I never used to associate swimming with a sex-ed class. But that was before my mother had a talk with me.
It wasn’t just “The Talk.” No, Mom had a special plan. She gave all of her teen-aged children, individual “birds and bees” talks, one by one, on the dock.
The dock! Where we swam and pretended life was carefree each summer. My older brothers strutted around like they were already certified experts, practically offering to hold seminars. They responded to her with, “Sure, let’s have a talk. What do you want to know, Sybs?”
My sister, on the other hand, was on the verge of throwing herself into the lake when Mom dangled her feet in the water and sighed, “It can be such a beautiful thing.”
Beautiful? My sister was about to hurl her lunch.
Now, I saw the pattern.
One by one, we were getting docked. Not me. No, sir.
From that point on, every time Mom suggested a swim, I suddenly remembered I had pressing chores—alphabetizing my book collection, reorganizing my sock drawer, or brushing the dog.
Anything to avoid becoming her next student in “Dockside Biology.” Years later, she asked, “Why didn’t you ever swim with me that summer?” “Because I wasn’t ready for my mother to give me the talk on the dock!” I blurted.
She burst out laughing. “I didn’t even realize! There were so many of you, I lost track of who I talked to.”
I was mortified, “Mom, there were only five of us, who else did you give the talk on the dock to?”
Mom laughed then shrugged her shoulders and let out a snort!
Classic. Five kids, endless trauma opportunities—and one successful dock
dodger.
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