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Today, however, I belong to a generation that has made ``parenting'' both a noun and verb, and, it seems, an industry. Scores of attractive picture books give sensitive and sensible information about every concern families might need to tackle -- from dealing with the birth of a sibling to the death of a grandparent, from a trip to the dentist to a stay in the hospital. So I did what many clever mothers do when they have a question about kids' questions: I looked for a book. I told the bookstore clerk exactly what I wanted -- a simple, clear, attractively illustrated description of the sex act for a young child. She homed in on the exact shelf in the children's non-fiction section in seconds. Apparently I wasn't the only person in the market for such a book; almost two dozen little volumes lined the wall. It was a grueling search. Almost half of the books simply left out the ``how-to'' of sex, allowing young readers to assume that conception took place, well . . . immaculately. Phrases such as ``when the egg from Mommy meets the sperm from Daddy'' appeared with no reference as to how The other books were explicit, and then some, offering up questions like, ``What is it like for you when you're feeling sexy?'' I was not yet ready to examine this query with my kid -- in fact, I might never be ready. A dozen books and two lattes later, I found a junior sex manual that was just right -- ``Did the Sun Shine Before You Were Born?'' by Sol and Judith Gordon. It began with a discussion of different kinds of families Then, there it was -- the description of the sex act. The authors graciously included some crucial, if not physiological information. For example, when two people love each other and agree to have sex, it feels ``really good.'' Facing the text was a sweet pencil drawing of a couple cuddling under the covers. They looked happy. I'd found our book at last. Now came the best part -- sharing the miraculous story of conception with my daughter. Since I was now an expert on human reproduction, I could field any question she might toss my way. I imagined potential topics, rehearsed my answers and prepared responses to her expressions of wonder. Best of all, I pictured our sitting together holding hands, bathing in the afterglow of intimate revelation. It didn't quite turn out that way. After reading the significant page, she turned to me, eyes wide. A long silence . . . then: ``Yuck! Do you and Daddy really get naked together?'' She marched away in disgust. She hasn't brought up the subject again. For all I know, she's still disgusted.
Published Tuesday, June 9, 1998, in the San Jose Mercury News
Mom Searches for Book on Birds and Bees
BY RENA SHAW DAVIDOW
Special to the Mercury News
A FEW WEEKS ago, my daughter asked me where she came from. I gave her the usual answer: ``Stanford Hospital.'' I belong to the just-give-them-what they-need-to-know school of parenting, and I figured this terse reply would work as well as it had in the past. No such luck. My 9-year-old sweetie fired a follow-up question: ``But, how did I get to Stanford Hospital?'' Get there, indeed. My own mother knew exactly how to crush such birds-and-bees curiosity. ``Honey, if you have any questions about sex, just ask me,'' she'd say. Ask her what? I was so obtuse regarding my own origin that I couldn't even craft a decent question. So I learned the facts of life from the real professionals -- my friends.
the introduction was actually made. Most of the stories featured charming pink, hairless sex organs somewhere near the beginning and charming pink babies at the end. The story lines sagged in the middle.
and flowed into the subject of love. Love? I'd paged through a library of kids' books on sex and not encountered that word once. How could that be?
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Rena Shaw Davidow is a Palo Alto free-lance writer.
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