What Is the Ball Sack For?

The children are surfacing!  Throw in more balls!

No parent looks forward to the inevitable chat about Where Babies Come From.  For the longest time, we got away with "They come from the uterus." I sailed through how they find their way out of the uterus, and what happens if they get stuck.  I was even, sort of, okay with my husband's helpful contribution, "Women basically poop babies out of their vagina." Not exactly accurate, but not exactly inaccurate either.  I let it slide with a firm admonition, "Don't ever EVER talk about this at school."  In the back of my mind, I've always kind of anticipated a phone call from either the school, an irate parent, or Child Protective Services. You would think that with this kind of "at the ready" attitude, I would have been prepared for a particularly LOUD dinner about a year ago.

Some kids have more balls than others.

Picture a crazy dinner, where 3 out of 4 kids are wailing.  And I mean screaming-especially the twins. I don't recall why everyone was upset. My husband had left the table- in my memory, it was to check the scores-- although to be fair, this may not be exactly accurate, but it may not be exactly inaccurate either.  My oldest, the glittering eye of the storm, calmly asked, "Mommy. What is the ball sack for?"  Correctly predicting that my answer would have been something mundane and unsatisfying like, "It's there to hold the balls," he immediately took it back, "I mean, what are BALLS for?" Did I mention the screaming? And it's just me, with no back-up? And no strategy, no prepared speech or presentation?

Umm, they're called testes, not balls. 
Ok, Mom, whatever. What are testes for?*

*Here's where I wish I had had the foresight to have said, "They make testosterone."  I feel like I could have taken the conversation in a whole other direction, and really bought a little time, like a year or two, to come up with a strategy or seek back-up.  It was just difficult to form a complete thought with all that mayhem in the background.  In my not exactly inaccurate memory, the mayhem by this time included a trumpeting elephant herd and a dozen monkeys swinging from my pot rack and flinging feces at each other along with the children. Summoning all my powers of concentration, I tried to buy time with,

Umm, they make sperm.
Well, what are sperm?

Girls can have balls also.  They just don't have
a handy ball sack, and therefore must find
other places to store them.

In an instant, everyone was quiet and eerily still because I was about to say something titillating, forbidden, or on the outskirts of naughtiness.  Or some combination of all three.   Although I might have been willing to take a risk that neither of the twins would choose "SPERM" as one of their first words, I didn't think my then 4 year old daughter needed to be updated about the function of sperm at least for another decade or two.  While my mind raced to think of an answer, in the periphery of my visual field I saw my husband slinking back to the table.  A tsunami of relief washed over me, except that... wait... what the... he caught my eye and literally SPUN AROUND ON HIS HEEL and walked away. As relief turned to disbelief, ire, and bitter thoughts of revenge, I told my son that we would have to postpone this conversation until everyone was in bed.

We managed to get all the kids in bed, but still had not had a chance to discuss strategy- mainly due to the logistics involved in getting four children some combination of undressed, bathed, dried, lotioned, powdered,  diapered, teeth brushed, read-to, snuggled, tucked in, kissed, back-scratched, and lights-outed. Suddenly we heard soft footsteps padding into the room. As we damned that kid's perseverance and reminded ourselves that one should never make promises they aren't willing to keep, we took a deep breath and dove in to THE TALK.

This time my husband did not leave the room (probably because he knew that if he did, his own ball sack would be in serious jeopardy) and instead led the discussion with:

You know that there are differences between girls and boys and men and women, right? 
(Michael nods, elementary stuff here.)
Well, another difference is that women make eggs, and men make sperm. Babies are made when the egg and sperm get together, and the way this happens is...
(Michael interrupts) Oh, I already know this part.
(Parents exchanged alarmed/concerned/curious glances) You do?
(Authoritatively) Yeah, it has to do with movie kissing.
(More glances exchanged.) Ummmmm...well, sort of...
(Michael continues, now confident) When a man and woman movie kiss, the man spits sperm into the woman's mouth, and then she swallows it, and that's how the sperm gets to the egg to make a baby.

And that, folks, is why you should never try to move kiss your sibling.

At this point, we ceased all eye contact.  I may have stopped breathing.  What went through my mind was a THIS COULD HAPPEN scenario where we were at someone's house for Thanksgiving, and Grandma, wheelchair-bound by her weak heart, is there having brought what might be her last green Jell-o and cottage cheese salad mold with the family.  Her head bobs, Jell-o salad-like, enjoying every minute because it could be her last, when there is a knock on the door.  It's strapping, boisterous cousin Kurt, who has just returned from his overseas war assignment, and no one has told his wife that he was coming home on leave. Surprise! She screams, startling Grandma who recovers, but looks pale, and then (the wife) throws herself on him and they movie kiss like no one has ever movie kissed before.  Suddenly, my son screams in delight, "MOM!  THEY'RE MAKING A BABY RIGHT NOW IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY!"  Grandma hears this, startles again, and that's it.  No green Jell-o cottage cheese salad for the next family gathering.  I felt like if we didn't correct his misinformation, I could someday be responsible for some poor woman's death.  I just couldn't live with that.

Movie kissing is for responsible grown-ups.

So we told him how sperm really gets to the egg, keeping it simple. Like every other kid his age, he thought it was disgusting, but was immediately able to apply his newfound more accurate knowledge, and formulate a few clarification questions.

So...YOU MEAN... that you and Daddy...?
Yes. Every person was basically conceived this way. You, your sisters and your brother, Mommy and Daddy, your grandparents...
So... YOU MEAN... that Grandma and Papa...?
Yes. EVERYONE YOU KNOW.  Grandma and Papa too. 

And then that was it.  He padded back to bed, and to fill in the gaps, we bought him Where Did I Come From? the very next day. When we gave it to him, he scurried away, read it in 10 minutes, and then gave it back to us.

Mommy?  Where do cavities
come from?

Well, do you have any questions? 
 No.  Have you seen my toothpaste?

But his mind was churning.  The next day, while driving in the car, he asked my husband if redheads also had red hair in their pubic area. I think my husband said something about only if their hair wasn't dyed. (silent thank you for not introducing handy phrases such as carpet and drapes)  The book has since been put away.  I'm pretty sure our daughter hasn't yet picked it up, but I imagine that it won't be too much longer.  I will be no better prepared, because I don't think you can really predict exactly what angle it's going to take.  Sometimes those balls just roll out of the sack and come flying at you out of nowhere.

*Big thank you to Michelle, who reminded me of the movie kissing part as I was telling her how I was struggling to write this post, and feeling like it just wasn't coming together the way a good sperm and egg should.