The Day Has Come

Several years ago, I wrote a sex book. [Gasp.]

Look, it wasn't my idea, but I did it anyway because, well, my publisher was the captain of the lacrosse team and, and, and...

Just kidding. I tackled the project like any other project and tried to make it funny and educational. At the time, I tried not to think too much about how writing a sex book might impact my future. (Q. What would my children think, years from now? My mom is sooo weird. Could I ever be hired to teach in any kind of school system again? Hey - who do you have for English this year? NO WAY! The one who wrote a SEX BOOK??? What would the neighbors think? This is Ruth Dynamite - she wrote a SEX BOOK!)

Well, it's true that people often introduce me that way these days. I laugh it all off because, truthfully, it makes my husband look like a real stud. He gets all kinds of approving glances from people he doesn't really know - the kinds of looks Kid Rock must get after marrying such a minx. (Or maybe it's because I look exactly like Pamela Anderson Lee Rock.)

I haven't applied to teach in any legitimate place recently, so I don't yet know the answer to my second question, but today, I started to feel the heat from question number one.

"Years from now" - as in, What will my children think, years from now? - is, apparently, now. I'll state right here and for the record: it's my husband's fault. He moved my boxes of books (the freebies I receive when one of my gifty books is published) out from the closet and into the light of day, smack in the middle of my bedroom. He also does things like practice words and language skills and math games with the kids, so now my daughter's reading really well, and she's...curious.

This afternoon, she sashayed downstairs after doing who-knows-what upstairs and gave me a sideways glance.

"So mom. Guess which one of your books I'm reading?"

Shitttt. Just remain calm. Act like it's no big deal.

"Um, let me guess. The sex book?"

"Yep."

"That's nice, dear. But ya know, I really don't think that's, um, appropriate for a seven and a half year-old." Dammit.

"I'm not seven and a half." Freaking hell.

"Right. It's probably not the most appropriate book for a seven year-old, either." Way to go, jackass. It's all fun and games until your daughter starts asking you how to pronounce e-jac-u-la-tion. "Hey, wanna go for a hike down to the stream and look for snakes and frogs?" Snakes and frogs: good. Sex book: not good.

"OK." Oh thank God.

"Great. I'll pack some snacks and bug spray." And hide every sex book in the house, including all the books I bought as "research" that have vivid pictures of really inappropriate things, like giant black dildos.

So we went for a really long, healthy, innocent, age-appropriate hike in the woods, and talked about things like tree bark and earthworms and poison ivy and sassafras (ummm, smells like rootbeer).

We even saw a giant green frog - the biggest frog I've ever seen.

And we forgot all about the book. The book that no longer sits beside the others on the shelf. The book that used to be with all those other books in those boxes on the floor. (Thanks again husband, you giant stud you.)

What was it that Jack Nicholson said in that army movie to Tom Cruise? "You want the truth? Huh? You want the truth?" [pregnant pause] "You can't handle the truth!"

And neither can my daughter. Not yet.

But when she's older - older than seven, lawd help me now - I'll give her the truth. Straight up.

Because even though "years from now" happened today, I'm just not ready. And neither is she. Not by a long shot.