There are mornings when I feel like the only thing standing between my two sons, Miles and Ryan, and a full scholarship to Clown College is me, a cold cup of coffee, and a prayer. Take last week, for example. I was trying to get them into the car for school—a task that, on a good day, requires the negotiation skills of a hostage negotiator and the patience of a saint. Instead, they were busy inventing Olympic-level couch gymnastics in the living room, fueled by the nutritional power of one (1) soggy waffle and a gallon of sibling rivalry.
And just when I thought I’d reached the summit of parental frustration, I overheard them giggling and whispering, “I am going to sex you up.” I did what any modern parent would do: I pretended I didn’t hear, and hoped they were talking about a new brand of breakfast cereal. But after a few days of this, my wife handed me the baton of responsibility with the words every father dreads: “You’re the dad, so YOU need to tell them about the birds and the bees.” I had been hoping to put that off until they were old enough to vote, or at least old enough to stop putting Legos in their noses.
After five days of “sex me up” echoing through the halls, inspiration struck. “Hey, boys!” I called out. “Do you want me to tell you about sex?” You’d have thought I’d offered to take them to meet Willie Mays . Their eyes widened, mouths dropped open, and suddenly, both boys were sprinting for their lunches, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and buckled into the car with the solemnity of astronauts preparing for launch. I slid into the driver’s seat to find them pale, hyperventilating, and possibly reconsidering their entire vocabulary.
Now, at their school, whales are not just a topic—they’re a lifestyle. The curriculum is 30% math, 20% reading, and 50% whales. There’s a whale project at the end of the semester, which, by the way, is being completed almost entirely by parents who now know more about cetaceans than Jacques Cousteau. Every night, we cut out whale pictures, research whale facts, and contemplate moving to a landlocked state.
As we drove, I asked, “Do you know where babies come from?” Ryan, the younger one, piped up with the confidence of a man who’s watched one too many nature documentaries: “Something about the place where you poop.” I took a deep breath and remembered my own mother’s advice: “Answer only the questions they ask. Don’t elaborate.” So I gave them the bare essentials, condensed into a five-minute car ride, and congratulated myself on a job well done.
As they climbed out of the car, I said, “That was great! We can talk more about this tomorrow.” Ryan turned to me, eyes shining with the light of misunderstood knowledge, and said, “No, Dad, we understand it now. Babies come from sperm whales,” and shut the door.
That was the last time we had the talk. I suspect the subject will resurface—possibly during the whale unit, possibly in therapy. Either way, I’m brushing up on my marine biology, just in case
Good Daddy 