I gotta hand it to the British private school system: they are ridiculously advanced when it comes to a lot of things. Reading, sports (or, “sport”, if we’re being appropriate), marmite. And, as I learned rather uncomfortably last week, sex ed.
William came home incredibly excited that he had seen a video at school about babies, and that he now knows where babies come from. After a few uncomfortable questions, I discovered that he really learned about a veeeery small portion of the baby-makin’ process. The teachers didn’t explain how the babies get in their mothers, nor did they cover how they get out – they just talked about what goes on while they’re in there (though they should probably go over that again, because Will is pretty convinced that I had to put food into a tube that went into his belly button).
William is now obsessed with how babies get out (though not how they get in, thankfully). Luckily for me, I was able to show both kids my c-section scar and explain that the doctors took a sharp knife made especially for cutting people open, cut a line into my stomach, spread the cut apart and, with their gloved hands, pulled out my intestines and then ripped each of the children out of that very open wound, all while I was strapped to a table, vomiting. It takes a pretty sexually prudish upbringing to make a person think that explanation is better than a simple “Out of my vagina. The end.”
As an added bonus, Poppy is now OBSESSED with my c-section scar. No matter where we are, or what we’re doing, she’ll randomly, creepily whisper “Show me your line.” And if I refuse, she tries to pull down my pants while screaming and crying and whining “Your line! I want your line!!” Nothing like being sexually assaulted by your 2 year old to liven up an afternoon.