At some point, your child is going to ask about sex. I do not recommend my method, which was awkward, involved too much info, and also involved too many margaritas.
Humor Parenting Sex and Relationships

How Not to Talk to Your Child About Sex: A Cautionary Tale

At some point, your child is going to ask about sex. I do not recommend my method, which was awkward, involved too much info, and also involved too many margaritas.

By Sandra Samoska of Outnumbered: Who’s Teaching Who Anyway?

I’d like to share three things I learned about myself last night.

1. Procrastination is bad. Very, very bad.

2. I’m a phenomenal actress.

3. I’m too old to drink multiple margaritas on a school night.

So there I am, lovingly tucking my daughter in bed. The house is quiet around us, it’s just her and I, we’ve said our prayers, and I’m juuuust about to shut the door and go downstairs, when she opens her mouth.

Daughter: “How does someone get pregnant? Do you choose to do it or does it just happen?”

Oh dear God.

I could tell by the look on her face that this wasn’t going to be one of those times when I could brush her off with a simple, “when two people fall in love and decide to be a mommy and daddy…” kind of conversation. No, she was going to dig in. She was going to ask all kinds of whys and hows until she was satisfied.

Have I bought and read all of those lovely books written by child psychologists and child education experts on explaining puberty and sex to children? No, of course not, they’re still sitting in my Amazon cart. Have I read through the articles I saved to my Pinterest board on parenting for just such an occasion? No, of course not, I’ve been too busy watching Tasty videos of four ingredient enchiladas and cupcakes that are iced to look like hydrangeas.

Stupid procrastination. Stupid Pinterest.

Ok, Sandra, you can do this. You’re a mature adult and a loving mom – surely you can make it through this conversation. How hard could it be?

I can’t even tell you what took over my brain because I’m pretty sure I entered a state of shock, horror, disbelief, and please help me little baby Jesus. One part of me tried to retreat to my happy place and some person I don’t really know took over and ran the show.

All I can tell you is that words like penis, vagina, semen and ejaculate (can I say those words here?) came out of my mouth. After a while her face got this horrified and disgusted look, and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly. What did I do then, you may ask? I just kept going and going because once I jumped out of that plane, well, there was nowhere else to go but down. And the whole time, a frantically screaming woman that looks remarkably like me was in the back of my head, saying, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL OF HIS ANGELS, SHUT UP!!!

And even though her face was mortified, she kept asking MORE QUESTIONS.

Bless her heart, after about 10 minutes she finally said, “Ok, that’s enough, Mom. We’re done with this conversation. We’re moving on.”

And what did I do then? I kept going…because of course.

Me: “Ok, we can be done, but two things are important for you to know. The first is, you can always ask me any questions at all that you have about these kinds of things. I’m not at all embarrassed to talk about it,” (Yeah right, you freaking liar liar pants on fire), “so you shouldn’t be embarrassed to ask.”

Daughter: “Ok, Mom.”

Me: “Second, this is a conversation that should only take place between parents and their kids.” (Did you hear that? Parents. Plural. As in, two. Where the heck is my husband, and why do I always get these questions??) “So make sure that you don’t share what we talked about with your sisters or any of your friends. Your friends need to hear it from their parents when they are ready, not from you.”

Daughter: “Ok, Mom. Can we be done now?”

By the time I finally made it downstairs and into the kitchen where my husband was making the coffee for the next day, I was done. Completely spent. My two personalities had finally merged back together again and were yelling obscenities at each other since apparently working together is beyond them. In pure defense, my brain decided to leak out of my ears and puddle on the floor.

Husband: “I made you a margarita. That took a long time. Everything ok?”

Me: “No. Shut up. Make it a double.”

This post was originally published on Outnumbered: Who’s Teaching Who, Anyway?


About the Author

Hi, I’m Sandra. I’m a stay at home/work at home wife, mom, and writer with four amazing kids who are always keeping me on my toes. I write about marriage, family, and parenting, and how our faith is the bedrock of all of it. With four kids, three dogs and a husband, I’m seriously Outnumbered, but I’m frequently finding that they have more to teach me than I do them! You can find me at or on facebook at