been a whole half-year of fifth grade between the first viewing of “Talladega Nights” and this viewing. And in that half-year, something changed. Specifically, Junior became a fifth-grader.
So, somewhere around Coalinga, Junior suddenly pulls off his headset and says, “What’s a menage a trois?”
OK, so two things go through my head. One is, “Wow, his French pronunciation is pretty good.” The second is, “Oh good Lord, what do I say now?”
Fortunately for me, I am married to Harry. And he is every bit as modern and progressive as I am. And he turns slightly toward Junior and says, “How would we know? We don’t speak French.” Shockingly, that satisfies Junior who puts his headset back on and continues watching.
Well we could have let it be at that. We probably should have. But then I remembered that Junior’s martial arts instructor is French. And I’m not sure what her reaction would be if Junior were to ask her what it meant. But I don’t think she’d be admiring his pronunciation.
Suffice it to say that we had no choice but to try and get the point across to Junior that it was a grown-up phrase and that he wasn’t ready to know what it meant. Which of course means it’s probably all through his school by now.
And all I can say to the parents of Junior’s classmates is, I’m sorry. Or, as we say in our house, “Je suis desole. Je promets jamais ne laisse toujours encore des nuits juniors de Talladega de montre.”
