Are you there, Judy Blume? It's me, Norm.

A 40-year-old Father's Coming-of-Age Story

My wife was supposed to lead the birds-and-the-bees talk with our daughter. I was supposed to be there, sure. When my wife explained penises and vaginas and sex, my role was to be the hype man. I would wait for certain words to come up and chime in with support:

My wife: “Blah, blah blah, fallopian tube—”

Me: “Mmm hmm, preach it, sister.”

My wife: “Blah, blah blah, scrotum—“

Me: “That’s right, you heard the woman.”

My wife: “Blah, blah blah, clitoris—”

Me: “That’s what’s up. Momma don’t lie.”

If sex ed was Public Enemy, my wife would be Chuck D, and I would be Flavor Flav. And while I was supposed to be there for the birds-and-the-bees talk with our daughter, Judy Blume was not. And if you’re wondering, that Judy Blume? Yes, that Judy Blume.

A would-be mock-up of my role in our daughter’s bird’s-and-the-bees talk.

My wife and I had bought a Masterclass membership to learn Thomas Keller’s cooking techniques and it came with a Judy Blume writing series. Our daughter, ten at the time, read voraciously, and she loved hearing Judy Blume talk storytelling. Who wouldn’t? Like her books, Judy Blume is lovely and sweet and warm and funny—she’s a flesh-and-blood cashmere sweater. But clearly I only remembered how her books made me feel, not their content.

Two minutes into a twenty-minute ride home from rock climbing practice, Judy Blume waxed poetic on her inspiration for a masturbation storyline.

It was just my daughter and me in the car. Alone.

She asked a question immediately. But there was no wife to lead the conversation. Just me, my daughter, and Judy Blume. Fight or flight kicked in. I imagined all the damage I could do based on what I said or what I failed to say. Slippery slope-like thoughts sprinted through my mind:

• I blast some Donny Osmond tunes, ignore the question, and years later my sexually repressed daughter joins a cult.

• I overdo it, and my emboldened daughter gets knocked up in junior high by a boy with a braided ducktail named Ace.

• I try to undersell how amazing orgasms are, and because I’m a terrible liar, I lose control of my faculties and accidentally drive into an oncoming Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. The irony would be thick.

After all those thoughts occurred to me, I suddenly remembered a joke my cousin Quilly told me, one of those classic farmer’s daughter gags.

A young man knocks on the farmer's door. Shotgun in hand, the farmer answers and the young man says, “I’m Eddie, and I’m here to pick up Betty. We’re gonna go eat spaghetti if she’s ready.” The farmer nods and tells them to enjoy themselves.

Later, a second young man knocks on the farmer's door. Shotgun in hand, the farmer answers and the young man says, “I’m Joe, and I’m here to pick up Flo. We’re gonna go see a show if she’s ready to go.” The farmer smiles and sends them them on their way.

A third young man knocks on the farmer’s door. Shotgun in hand, the farmer answers and the boy says, “Hi, I’m Chuck, and I’m here to—”

Ka-boom! The farmer shoots him dead.

PSA: none of these will stop puberty.

To be clear, I’m not one of those dads with designs on greeting my daughter’s suitors with a cocked Remington . When my daughter is ready, I hope her experience is wonderful. I hope it’s warm and fuzzy, fun and intimate—all the things it can and should be.

I do understand the farmer’s impulse, though. I don’t, however, think it’s about the sex. A good father wants his daughter to be fulfilled, to love and to be loved, to experience all of life, and no good father would deny his daughter that. Also, even the farmer knows that grandbabies, more often that not, come by way of a roll in ze hay.

The question that leads to grandbabies.

Speaking of babies, not long ago, my wife and I were at a grocery store, and a new mom was carrying her infant daughter. The baby was maybe a couple months old, easy with a smile, bald as billiard ball, and she had squishy cheeks. The sight of this baby hit me square in the heart, and I had silly thoughts, like, It wouldn’t be so bad if my daughter got knocked up in high school. My wife congratulated the new mom and told her how stunning her baby was. Before I could stop myself, I asked the new mother this question: “Would it be weird if I asked to smell your baby’s head?”

The new mom didn’t really respond. She just kind of forced a smile and sped away into the frozen foods section. A woman behind her with gray roots and the well-worn face of someone who’d raised several of her own looked at me and said, “I totally get it.”

I envied and pitied the new mom at the same time. I envied her because she was going to hold her baby close for the next few years and breathe her in. Puppies and babies might be the best-smelling things on the planet, and this woman still had years to enjoy it. I pitied her because she didn’t know what I now understand, that you’re going to miss the smell of your baby something awful. It’s going to be whisked away by life, by puberty, hell, by Judy Blume, and the next thing you know, you’re a crazy person in a grocery store soliciting whiffs of baby heads from complete strangers.

My baby girl. Trust me, her head smells amazing.

Back to the sex-ed ride home. My daughter heard Judy Blume wax poetic on masturbation. I was hoping the idea crept past her, but no, my daughter heard Judy Blume say masturbation, paused the video, and rewound it. She heard it again, stopped the video, and asked the question. “What’s masturbation? Is that real?”

Still fifteen minutes before we were home. I couldn’t dodge or pivot. I leaned into honesty and kept it clinical. “Masturbation,” I said, “is when you touch a place on your body, and it makes you feel pleasure. For boys, it’s their penises. For girls, it’s their vaginas. Usually.”

She considered my explanation, said, “Gross,” and then turned Judy Blume back on. She wasn’t prepared for it any more than I was. And I suppose we’re always unprepared. The moment we give up one thing—our baby, our childhood, our ability to act sane in a grocery store—then something else is coming, a next chapter, a new opportunity, or (fingers crossed, several years from now) a grandbaby. Exciting, terrifying life coming at us with all the energy of Flavor Flav.

As my daughter continued watching the video, I scrubbed my fingers against the back of her head. My baby girl, a little older, a little wiser. The twenty minute car ride had been a coming of age moment for both of us, as if Judy Blume had written the scene herself.

P.S. I’d love it if I could get this little story in front of Judy Blume. So if you know her or know someone who does…

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