I was intrigued by the idea and relentless with my questions. How would they get the baby? Where would it come from? How long would the whole thing take?
My parents dodged my questions at first. Then one day I was standing in line at a crowded Dairy Queen with my very pregnant mother.
“I know where the baby is,” I announced in my loudest voice, “But I need to know how it got there!”
My parents had a talk with the pediatrician, who agreed I was old enough to hear the truth. After researching the most age-appropriate tool for explaining sex to a two-and-a-half year old, my parents marched off to the bookstore and returned with HOW BABIES ARE MADE by Steven Schepp and Andrew Andry.
The book was a glorious ‘70s era staple designed to “aid parents in their answers, without going into technical detail or being too graphic.”
I loved this book. I carried it everywhere, devouring each pastel paper collage with the fervor most kids reserved for toys or candy.
There was the random pencil dot to show the size of an egg.
There was the bizarre looking flower.
There was the dog proudly displaying his junk.
There was the overly amorous rooster and hen.
I was fascinated by all of it. I couldn’t get enough.
Thankfully, my understanding of the subject has evolved slightly. I must admit though, my fascination hasn’t changed much. This may have something to do with why I write romance instead of technical manuals on quantum physics.
Lucky for me, I now get to write my own scenes with pencil dots and frisky chickens.
And if I’m ever unclear on any of the details, I have my handy reference manual.
Did you have a book like this when you were a kid? Do you remember yours as fondly as I do mine? Please share.
I’ll be busy studying for the love scene in my next book.
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