The Boy and The Talk

As I write this, my 10-year-old son is at school, listening to a presentation on the changes his body will soon undergo in preparation for manhood. 

I sure hope the school does a better job than I did last night.  
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Last month, after the school quietly warned us parents of fifth graders that they would be giving this talk, I conscientiously pulled out our book on preparing children for puberty. I planned to study this highly-recommended book and bring up the topic myself during some quiet moment at home. But that quiet moment (like most quiet moments in this household) never came. Life got busy with repainting the dining room, traveling, preparing for house guests, planning for my daughter’s eighth birthday, and keeping our normal chaos under control. The Talk – even The Book Reading -- fell through the cracks because there wasn’t an immediate deadline. And because I was a bit intimidated by the topic -- as a female with only sisters, what do I know about the changes of manhood??
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Last week, knowing the school’s presentation was getting closer, I forced myself to open said highly-recommended book. But I didn’t need to skim very far before deciding that this was definitely Husband’s area of expertise, and the responsibility should fall on him. I'll do the daughter (some day...); he can do the son. However, Husband has a tough travel schedule this fall. He is gone almost every week and comes home tired and with a lot on his mind. And with big plans to clean the garage (which I wouldn't want to discourage). He was willing to give The Talk but , if he did, I never heard about it.
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Last night, despite the house guests and the family birthday celebration and it already being past bedtime, I realized we were down to the wire. I quickly pulled my son “Huckle” into the study, away from the noise and cake, in a frantic last-ditch effort to discuss puberty before the school did. Although I knew the school would do a great job (they always do), it seemed like the kind of thing the parents should talk about first. (Besides, what if the teacher said, “Your parents have probably already spoken to you about this…” and my son volunteered, “Mine didn’t!” He would do that. He is very outspoken.)
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Anyway, last night I sit Huckle down beside me on the oversized armchair in my study. I try to look him lovingly in the eye for our heart-to-heart, like I had when imagining the scene beforehand. But it isn't like I imagined. (Dear self: it never is.) Huckle is bouncing on my chair, probably from the sugar rush of birthday cake and the euphoria of having just beat his dad, sister, and grandmother at a board game. It’s hard to look someone in the eye when they are bouncing. 
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“Honey,” I say to the blur beside me, “Tomorrow a teacher will be talking to the boys in your class about how your bodies will be changing in the next few years as you start to become a man.”
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As I speak, Huckle picks up the heart-shaped pillow from behind me and pretends it is strangling him. His tongue sticks out and his head falls back and his eyes roll and he makes horrible gagging noises. I briefly wonder if there's some blatant symbolism in my son choking himself with my heart pillow. But mainly I think: manhood is still very, very far away. 
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“I just want you to know that you can always talk to Dad and me if you have any questions, either after the talk tomorrow or as your body begins to change in the next few years. Okay, Honey? Did you hear me?”
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I can't tell if Huckle is nodding or if his twitches are death throes, as the fuzzy heart clutched to his neck finishes him off. But I don’t give up. I take a moment to collect my thoughts and remind myself that feeding a big piece of birthday cake to a 10-year-old this soon before bedtime is always a bad idea. Then again, the cake didn’t get frosted and decorated until thirty minutes ago.
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“Huckle? Do you have any questions right now? Do you know how your body will change?”

Now Huckle is strangling the pillow, giving it such a tight twist that I no longer wonder why our couch cushions sometimes leak stuffing. “Stinky armpits!” he yells and starts hitting himself on the head with the pillow. 
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Usually in the life of a ten-year-old, "stinky armpits" is an inappropriate answer to a mother's question. But, right now, it's strangely encouraging. It shows that Huckle is paying attention and even knows what I'm talking about. “Yes!” I say enthusiastically. “As boys get older, they start needing deodorant, because sometimes a grown-ups’ armpits have an odor. But you’ll also get stronger muscles and your voice will change and…”
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My voice drifts off as I begin wondering, will the school go into detail about changes to the genitals? Or what genitals are for?! Or are those topics only the parents should broach? It’s a private school, and we’re paying a hefty tuition for it. They had better at least mention the genitals. 
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“When you come home tomorrow, how about telling me what the teacher discusses, and then we can talk about it more? Or you could talk about it with Dad,” I suggest. There, I just bought us some time. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Husband again. I am more convinced than ever that this is his domain, though I can more easily imagine Husband and Huckle having a pillow fight than The Talk. 
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So here I am back in my study, wondering if Huckle is paying attention during his school's talk. I wonder if he’ll tell me what was said or if he'll have any questions for me when he gets home. But, most of all, I wonder which of us is less prepared for puberty.