Happy anniversary to me!

On this long weekend, fifteen years ago, I got married.

Crazy. I know.

The funny thing, though, is that when I think back to that day, I don’t really feel any sadness about something lost, I don’t feel regret for making a decision that pretty much changed my life, and I don’t feel anger at myself or him or the universe for the whole thing falling apart. Instead, I feel this kind of pleasantly amused and nonchalant nostalgia.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember the warm glow of spending a full day in the presence of so many people I loved. I remember the thoughtfulness and generousity of the words spoken and gifts given by friends and family. I remember feeling beautiful and happy and so so ready, but most of all I remember the incredible certainty and conviction with which I spoke my vows, these intense feelings and thoughts that had been sitting in my belly and swirling around in my head for months and were finally scribbled down on the back of a used envelope the night before the big day. And remembering all that makes me smile. In fact, it even makes me laugh a little- appreciatively- at the boldness of my 20 year old self’s complete faith in our ability to be together forever, to love each other always, and to- no matter what- just figure it out.

It seemed surprisingly simple. You hear people talk about getting “cold feet”, about having doubts before they walk down the aisle. I don’t remember feeling even a drop of doubt or the slightest twinge of fear. I just knew. I knew he was the one for me. I was in love- and not in that cutesy, desperate, you complete me, I’m lost without you kind of way. I was a relatively independent girl with a fiery spirit and huge plans. I was not one of those young women who dreamt of playing house. I aspired to so much more than simply being somebody’s wife. I had grand visions of changing the world and leaving a legacy, and while I thought that I would certainly someday marry (after I had sufficiently changed the world), I never thought it would be so soon. But when I met him, and found his audacious, brilliant, quirky self to be my match, it felt like the most normal and natural thing in the world to just agree to be together. I believed with every ounce of my being that I was a better me with him by my side, invigorated but oddly at peace, challenged but unconditionally accepted, inspired, supported, motivated, affirmed, safe, at home, and I was quite certain that the two of us together would be completely invincible.

Here, far far away from my past, many people are surprised to discover that I was once married. It’s seems to some as crazy a confession as if I were to share that I did hard time for a string of B&Es or that I had a lion act in a traveling circus. Crazy! The further away I get from the life I once lived, and the more settled I become in creating this here and now, the less he and us come up in conversation, but they still do. It’s inevitable. We were together for over a decade and we essentially became grown-ups together, which means that much of our life story overlaps and many of our memories are intertwined. Also, there’s no escaping the fact that me as a one-time wife is an essential component of the me I am now. Those experiences have shaped me, and provided me with lessons and insights about love and life and heartache and decision-making and forgiveness and self-discovery and commitment and all that good stuff.

The most common question people ask me once they get past the initial “What??? Married?? For that long??” is, of course, “Why?”.  Why on earth would any twenty-year old kid deliberately choose to be with one person for the rest of your life? I mean, even if you’re in love? Why? The natural assumption many make when they discover another aspect of my past, namely, the fact that I grew up fully submerged in the evangelical subculture, is that we got married in order to avoid the big Christian NoNo of premarital sex, which is simply not the case. I have always been a bit of a flexible interpreter of biblical teachings, and my interpretation of the conditions of God-ordained intimacy was as personalized and lenient as my interpretation of scripture on eating habits and Sunday dress. We certainly didn’t go around announcing our night-time activities at bible study, and I suffered from the occasional pang of Christian guilt, and we probably waited much much longer than heathens would have, but official permission to go ahead and….you know…wasn’t exactly a big motivator. Plus, really, since when is marriage just about sex? It's about togetherness and sharing in all its aspects, right? Looking back though, I see that many non-Christian young folk in our state of in loveness would have probably opted to just move in with each other rather than to tie the knot. Moving in together would have most likely been frowned upon by our parents, as both our fathers were men of the cloth and familial reputation was somewhat of a priority, and also it wasn’t really something people in our social circle did, but an even bigger factor than all of that was the fact that my weird little young ego had this idea that if he decided he wanted to live with me but didn’t want to marry me, it was kind of like he needed a test-drive before he committed to the full deal, and my all or nothing self wasn’t exactly cool with that idea.

People often also ask what our parents thought, if they or anyone else tried to talk some sense into us. Aside from the fact that young marriage is totally typical of this subculture we belonged to, I don’t really think anyone could have talked me out of this decision I had whole-heartedly made with my big, bad grown-up self. At the time, I was in school and working as a waitress, and some random customer threw her head back in laughter when she discovered I was getting married. She scoffed at me and proceeded to tell me I was too young and didn’t yet know who I was or what I wanted, and I remember feeling patronized and ridiculed by a jaded, cynical, pathetic woman who just didn’t get it, and that experience made me furious and furiously determined. That’s the thing about being twenty, and that’s the thing about being in love. Nobody can really tell you anything, because you’ve got it all figured out or at least you feel totally capable of figuring it out, and you always think your situation is different from everyone else’s and that they just don’t get it. Plus, I think my parents saw us together and saw how much we loved each other and how happy we were and that was enough. They also knew me well and they knew how I made decisions, and I think they also knew that, really, it was my decision to make. The truth is that people could have told me their opinion and tried to share their wisdom but I don’t think I would have listened. In fact, I probably would have been more motivated to prove them wrong!

Sometimes, when I see other “child brides” (the term some of us have very affectionately dubbed our young, naïve, eagerly married selves) excitedly make the decision to walk down the aisle, there’s this wee little part of me that wants to tell them to slow down. I want to remind them that there’s no rush, and inform them that they might want to consider the fact that the male brain isn’t fully developed until age 25, which is also, by the way, right around the time when mental illness tends to reveal itself. I am tempted to encourage them to get to know themselves a little more before they enter into this kind of a union, so that they don’t compromise their dreams and goals. I want to tell them that the tone they set from the get-go will likely remain unalterable throughout their relationship, and I want to remind them that boundaries and roles and expectations become very difficult to change. But then I remember myself at twenty, and I think, really, what’s the point?

What’s the point, not only because they, like me, won’t listen; not only because it’s not really my business in the first place, and they’re right- I probably don’t get it; not only because they might be one of the lucky ones whose young love grows securely and solidly and healthily in the same direction, but most importantly, because no matter what happens, even if they are not one of the “lucky ones,” when it comes right down to it, intense, fully committed, trusting, brazen young love is this ridiculously beautiful and powerful thing that sometimes seems irrational or completely insane but is something you really only ever experience once, and who wants to get in the way of that?? I mean, I am very much committed to keeping an open heart and an open mind. I still believe in the awesomeness of love, and there’s a part of me that believes that I will someday get the chance to experience true love again, but I recognize that it will be of a very, very, very different variety. And there’s no value judgment here. It is tempting to either romanticize or scoff at young love. All love, in its different forms, is good and great. This is just an observation, rooted in my own memory. But the truth is that no matter how hard I try to resist cynicism, to resist the temptation to protect myself from disappointment and heartache, to willingly and fully let someone in, I will never ever ever ever be able to enter into a relationship with the same level of unconditional trust and brazen faith that I did when I was twenty. And again, it doesn’t matter if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It just is what it is.

I guess what I am saying is that I can look back on that day fifteen years ago with my pleasantly amused and nonchalant nostalgia because I can now, finally, after the hurt and the bitterness have long passed, admire my young self’s fearlessness in wholeheartedly pursuing love. I can respect her certainty and her completely unconscious choice to live from her heart. I can appreciate the commitment she made to be with another that wasn’t based on rational cost/benefit analysis and future thinking, but also wasn’t based on flighty in-the-moment feelings, but instead was firmly rooted in this kind of faith in her own knowing. And I guess what it really comes down to is that all love- like, the really really good and true stuff- can never be properly explained or understood or predicted. You can make lists of criteria to try and avoid past mistakes, you can evaluate compatibility and predict the likelihood of relational success, you can try and weigh which kind of love is a higher love, but all that caution and rationality can eventually dilute that deep down knowing that we often- at some point- stop trusting, and it can taint that real deal love with fear. I mean, it’s love, not a freaking business deal. No matter how much you try to negotiate and evaluate and predict, it’s always going to be complicated and flawed and maybe a little messy, and there’s always going to be bits of good and bad layered together. The big point here, which I am hopefully finally getting to, is that when I look back on all of it, even the messy and broken bits, I recognize that it was totally worth it. Love- even when it falls apart- is almost always worth it.

More later.

Q is 2!!! I wonder what he will do....

So, my nephew turned two this weekend, and we had a big ole party to celebrate. He really seemed to enjoy all the attention and affection and presents, as well as a massive assortment of playmates and three varieties of homemade cupcakes.

It was a good, full, happy day.

At this point, he wants for nothing toy-wise. The kid has everything he could possibly need to practice his hand-eye co-ordination, stimulate his imagination, promote numeracy and literacy, develop his fine motor skills. Whatever aspect of his little toddler self needs to be developed, there is certainly a toy in his playroom designed to develop it.

Alongside all the creative and thoughtful gifts of toys and books were generous gifts of cold, hard cash, which will quickly find their way into Q’s bank account, where the coins of this year will join the coins of last year and will all grow, grow, grow in value and interest, so that when the time comes that he has finished high school and is ready to head off on his own adult adventure, he will have some savings to help cover the cost of an education which, at that faraway point in the future, might very well be the equivalent of a mortgage on a mansion.

It’s funny how quickly children become their own people, how they so early on show off quirks and traits that are unique to them alone, and while all of us who love him want him to grow up in an environment where he feels nurtured and safe yet encouraged to explore and discover, we can’t help but wonder who he is later going to be.

So, in the spirit of celebrating a special little guy who has stubbornly and persistently grown from helpless baby to do-it-myself toddler, and also of planning for his someday training and education, may I present to you- based on my current observations and experiences- my top ten predicted possible career paths for Little Man Q.

1. Masterchef

While Q is always interested in helping out, he is particularly intrigued by the kitchen. As soon as anyone is busy making something, he pulls up his stool, and often even climbs up on the counter. “Mix, mix, mix,” he says, or he asks for a “mes” so he can help cut up fruit and vegetables. He helped me make granola once, though his enthusiastic “mixing” resulted in half the bowl spilling out onto the counter and the floor. Luckily, he is a hardcore “poetser” (not inherited from me, that’s for sure) and insists on the broom or the cloth to clean up any mess immediately. We have gone through a good number of bananas as they are soft and easy to cut (or at least smush) with a children’s knife, which gives him the sense that he is participating in creating culinary magic, without risking the loss of any of his cute little fingers. Where does the “master” part come in? Well, given the home he is growing up in, with parents who are skilled in the art of cooking and eating, genes that are infused with creativity and a drive towards perfectionism, and shelves filled with annotated cookbooks and culinary delicacies, I can’t see him becoming any other kind of chef!

2. Michelin Star Food Critic

Q has always been a pretty good communicator and has very little problem offering up his opinion, even without an extensive vocabulary. A few months back, if something was on his plate that he found particularly unacceptable, he simply chucked it on the floor. While that approach has recently been replaced with the more civilized act of removing the undesirable from his plate and placing it to the side, there is still the no-fail technique of simply opening his mouth and letting the unwelcome food spill out. Truly disgusting offerings are sometimes spat out with great vigor, and accompanied by hand gestures, a squished and twisted face, and creative sound effects. He is equally expressive about food he likes. “Nog, nog, nog,” he will demand (more, more more), even if his plate is already full of the good stuff. His taste buds, while sometimes intrigued by the samplings on the adult plates at the table, are most pleased with yogourt, dessert, dessert, dessert, and a whole lotta meat. He went through a phase of being especially fond of a sandwich with paté, though he would often lick off the paté and leave the bread. I admit that his table manners need a little refinement still before he can be sent on assignment, as his go-to food insertion method tends to be too big pieces shoved into an already full mouth, with minimal chewing, but we’re working on it.

3. Rock ‘n Roll Tour Bus Driver

Q loves all things motorized: cars, trucks, lawnmowers, planes, trains. When the road in front of the house was under construction, he stood with his face pressed up against the window and watched for hours on end. If he hears a lawnmower whirring away in the neighbourhood, he shouts out “motor,” and he becomes particularly frustrated when a plane passes by and we are not able to reproduce another the moment he excitedly demands “Nog”. But the bus seems to be a favourite. He has several t-shirts emblazoned with a bus, and “The Wheels on the Bus” tends to be one of his main songs of choice. I have sung to Q for a good long while now, and often when I’ve started to sing a song, he has said, “Nee, nee, nee,” which at first I must admit I took offense to because I thought he was commenting on the quality of my voice. It turns out I was often just singing the wrong song, and sometimes simply switching to “The Wheels on the Bus” is enough to get him smiling and bopping his head. For a while, he loved that song so much that on a recent babysitting visit, I put on good ole Raffi and started- of course- with this favourite tune. Once the song was over and the next began, Q reacted with a “Nee, nee, nee” and became so insistent that we essentially listened to that one song on repeat for two hours straight! Now, my prediction that he will be a rock and roll tour bus driver, as opposed to a city bus driver is simply rooted in my knowledge that he is an incredibly cool dude who loves good music, is often awake in the middle of the night, and has a great spirit of adventure.

4. Librarian

Q was a very early fan of books. He already has quite the collection, and while his attention has recently been drawn away from books by the delights of the world outside, he seems to be particularly fond of pop-up books and books about animals and automobiles. But almost as much as he enjoys “reading” books, he loves to organize them into piles and put them away, or take them all off of the shelf and then stack and re-stack. He also has a wicked memory, which I think could serve him well as a librarian, when people ask him to help them find “you know, that green book with the snake on the fifth page”.

5. Landscape Artist

Q is one of those hardcore outdoorsy kids. As soon as he wakes up, he wants his shoes so he can go “boete, boete” (outside, in dialect). He stands by the back door, deeply distressed, when it’s raining, and he is super content in the backyard wandering around, spinning in circles, kicking the ball, blowing bubbles, throwing sticks. One of his favourite toys, though, is his toy lawnmower. He also loves flowers and shoves his face into each bud to take a good, hard sniff. He likes to move sticks around from one pile to another, and enjoys carrying buckets full of weeds to the compost pile. He also likes to rake and dig and pull out grass. Some possible obstacles to this career path, however, could be the fact that he seems to be terribly afraid of bees and that he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.

6. UN Translator

Q is daily surrounded by three different languages- English, Dutch, and the dialect of the region. He already has words in all three languages, and seems to understand instructions in all three. Given that he is smart as a whip, a good little problem solver and quick thinker, extroverted and has such an expressive face, I feel this path seems a natural fit. 

7. Traffic Controller

Q gives orders in a very authoritative manner. “Mooze,” he says if I am in the way (in other words, not where he wants me to be), and if I don’t mooze fast enough, he has no problem marching over to where I am at, pulling me by the hand to the desired location, or pushing, if necessary.

8. Stand-up Comic/Potential Finalist on the X Factor

This kid is already a comic genius. He is very in tune with the energy and reaction of his audience and will repeat the most ridiculous acts just to get a laugh. Laugh just once, and he does it again and again and again. Slapstick is his main schtick- you know, intentional falling, dancing, jumping, face-pulling, spinning around in circles until he hits the ground. He’s got a great smirk and is already quite the tease. He loves nonsense singing, is an expressive storyteller and expert peekaboo-er. It also helps that his laugh is a contagious cackle, and that he is a head-thrown-back, full body laugher (much like his crazy aunt).

9. Manager of Housekeeping at the Ritz Carlton

I have never encountered a kid so interested in cleaning. He has a toy vacuum cleaner and a kid-sized broom. As soon as he spots a spill, he wants to clean it up- thoroughly. He loves taking things out of drawers, wiping everything down and then putting it back. Why do I think he will be the manager rather than the maid itself? Well, he has a natural predilection for being in charge and bossing people around, combined with tendencies towards perfectionism and a surprising capacity for empathy. He is also terribly persuasive. Good management material, I’d say.

10. Zookeeper
Animals have long been an area of concentrated interest for Q. It started with a flap book filled with all sorts of different animals. Then there was another animal book and another and another. Then he learned many of the sounds and actions of the animals. (He does an impressive giraffe and iguana, and- believe it or not- knows the sound a water buffalo makes.) He has an extensive toy farm collection, and now, he frequently plays with a whole host of plastic animals, lining them up, grouping them together, moving them to a new location. He also has a great, always growing family of stuffed animals, all of which he has named appropriately. The best name, I think, is "Hap" (Bite) given to a massive stuffed crocodile. Now, of course, a love of animals is not sufficient to become a good zookeeper. Q, however, has a great eye for detail. He notices as soon as a member is lost from the group, and recognizes what differentiates one individual from another. He has already shown his ability to care for animals by frequently trying to feed the "meow" that lives in his house, and his sensitivity to living creatures, as well as his cleanliness, lead me to believe he'd be an excellent candidate for the job. On trips to the petting zoo, he is often a little hesitant to get too terribly close, which he might have to overcome, but maybe this isn't such a bad thing if he is to be dealing with lions and tigers and bears. Oh, and he also really likes playing with keys. From what I know of zookeepers, they usually have a good, hefty ring of keys. Bonus!

There you have it. 

It's fun to speculate, but of course, we all know the unintentional pressure that can be brought on by asking a kid what he wants to be when he grows up, or the anxiety connected to the desire to please our family and make them proud of us, and the delicate balance caregivers and family members must aspire to in helping a child uncover their talents and hone their skills without forcing our own will. The key, I suppose, or at least one of them, I think, is ensuring that this little guy knows that no matter who he chooses to be or what he decides he wants to do with his one precious life, he will be surrounded and grounded in unconditional love and acceptance, and reminded that, above all else, more important than making a lot of money or even making a difference, more important than being the best at something or being remotely successful, I think those of us who love him really just want him to be healthy and happy, because joy makes all the difference really between an okay life and an awesome life, and joy, as far as I can tell, is pretty intricately connected with being in a home where gratitude and freedom and stability and love and acceptance of difference are fostered and modelled. And if I'm wrong, and this is not the key after all, then I'd say it's a pretty good kind of wrong to be.

Who knew a universal truth could be revealed from standing on the wrong side of a locked door?

Most Monday afternoons, I head over to my sister’s place and hang out with my nephew, Little Man Q. Yesterday was an exceptionally beautiful day so I decided I was going to run the few kilometers between my house and theirs. I threw on my running gear, sunscreened my face, grabbed my sunglasses and my spare house key, punched in the alarm code, and headed out the door. Only once the door had shut and locked itself behind me did I realize that the usual bunch of keys I lug around with me (purposely left behind because they are a little too bulky to run with) was hanging out oh so inconveniently on the other side of the door. And then I realized that the fact that there was a key in the lock on the inside of the door meant that I wouldn’t be able to use a key in the lock on the outside of the door. I tried to tell myself- rather unconvincingly- that maybe, just maybe, this was a super special, magical, opens-from-any-side-anytime kind of a door. I placed the key in the lock, held my breath, and tried to turn it. Sure enough, it wouldn't budge. Then I tried to tell myself that maybe it was simply the key. I mean, it had been a little finicky lately. Perhaps I just needed to try another spare key. No matter what kind of a door this was or what kind of super special spare key might open it, I decided to head to my sister’s as originally planned. She was expecting me, after all, and she had the other spare key, plus a phone I could borrow since mine was (also oh so inconveniently) on the other side of the door.

As I jogged to my sister's place (at an increasingly pathetic pace), rather than enjoy the beautiful route alongside farms and wineries and fields in bloom- as I’d originally intended, I spent those 4 kilometres engaging in some pretty unfriendly self-talk.
“This is so typical of you. Only you could do something like this.”
“How could you remember to put the alarm on and not take the keys out of the door?”
“You were rushing again. Why didn’t you just leave earlier?”
And on and on and on it went.

By the time I reached my sister, I was sweaty and flustered and irritable. She lent me her key, her phone, and her bicycle, and on the 15-minute bike ride back home, all the self-criticism originally centred around the incident of the key swelled and festered to include anxiety and judgment about every unfinished task on my May Break To Do list- every email that hadn't been written, every essay that was not yet marked, every burnt-out light bulb in the house that hadn’t yet been changed, my incomplete Canadian tax return, the toppling pile of papers to be filed, the dust bunnies behind the couch, pretty much anything unfinished, forgotten or overdue.
And on and on and on it went.

After trying the second spare key, which obviously didn't work, I called a locksmith and waited for him to kindly come and break into my house. That half hour of waiting allowed me enough time to think of every ounce of energy and time I’d ever wasted on silly, careless, totally avoidable mistakes like this, and every penny I'd wasted on fixing silly mistakes like this, or because I'd been late with a bill or because I'd forgotten to send in a health insurance form or because I hadn't read a sign properly and gotten a parking ticket. By the time the locksmith arrived, my anxiety had reached a level that was almost palpable. While he worked away, I paced and hovered and apologized and even offered up convoluted, alternative ways of getting into the house that involved less violent jiggling and kicking of my front door. Finally, at one point, this calm, kind, sixty-something gentleman stopped, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Rustig, meid. Het komt allemaal goed.” (Pretty much "Chill, girl. It''s all good.")

He was right. I needed to chill out. It was all going to be okay. This was not the end of the world. 100 euros and three hours of my day- it could have been much, much worse.

Still, I had trouble resisting the temptation to delve even deeper into my memory in search of further evidence of my incurable idiocy. On my post-break-in bike ride back to my sister's, I spent those first few minutes sighing, rolling my eyes, and shaking my head as I steeped some more in the afternoon's long and generous dose of self-criticism.

And then finally it hit me: entropy.

Just a few weeks ago, I had been reviewing the topic of energy with one of my classes. While I am no real scientist, what I know is this: when the sun shines down on the leaves of the plants below, not all of that solar energy is used in the photosynthetic process. Some of it gets absorbed by the earth or reflected back into the atmosphere. And when that plant grows big and strong and a rabbit comes along and feasts on its leaves, not every drop of energy produced by that plant gets transferred to Thumper. And when coal or oil is burned to produce energy for us to use in our homes, there is always incomplete combustion, always energy that gets "lost" as heat.

Basically, what I realized is that if plants and animals and the sun in the sky can't fully and completely transfer 100% of their energy productively, what makes me think that I, an unpredictable, sentient and complex being, can do that? It is foolish to expect that every cent of my pay cheque can be accounted for, and that every minute I'm awake can be maximized and used "productively". That is simply not the way it works. The universe is set up in such a way that in every transfer and transformation of energy, a little gets lost. That's just the way it is. I'm going to make these kinds of mistakes, and no matter how hard I try, there are going to be days when I wake up late, or have a bad night sleep, or get the flu, or forget my lunch on the counter. C'est la vie! And all this time, I've been fighting the natural order of the universe by trying to use my resources with 100% productivity, and then getting mad at myself when I can't, reprimanding myself for "wasting" time and energy and money. I realize that my tendencies towards scatter-brained distractibility mean I might need more of a buffer than some of you hyper-focused lot out there, but even the most organized, efficient, frugal individual cannot control the inevitability of money/time/energy-consuming events like flat tires, stolen wallets, food poisoning, and traffic jams. It's just entropy, the inevitable and steady deterioration of a system.

I also realized that in those moments when I become even more obsessed with productivity, usually in response to one of these incidents, because I feel like I have to make up the time and compensate for my foolishness, the anxiety that ensues usually makes me even more scatter-brained and unfocussed, which makes me even less productive. Then add on top of that the energy used in getting mad at myself, and I end up making things worse rather than better. Finally, we could get all philosophical and ask what it even means to be "productive" and why it is so bloody important. Is my day worth less if I don't accomplish some task on my To Do list? Do I have less value if I am not constantly ProtestantWorkEthic-productive?

The lesson learned then is this: entropy is inevitable. What I can control is my attitude and approach to this inevitability. I can transfer positive energy grounded in the wisdom of acceptance, or I can transfer negative energy fueled by piling on the wouldcouldashouldas.

The choice seems stupidly obvious.

The birds, the bees...and blood?

Spring is here. I work in a high school, and at the first scent we teacherfolk catch of that Spring air wafting into the building, many of us heave a collective sigh and brace ourselves with an “Uh oh, here we go again”. Inevitably, alongside the blossoming of flowers and tweeting of birdies, comes the hypnotic, hormonal haze of teenage love. The girls start wearing fewer clothes and become particularly conscious of how they flick their hair and strut their stuff, the boys are permanently wide-eyed, restless, and eager, and the making and breaking of couples is happening left, right, and center. Interestingly, Spring also often tends to be the time in the high school Science curriculum when students get to learn all about the birds and the bees. A colleague in his last year of teaching was telling me last week that he has just started the good ole springtime unit on the reproductive system with a group of Year 7s. As he told me of his creative ways of helping squirmy little 12 year olds understand all the essentials, I couldn’t help but remember the many times I have had to teach Sex Ed, always an amusing and delicate undertaking. There was the year I had a student confused about the proper way to put on a condom (he’d unrolled it and tried to pull it on like a sock, and that- surprise, surprise- didn’t work so well). There was the year I had to remind my class of the boundaries between teachers and students when nearly half of the questions in the infamous, anonymous question box were addressed to me specifically, interesting though not quite appropriate questions like “When did you lose your virginity?”, “Have you ever had sex?”, and “Have you ever experimented with lesbianism?” And then there was the year I had to assure a panic-ridden girl who had missed her period that it was highly unlikely she was pregnant, given that she had never had sex nor had even ever been in the vicinity of a naked penis. As teachers, we collect stories, and I have to say, I think my story of the first time I had to talk with kids about the birds and the bees is probably one of the best in my collection.

Before I went back to school to study Education, I did a short stint as a teaching assistant at a local high school, where much of my job involved integrating kids with varying levels of developmental delay and special needs into mainstream classes. I got to work with a wonderful variety of cool and quirky kids, but I spent most of my time working with a hilarious and rambunctious trio of seventeen-year old boys. Let’s, for the sake of this story, call them Rob, Ryan, and Jesse.

Rob was the self-appointed leader of the pack. He had one of the healthiest egos I have ever encountered in a teenage boy, and he strutted down the hallway with the swagger of Danny Zuko from Grease, high-fiving the guys as he passed, and blazing his gun fingers at all the ladies, sometimes with a nod or a wink for extra effect. He knew everyone's name and from the Heys and nods returned as he confidently walked with head high and smile wide, it soon became obvious that he must, indeed, have been one of the most popular kids in school. His confidence was so healthy, in fact, that on the last day of school, he presented me with a neatly typed letter that can only be described as a break-up note. Made up of lines he must have borrowed from MTV afterschool specials, he told me that we’d had a good run together but that he had his life and I had mine and it was time for us to move on and go our separate ways. Rob enjoyed attention, he loved being the best, the fastest, the strongest, and he had a flair for the dramatic. When upset, he bit his lip or crossed his arms or made a fist and slowly turned away, in much the same exaggerated style as the dames of 1940s cinema. Once, after the boys received their results back from a little Science quiz, Rob became silent and visibly upset. After a good ten minutes of refusing to say what was bothering him, he took a deep breath, blinked his eyes, paced and shook his head, and then only after much more lip-biting, sighing, and arm-crossing in the corner, did he finally confess that he was upset because Ryan had scored higher than he had. With hands thrown up in the air, Rob cried, “But why? I just don’t understand. How could this happen? I always get the highest mark. Everybody knows I am the smartest in the group.” 

Rob’s best friend and faithful follower was Ryan, a tall and spaghetti-thin boy, with hair that was always a little too long, and pants that were always a little too short. He was a huge Michael Jackson fan, so much so that he dressed up as the king of pop every Halloween. He could frequently be heard singing one of MJ’s hits and he could do the kick/spin/crotch grab/Owww with practiced perfection. His gait was similar to how I imagine a tipsy, marching llama might walk- back straight, with one long leg thrust out far in front of the other, each step landing first wobbily, then solidly, on the sole of his velcroed sneakers. He often snickered to himself, sometimes because of a shared joke, but also often because of a private one, and he sometimes needed a gentle reminder that no matter how nice and warm it was down there, one really shouldn't be putting one's hands in one pants. He came from a particularly large and loving family, and the kindness of his parents could be seen in Ryan, who was himself a kind, calm, easygoing soul. His response to the above incident of the Science quiz was evidence of his nature- Ryan quickly hid his own excitement and instead put his arm around Rob's shoulder and gave him a bit of a talk-down, assuring him that he shouldn't worry or be upset because he'd do better next time.

Then there was Jesse, who was desperate to not ever miss a thing but was always just a little bit behind the pack, rushing to catch up because he'd been distracted or forgotten something or because he needed to know what was going on here, there, everywhere. He was almost always in a good mood, always eager to share a story- enthusiastically, loudly and so close to my face that I could smell what he’d had for breakfast. He had a very very long list of special needs and medical conditions, one of which was near-blindness. I'd heard that when he was younger, he used to have to wear a hockey helmet because he kept bumping into things, not only because he had trouble seeing but also because he was an excited, distractable type whose attention quickly strayed from the path in front of him to the gazillion other stimuli swirling around him. The most frequent thing I said to Jesse was “Personal space,” a friendly but firm reminder repeated several times throughout the day. He would respond each time by taking two giant steps back and then, of course, as he continued telling his latest story, as his excitement built, he would inch closer and closer and closer until he was right up in my face again, and- again- I would offer up yet another reminder. “Personal space, Jesse. Personal space!”

The four of us worked together in a variety of classes, and I very quickly grew to care about this awesome group of boys and looked forward to our daily adventures. The boys enjoyed school quite a bit but they really really enjoyed Science, especially, of course, when they got to be involved in cutting things up or blowing things up. They also enjoyed, however, the simple practice of taking notes and labeling diagrams, and all three were quite proud of themselves once they were able- after much practice- to locate essential organs on the body, like the heart, the brain and the lungs. They’d learned about the nervous system and the digestive system and the circulatory system, and at long last, with the arrival of Spring, it was time for the reproductive system.

I took the boys aside and tried to explain what was coming.

“Boys, listen. Very soon in Science class, we are going to start talking about the reproductive system. Do you know what I mean when I say ‘reproductive system’?”

“I do,” piped up Rob.

“Oh really? That’s great. Can you tell the boys a bit about it?”

“Well, I know what it is, but….but…it’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Yes, you’re right. It is kinda hard to explain, isn't it? Well then, why don’t I explain it? Basically, what we’re going to talk about is the ways that boys and girls are different from each other, and also the changes that happen in your body as you grow from being a boy to a man, and we’re also going to talk about how babies are made.”

I pause and look at each of them for a reaction. All three seem to be doing their very best to avoid eye contact with me. Ryan, of course, is snickering away, his natural reaction to an unfamiliar situation.

I continue. “So the question is: do we want to learn about all of this stuff together with the rest of the class or do we want to learn about it alone in our own small group? What do you think?”

Silence. They look at each other, then at me, then at each other. They do almost everything together and seemed to be waiting for one of their crew to speak up first and take the lead.

“How about we try and see how it goes with the rest of the class, and if you’re feeling uncomfortable at any time, we can always change it up and talk about this stuff on our own. How does that sound? Do you think we can all agree to that?”

Again, they’re looking at each other, then at me, then each other, and then slowly but surely, they each nod in agreement.

Phew.

So, the first class comes and goes. There’s talk of progesterone, estrogen, testosterone, but no anatomical pictures have been put on display, and the p-word and v-word have not yet been uttered. All is good, the boys are totally fine, and we finish that first class without any issues whatsoever.

Again, phew.

Well, the next day I arrive at work and walk into the common room our program shares, only to find Jesse rocking back and forth on the couch, weeping so hard that snot and drool and tears are streaming down his face and soaking his shirt. He is inconsolable.

“What is going on?” I ask.

A colleague shakes her head in confusion. “I don’t know," she says. "We’ve tried to get him to talk, but he won’t. He has only said that it has something to do with what you guys are talking about in Science class.”

“What???” I am completely confused.

I mean, we’ve barely started and there’s been absolutely no talk yet of penises or vaginas or any of that other stuff that tends to make kids uncomfortable.

I sit down beside Jesse with a big box of tissues, and try to first clean him up a little and then to figure out what on earth is going on.

“Jesse, sweetie,” I start ever so gingerly, “You’re so upset. What’s going on?”

My question is met with another bout of wailing.

“I am told it has something to do with Science class. Did something in yesterday’s class upset you?”

Another full-throttle wail.

“Did it remind you of something?”

Now, he nods his head vigorously and starts almost hyperventilating, and then another round of crying begins.

Oh no. My first thought frightened me. I couldn’t help but think of the unfortunate truth that these kids we work with are far more vulnerable to sexual abuse. I was scared to death that Jesse’s reaction was stirred up by a dreadful secret, rooted in some kind of horrible, abusive experience in his past. He was so so so upset.

I try to get more details by asking some simple yes/no questions.

“Does it remind you of something that happened to you?”

He shakes his head “No” and I heave a great big sigh of relief that no matter what it is, it can’t be as bad as my initial fear.

“Does it remind you of something that happened to someone you know?”

Through stuttering breaths comes his “Y-y-y-y-es-s-s-s.”

“Okay, so it reminds you of something that happened to someone you know?”

He closes his eyes and nods his head.

“Um, okay. Do you want to tell me about it? Maybe I can help.”

“We-see-um-no-n-n-n-n-no” He can’t get his words out. He can’t catch his breath. I’ve never seen him so upset.

“Why don’t you take some time to catch your breath and settle down a bit, and when you feel ready, then we can talk about it, okay?”

Again, he nods his head, and whimpers and hiccups and sobs some more.

As the day passes, I keep my eye on Jesse, and watch to see if he has calmed down. He is quiet and withdrawn for most of the morning, and then by lunch, he seems to have returned to his usual, jovial self. Finally, mid-afternoon, he comes to me and says, “I think I’m ready to talk.”

Excellent. I take him aside and start with the same question we ended with earlier this morning.

“Jesse, you said this morning that what we’re talking about in Science reminds you of something that has happened to someone you know. Right?”

He puts on his serious face, sighs deeply, and nods his head.

“Is that person a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Is it someone in your family?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister?”

“No.”

“A cousin?”

“No.”

“Hmm, well then, who?”

 The stuttering breath and tears start again. Through sobs and whimpers, he cries,“My gr-gr-grandpa.”

“Your grandpa?” I can’t help but sound confused.

“Yes,” he shrieks.

“Well, what happened exactly to your grandpa?”

In a voice so loud, it can be heard by everyone in the room, he cries out, “It reminds me of when my grandpa had to go to the hospital because he had a low white blood cell count.” And then he returns again to the hysterical, inconsolable, full body weeping.

“It reminds you of your grandpa and his low white blood cell count? Is that what you said?”

“Y-y-y-yesss.”

Oh my. I sit there for a moment, trying desperately to make the link between progesterone & estrogen and Jesse’s grandpa’s white blood cell count. My forehead wrinkles in a little confusion and I have to bite my lips together to stop them from forming into a bit of a confused, concerned, but inevitably relieved smile. The poor kid has been distraught the whole day, and has spent so much energy on all this sadness and stress. A beloved grandpa in the hospital is enough to make anyone upset- that's for sure; but he maybe needs a little clarification, all the same.

“But Jesse," I exclaim, "that has absolutely nothing to do with what we’re talking about!”

Jesse stops, as if a switch has been turned from on to off. He stops shaking, stops sobbing, then sniffs a little, and looks up.

“It doesn’t?” He is surprised, terribly confused, but also, it seems, relieved.

“No, nothing at all.”

“Really?”

“Really.”
"Really?"
"Really."

“Well,” he pauses for a minute and then turns to me and whispers, “but…but…I…well…I don’t want to talk about all that stuff with the rest of the class. I just don’t want to.”
“That’s okay," I whisper back. "Then we’ll just do our own mini-class together. Does that sound like a plan?”

He nods in agreement, and just then, Rob and Ryan, who have been hovering around throughout the entire conversation, join us.

Ryan snickers, of course, and says, “Me neither. I don’t really want to talk about it with the whole class.”

And then Rob pokes his head in and offers up his two cents. “You know when you asked us a few days ago if we were okay with staying with the class for all this reprowhatever stuff? Well, when I said ‘yes’, I had my fingers crossed. On both my hands.”

Fingers crossed, huh? On both hands? Well then, I guess that settles that now, doesn’t it?!