When I was younger, sex education was not something that was taught in our boys-only
Catholic school, which was run by the Christian Brothers. And with an old-school dad and a somewhat old-school mom, it was not something that was taught at home.
However, I distinctly remember my dad calling me into our kitchen, where he was having a cup if tea and my mom was doing the dishes. I was 13 or 14 and all I could think of when he said "close the door and sit down there," was, "crap, what have I done. Think, think." But I couldn't think of anything for the preceding couple of days that would have got me in trouble. Even long term I couldn't remember anything I would need to be whacked for.
He knew I smoked, (caught at nine smoking with my friend Martin Storey), he knew I swore cos he had whacked me the previous week when my mom told him she caught me. He had already found the Hustler magazines under my mattress I got from Bluey Dunne, and he had even asked Bluey if they were his, so I knew that wasn't it. Unless Bluey had stolen them from under his dad's mattress. But how could that be my problem?
He knew I hung out in the laneways between the houses with my friends, but he also knew I wasn't getting into any trouble. After all I had a part time job as a waiter in a bar, I played or practiced soccer several days a week so I was busy most evenings.
My mind was racing.
"What the hell could it be?" I thought. "Damn. If I can't remember what it is how can I come up with an excuse?"
"It's about time you learned the facts of life," my dad said to me.
I was a little taken aback as I knew this was something he would not talk about of his own accord.
"Crap, this is way worse than being caught doing something I was told not to do, or even worse than getting caught smoking at nine," I thought to myself.
It was potentially worse than the stories you would hear about some friend walking in on his parents while they were in the act.
At least when he slammed the door shut he could rub his eyes to try to make the image disappear. At least that would be quick. This lecture about the birds and the bees could take ages, and my brothers weren't there as a buffer. It was just me and the ol' fella.
I was screwed.
"OK, let me have it," I thought.
As he took a sip from his cup of Lyon's tea made from tea leaves (there was no such thing as tea bags at that time), he placed the cup back on the saucer looked at me and said, "your face and hands are dirty, go upstairs and wash yourself."
Now any sane teenager would have taken flight out the kitchen door and up the stairs faster than the backwards-travelling mucus from under the nose of a kid sniffling a bad cold.
But for some reason I didn't move, or couldn't move. Rooted to the seat in disbelief first thinking to myself "what does my dirty face and hands have to do with the facts of life," not realizing that this was my out.
Either he had lost his bottle or he was just messing with my head. Either way I should have sprinted to the washroom like a gazelle escaping the jaws of a hungry crocodile at the proverbial watering hole, sweaty and out of breath and thankful the jaws of the beast didn't drag me in.
To this day I still haven't approached the subject with him, and I'm not sure I should. Although I often wonder if it wasn't his whacked-out sense of humour.
When I think of it now I can just see him and my mom laughing their heads off in the kitchen after I left. Trying to muffle their giggles and giving each other the finger-on-the-lips signal to keep quiet in case I heard their laughter. I can see them lying in bed laughing with tears coming down their faces thinking about my reaction, just like I did when my wife and I put a whole, raw potato in my son's lunch and thought about his reaction when he opened his bag at recess.
After all, the last time I went to Ireland to visit my parents - four years ago when they were in their mid-70s - I had to go to the garden shed to get something and noticed a framed head shot of my sister of when she was about 14, with red afro hair, mounted on the wall. When I asked my mom what it was doing there she said "your dad put it there."
"But why?" I asked.
"He does things like that and waits for someone to notice and has a good laugh at their reaction," she said. "Sure he put a framed picture of Jesus in the alcohol cabinet by the whiskey bottle so when his friends go to get a drink he just waits to see their reaction. The picture is still there, go have a look."
And sure enough there he was, Jesus, arms outstretched by the bottle of Jameson's.
So maybe one of the so-called facts of life is just to relax, and try to have a bit of fun, even if it is at the expense of your kids.
