My wife and I grew up in the 1970s, so naturally we got plenty of detail about sex from about the age of two or so. In my case, I got my information from a book of my older brother’s: the out-of-print classic _How Babies Are Made.
My parents had gotten the book for my brother to explain why the hell I was suddenly showing up to mess up his sweet deal. I don’t think it gets into homewrecking siblings, sadly, but through its pleasantly childlike construction-paper art, the book sketches the basics of the birds and the bees and the chickens and the dogs. With all that early information, you’d think I’d have the healthiest possible attitude toward sex, right?
Wrong. I cannot make it through a reading of this book to Boobaby without breaking down in hysterical laughter. It starts when we finish with flowers and pollen and turn the page on this:
I mean, please. Who can help but giggle at this? I try to restrain myself, to treat the subject of reproduction with the quiet dignity it deserves, but then we get to mammals:
<p> Even Boobaby chuckles at this one. I mean, could his expression be any goofier? I have to think that the artist is in on the joke at least a little — I mean, really, did he have to choose a <em>cocker spaniel </em>for this particular illustration? By the time the human baby comes along, I’m usually reading through teeth clenched against the next outburst of goofy laughter. </p> <p> Yeah, I know. <em>Real </em>mature. </p> <p> So about all Boobaby is going to learn from me and this book is the idea that sex makes puppies and that sometimes it’s frikkin’ hilarious. </p> <p> Which, I guess, isn’t too far from the whole truth. </p>