I have a major block in talking to my kids about sex.

Major block.  It just seems so awkward.  So weird . . . I mean when you really think about it . .  sex IS weird.  That thing, in there, doing that?

Weird.

I had been blatantly ignoring the facts of life with my kids and happily living in a life of late bloomers.

Then we got a rooster.

And roosters are one of the male-est creatures I have ever seen in my life.

We had a happy little flock of hens. They worked together, the nested together. They were a band of strong women who foraged and produced. It made me proud to call myself woman when these ladies worked together, polite and hardworking . . . amazing women.

Then we got a rooster.

I am not sure which hen swooned first, but within seconds of this virile cock entering our coop he had “presented” himself on top of at least half our fabulously feminine flock.

The hens fell in line and all history of the sisterhood that had existed moments before had vanished.

Feminism was crushed in those few seconds. Bra’s were put back on, and the ladies were again barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.

That afternoon I was trying to assert my strong feminine side by lounging by the fire when the kids came tumbling into the house, eyes ablaze and cheeks flushed.

They burst right out with “Mom, what’s SEX” without any preamble, or gentle introduction.

I stammered out the obvious response of “WHAT? OMG, where did you learn THAT word”

Their response?

“Dad told us to ask you.  He said that is what the rooster is doing when he climbs on the hens”

Thanks babe. Thanks.

I think I may just plan a weekend away when our eldest gets her first period.

That’ll show him.