Then and Now

 

My encounters with males have not always been as potential dates, but some circumstances have still been funny, embarrassing, or memorable.

From the time my son was a toddler, for example, he bombarded me with questions. Each response led to another question. I saw his behavior as a sign of intelligence, so I did my best to satisfy his curiosity. I found some circumstances more difficult than others, but I did my best, even when the answers embarrassed me. Perhaps the worst situation, however, happened one afternoon at home.

We had been shopping together, and after I unloaded the groceries in the kitchen, I carried a small blue box of into the bathroom.

Sandy’s little feet followed close behind, questions pouring out of his mouth with every step. “What’re you doing, Mama?”

“I’m putting away the groceries.”

“Why are you putting groceries in the bathroom?”

“These aren’t food.”

“What are they?”

Gulp. “They’re tampons.”

“What are tampons?”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “They’re something women use when they aren’t having a baby.”

Silence fell for a moment before he asked, “Why?”

“Because when women are not pregnant, they bleed once a month, and tampons keep the blood from coming out.”

He never paused. “Out of where?”

Oh, yikes! What do I call it? When I was growing up I was told my private parts were called a pocketbook. As a parent myself, though, I had read not to use euphemisms with children. I clinched my teeth, but I used the correct term. “Vagina. Blood comes out of my vagina, so I put a tampon in there to stop the blood.”

“Do you have a tampon in your vagina right now?”

“Yes,” I admitted. I felt proud of myself for bravery and correctness, satisfied that I could answer any question my boy might throw at me.

Until he said, “Can I see?”

My bravery ended. My poor son had to be much older before he saw his first vagina, and I am pleased to add that I was not there when it happened.

 

Some forty years later I stood in line at the post office when another young boy waited ahead of me with his mother. A typical four-year-old, he blathered away, question after question, but his distracted mother ignored him, never even turning around to look at him.

“Why do we have to wait in line? Mommy, why do we have to wait?”

My automatic grandmother gene must have kicked in, because I answered his question for her. I leaned over and said, “It’s Christmastime, so more people than usual are waiting here in the post office.”

“Why?”

“Because we all have to wait our turn.”

“What for?”

“Most of us are mailing Christmas gifts to friends and family members.”

Proudly I straightened back up and tugged at my sweater. I usually did not wear tight sweaters, but that morning I had pulled on a sweater and run out the door without noticing that it conformed to my body a little more than I preferred.  

The little boy stopped bugging his mother and turned to me. “How long before Christmas?”

“About three weeks.”

“That’s when Santa Claus comes?”

“Yes, it is.”

“If Santa delivers presents, why do we have to mail them?”

“We also buy presents to give to others. We aren’t Santa, so we have to mail our presents.”

“What are those?” He pointed at me.

I reached up and touched my big earrings. When my son was a teen, he claimed I wore chandeliers. “They’re jewelry. Earrings,” I clarified.

“No, those,” he said more insistently.

I touched my glasses and looked at him with a question on my face.

He shook his head. “No, those.” He continued to point up at me.

I leaned over. “What?” I asked.

“Those,” he said. He poked a pointer finger deep into my boob.

Geez! I gasped and looked at his mother. She still stood with her back to us. I took a deep breath, hoped I was doing the right thing, and answered, “Those are breasts.”

“Breasts?” He tried out the word as if he had never heard it.

“Yes,” I assured him. “Breasts. All grown women have them. Even your mommy has them—”

His mother swung around to face me for the first time. I glanced at her chest, and it was as flat as a desk. Struck speechless for a moment, I stammered, “A-a-and th-they come in all sizes.”

She turned around to face forward again, so she did not see my face go red enough to match the Christmas decorations. Thankfully she got called to the counter, sparing me any more embarrassment.

Yes, men of all ages can render me almost speechless.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.