Oscar is doing sex education at school this week. Why they leave it until the last week of term I am not entirely sure. Usually the last week of term is reserved for activities that can only be described as educational in the very loosest of terms, but which still require you to keep your child in school, even though they seem to spend the live long day eating Party Rings and watching films.
Perhaps sex education is considered equally frivolous. Who the hell knows?
Oscar bought a letter home about it last week. It was very respectfully worded, so as not to offend anyone’s sensibilities, unless they are of the Puritan persuasion that is. It transpires that Year 3 are not learning how to have sex yet (I am totally fine with this, although he already knows the facts of life because I am progressive like that). Their sex education is merely about naming and recognising body parts of a ‘sexual nature’.
Oscar: what does it say?
Me: It says you’re going to learn to say vagina.
Oscar: Oh, but I already know how to say vagina.
Me: Well, that’s good. You’ll already be ahead then.
The day before yesterday, at tea time, because of course, meal times are the only time it is really suitable to discuss sex, death, politics, religion and chronic flatulence, Oscar gives us the skinny on his sex education classes so far.
Oscar: ‘I did sex and education today, mama.’
Me: ‘Hmm, I think you mean sex education. Sex AND education is a slightly more troubling thing.’
Oscar: ‘Whatever. You were right though. We did learn to say vagina!’
Me: ‘See, I told you you’d be ahead.’
Oscar: ‘I didn’t know you had testicles in that bit under your willy though.’
Me: ‘Didn’t you?’
Oscar: ‘It says I’ve got two, but I’ve only got one.’
Me: ‘No. You do have two. They live inside that wrinkly bag thing behind your willy. It’s called your scrotum.’
Oscar: ‘Urgh! That’s gross.’
Me: ‘I can’t disagree.’
Oscar: ‘Sperm live there. They look like tadpoles.’
Tallulah: ‘Yeah. They do.’
Oscar: ‘I hate them. I don’t want them in me.’
Tallulah: ‘They’re already inside you.’
Tallulah: ‘Up inside ya! Like eels!’
Oscar: ‘Shut up!’
Tallulah starts to sing ‘Eels up inside ya’ from The Mighty Boosh. This does not improve matters. Oscar tries diversionary tactics.
Oscar: ‘We also saw scientific photographs of a vagina. It was horrible.’
Me: ‘Good. The less you have to do with them for a while, the better for all concerned.’
Oscar (shuddering): ‘There were close up photographs.’
Tallulah: ‘Ha! Ha!’
Oscar: ‘SCIENTIFIC PHOTOGRAPHS….
We pause to think about the difference between regular photographs and SCIENTIFIC PHOTOGRAPHS. (I am still undecided as to which would be more troubling, frankly).
Oscar: …even so, they were still horrible.’
Tilly: ‘Can we talk about something else now?’
Oscar: ‘No. Shut up: testicle head!’
Tilly: ‘Oscar! That’s swearing!’
Oscar: ‘No it isn’t. It’s biology.’
Tallulah: ‘Yeah Tilly. It’s biological. It’s not swearing!’
Oscar: ‘Yeah! It is SCIENCE. Testicle head.’
Oscar and Tallulah start chanting: ‘Testicle head! Testicle head!’
I am helpless with laughter and can do nothing to redeem myself or the situation, which is spiralling utterly out of control.
Tilly is a bit hot under the collar.
Things go from bad to worse and Tilly leaves the room as Tallulah starts to sing: ‘Somewhere Over the Scrotum’, in a falsetto screech.
Sorry Judy Garland.