SHENANIGANS IN CHECK-OUT 3!! OR WHAT ARE THE CHANCES??

SHENANIGANS IN CHECK-OUT 3!!   OR   WHAT ARE THE CHANCES??

Earlier this fall, Friday September 14^th, I was involved in a series of incidents so preposterous that someone had to tell the story.  The chances of this occurrence were so rare; I decided to consult my nephew, who just passed his actuary exam, if he could put forth a possible number on the chances of this happening or ever happening again.  Pay close attention to the timeline.  All this occurs between the hours of 3:30 and 6:00pm on Friday September 14^th, 2012.  I begin.

3:30pm- I drive my older son to Greenfield to work on the float for Saratoga High School’s Homecoming Parade.  I linger for a few minutes to make sure I have the right address and head back to Saratoga via route 9N.

4:05pm – I pull into the new downtown Price Chopper ( local grocery store chain)  to purchase items for a potluck dinner to be held at my friend Denise’s home that evening.  It is a dinner to bring closure to our week at Camp Wakpaminee with the Lake Avenue Elementary School fifth graders.

Downtown Saratoga Price Chopper logo

4:06 – I realize upon entering Price Chopper that I do not have my wallet.  It is still with my suitcase that I took with me as a chaperone for Camp Wakpaminee.  I pause between the check-out registers and the customer service counter wondering, “Do I tell them now and see what happens or do I do my shopping and then deal with it.”  Apparently going home to retrieve my wallet is not an option I consider.   I decide to approach customer service and tell them.  I ask if I can shop and then have my husband give our charge card number over the phone (after all, I am a card carrying Price Chopper shopper).  This suggestion does not fly and they counter with the idea that I may shop, they will store the groceries in the fridge and then my husband or I may come by to pay for them and pick them up. Fine.  I decide that my husband will come by later and I commence to shop with confidence.

4:35 – I go to the clerk at check-out #3 who takes my groceries and stores them in the walk-in fridge.  I head home to prepare for the evening.

5:00 – While at home, my husband Johnny and I are on his cell on speaker with my brother, while Lake Ave. mom, Gabe calls on our land line asking what to bring to the potluck.  While I am on the phone with her, another Lake Avenue mom Erin calls to say that she is at South Side Rec picking up t-shirts for her son’s team ( that she coaches) and should she pick up the t-shirts that are for her older son’s team that my husband coaches.  We say, “Great.”  I hang up with her, go back to Gabe and secure the purchases for the potluck with Gabe.

 5:15 – Lake Ave. moms Carol and Denise arrive together at the downtown Price Chopper to shop for this evening’s pot luck at Denise’s home.  Both Carol and Denise’s children were on the Camp Wakpaminee 5^th grade trip.

5:20 – Erin (Lake Avenue mom of a 5^th grader on the Camp Wakpaminee trip) arrives at Price Shopper to pick up a few things after leaving the South Side Rec center.

5:25 – Erin approaches Denise, near the meat counter, and tells her that she as forgotten her wallet and could she spot her a few bucks to cover her groceries.  Denise responds, “I have forgotten my wallet as well and I think you should check with Carol.”  Carol assure them it is no problem, she’s got it covered.

5: 30 – Erin, Denise and Carol shop with confidence and dignity.

5:45 – Erin, Denise and Carol start to check-out together at check-out #3 and discover that Carol ( who 15 minutes ago agreed to finance everyone’s shopping) also does not have a wallet.  Price Chopper employee William in check-out three handles this turn of events calmly thereby maintaining the shopper’s dignity but not their confidence.

Forgotten wallet.

.. 5:47 – Carol takes control and offers to drive home, retrieve her wallet and return to pay for everyone’s groceries.  Carol departs.

5:50 – Erin suddenly remembers that she has a child to pick-up NOW and cannot wait for Carol’s return.  Erin returns all her groceries to the shelves and leaves the store not telling Denise.

5: 55 –Generous Carol returns to pay for everyone’s groceries only to discover that Erin has left without a word.  Denise and Carol decide that Erin left for a good reason and check out with clerk William at check-out #3.  He  proves to be unflappable.

Actual aisle three in Saratoga Price Chopper

6 :00 – Carol and Denise  exit the downtown Price Chopper as my husband Johnny drives up to the same Price Chopper.  Denise’s eldest daughter runs up to Johnny and greets him warmly.  Denise and Carol follow and explain to Johnny the antics of the last forty-five minutes.

6:05 – Johnny enters Price Chopper, coincidentally goes to check-out lane #3 and inquires about the groceries.  Will enthusiastically and politely responds, “Oh you’re the husband,” and goes into the walk –in fridge and retrieves the groceries.

6: 10 - Johnny exits Price Chopper, picks up elder son and heads on home to pick-up younger son and I for pot luck dinner.

6:35 – Johnny in much shock from the Carol/Erin/Denise story (and our part in it) drives in silence to the pot luck keeping the wallet story to himself.

6:45 – We arrive at Denise’s home and it looks to me like little has been done for the party and then all becomes clear when they explain the goings on between 5: 15 and 6pm at the downtown Price Chopper.

6: 50 – I point out to my husband that I could have been involved in that complicated fiasco as opposed to my simpler scenario.  I’m feeling superior.  My husband merely shakes his head.  Do I attract friends similar to myself?

AFTERMATH – In the following hours and days, more and more information came out that related to the incident. 

That evening at the potluck, it is revealed that Erin had also had contact with another dinner guest regarding soccer t-shirts before the shopping fiasco. I discover the following morning at soccer, that Denise’s wallet is still at large as is her license and cash.    My conversation at soccer also reveals that between Erin, Denise and Carol at Price Chopper, they had a check, a price chopper card and one ID but no person had any two.  Together they were one person.  Price Chopper did not see it that way.

Four days later I stop by Price Chopper on the up chance that the same customer service people and check-out person are in and I can get their reaction.  I’m in luck, the customer service person looks familiar and I ask her if she recalls last Friday when everyone had forgotten their wallet?  I also mention my blog and wonder if I could ask a few questions.  She is starting to smile and pages a manager to see if it is okay to respond to an interview for a blog.  The manager comes over and when I explain that all four women knew each other well, she laughs and says ,”That’s no problem.”

I ask, “On the average, how many incidents of wallet forgetting do you usually have a week at the downtown Price Chopper.”

She answers quickly, “Not even one.”  We decide that it is only about two to a month, if that.

I follow up with, “So four in one day is unusual?”  The manager assures me that she had never seen that before

I propose a theory, “Did it ever occur to you that we were some crime ring, trying to pull something off.”  This line of questioning gets a blank stare and a simple, “No.”

Finally, “What did the clerk in check-out three think?  I mean wasn’t he rather amazed that four people in two hours in his check-out all forgot their wallet?”

Without hesitation, the manager and customer service rep reply almost in unison, “ Oh William has excellent customer service and wouldn’t say anything to the customers.”  Kudos to Price Chopper training.  I certainly could not have maintained my composure or controlled my comments in the presence of such shenanigans.

Ten days later, I emerge from MINE nightclub after Salsa dancing, and spot William, check-out clerk number three, waiting outside to get in.  I approach him perhaps a little too quickly and remind him of “that day.”  He recalls it with a smile and chuckles at the idea that all the women had known each other so well.   He comments that he had never seen that happen before.  I (the blogger)get that a lot.  People have said to me, “I’ve never heard that before” or a doctor has commented on more than one occasion, “No one has ever asked that question before. “  I am always happy to be a part of a first.

As to the chances of this happening, well, my nephew has come up with an answer.  In addition to working with some outrageous facts, he also had some solid information such as population, number of grocery stores in the area, etc. to work with.  His two page calculations concluded that there would be a 33 in a ten billionth chance of this happening or .00000000033!!

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Dear Reader - Pls. leave a comment as to which title you feel is most suitable for this story.  Choose from the two at the top or create your own.

WHO’S EATING MY EGGPLANT??

My one small eggplant with small tomatoes.

I grew up in West Charlton (a half hour south west of Saratoga Springs) with a vegetable garden the size of a gymnasium.  We had an asparagus bed, strawberry beds, rhubarb, potatoes, tomatoes, kohlrabi, cucumbers, and rows and rows of beans, peppers and corn.  I am certain that I left a number of things out, but suffice to say, we had plenty of vegetables.

My father turned over the soil every spring after we picked out the rocks, that somehow were not there last year, and added cow manure (from our small herd) to the soil.  Every Memorial Day morning, we headed over to a nearby greenhouse to pick up a few plants to supplement our planting of seeds.  Of course a few items, like asparagus, strawberries and rhubarb came back every year on their own.

It sounds idyllic, to be surrounded by all these natural, luscious vegetables and I did like to eat them, but to me the garden mostly represented work.  A lot of work.  Almost every summer morning, my brother and I could be found in the garden either weeding or picking. It was one of our summer chores. Picking strawberries is relatively easy as is picking tomatoes, but picking green beans off a green bush is slow and tedious.  My brother focused for a short period of time and was done fairly quickly.  I would procrastinate and linger, thereby increasing my lack of enthusiasm for the job and garden.

A number of afternoons every week were filled with canning and freezing.  We would peel and chop while my mom presided over the stove blanching beans, sterilizing bottles or ladling spaghetti sauce into jars to be sealed.  Our basement contained two cupboards of homemade canned goods and our two freezers held bag upon bag of frozen vegetables and beef from our herd.  Trips to the market were primarily for dry and canned goods.

The variety of cucumbers was impressive.  My mom made sweet chunk pickles, dill pickles and bread and butter pickles.  I would frequently come home from school and have a dill pickle or two with a glass of grape juice.  There was always at least one jar of pickles in the fridge at any given time.  With this basement of plenty, my brother and I used to calculate during the cold war, how long we could survive down in the basement between our freezer and two cupboards of canned goods.  Despite the hard work, it was something we were proud of.

Now, thirty years later, I am ready to face vegetable gardening again.  Not as the cheap labor this time, but as the designer, purchaser, chief laborer, waterer, harvester and consumer. The dread I experienced from my days of seeking out thousands of green beans hidden amongst thousands of green leaves has been conquered.

I lived in NYC from 1981 until 2005 and did not really have the opportunity to grow vegetables but now living in Saratoga Springs has ignited my interest in growing my own vegetables.  I was under the impression that my interest and enthusiasm would be enough to grow vegetables.  Not so.  I have spent the last couple of years trying to grow vegetables on my plot of land in town.  First we tried it in the back yard and the plants limped along, so I then moved it to the side yard but the ornamental plum tree nearby cast too much shade.  We took the tree down in 2011 and the plants improved but when the angle of the sun started to shift in August, the tomatoes remained green on the vine.

Apparently, I have one major factor against me; lack of sun.  Although we love our large, hundred year old maple tree in the backyard, its foliage does dominate what goes on and grows back there.  You can have a shade perennial flower garden but it is tough to have a shade vegetable garden.  To add to my shade issues, the opposite side of the street has about half a dozen tall pines that cast a wide berth of shade in the afternoon come mid-August.  I had briefly considered speaking to the property owner about taking them taking down the trees for the benefit of my garden but felt that my request was a little over the top.  People told me to forget vegetables, but I am determined and would even consider green beans.

Armed with the last four years of information and experience, I tried some new strategies this year.  I added even more nutrients to the soil, placed the eggplant and tomatoes in the most advantageous sun spot and planted earlier this year to capitalize on the angle of the sun.  It did not hurt that we enjoyed an abundance of sunny days this summer.

 AND – my results were quite exciting.  This year I have had real peppers, more tomatoes, bushy basil plants, cucumbers, lettuce that keeps coming back and finally some eggplants.   My younger son and I watched the promising purple blossoms on the plant magically turn into small eggplants.  We monitored its daily growth and anticipated the day we would pick it and eat it.  Life was good and going our way. Summer of 2012 would be the start of our garden legacy.

Alas, it was not to be. Tragedy came to our White St. garden; the eggplant was gone.  Plucked clean from its stem.  No tearing, no remnants, no clues.  I discovered the horror first, notified my son and he came running outside.  I gave voice to what we both were thinking,”Who’s been eating my eggplant?”  I made sure to say it loud enough for both my human and animal neighbors to hear. 

I do not want to minimize the attention that a full time farmer gives to each of their plants, but with our eggplant crop numbering four plants in total, our precious plants were watched over obsessively.  Each time we entered and exited the house, we passed by our beloved plants and cast an admiring glance its way.  So when our loving glance was met with an empty cruel space, our devastation was magnified.

We consoled ourselves with the hope of the other two growing eggplants.  There would be more. Other eggplants would soon be on the horizon.   But it was not to be.  Two more eggplants were taken from us.  Unplucked, unappreciated and uneaten by us but picked precisely and carted away by an unknown fan. 

 Interestingly enough, the eggplants were taken from two different gardens.  One was taken from a potted eggplant in the back garden and two were taken from the side garden with sidewalk access.   I called a garden friend and put forth the question, “Who’s been eating my eggplant?”  His thoughts were that it was a human criminal due to the detail that they were picked so precisely without harm to the plant or surrounding plants. He suggested that my son (Joe.tech) set up a camera to catch the thief. (My suggestion was not taken.) Certainly the side garden was accessible to both animal and human but would a human passerby dare to enter my gate and pick an eggplant.  I hope not. 

Over the next couple of days a couple of suspects were seen near or heading toward the garden.  One morning, I walked out of our back door and a woodchuck was headed down the path towards me and possibly in the direction of the side garden and tempting eggplants.  Without a word, but a stern look from me, he turned around his squat body and headed back from whence he came. His actions were suspicious. I guess I showed him.

The next day my husband saw a squirrel make off with a tomato rather handedly. Apparently he was casually walking away and did not seem concerned.   Do squirrels eat eggplants?  I cannot imagine that woodchuck maneuvering that ample round body amongst the other vegetables to procure an eggplant without damage.  The squirrels, with their size, dexterity, rather large population, and overly confident manner, had jumped to the top of our suspect list.  No humans had been seen lurking near the garden or acting suspicious.

At this point, it must appear that whining is the only action that we took.  Not so.  My mother (gardener extraordinaire) offered her unused plastic, lifelike owl.  We placed the owl right next to our largest eggplant hoping that he looked impressive.  I also set up a little series of sticks in a cross hatching pattern to limit access to my eggplants.  This protection worked for a number of days and passed the test of us being out of town for four days over Labor Day weekend.  However, the next weekend, when we went to NYC, two smaller eggplants were swiped.  In a rush to save our remaining eggplant, we picked it before it’s time, but…. we have an eggplant at last.  We should have about ten eggplants, but we have only one.

Now. I am not the over protective type with my possessions and property nor do I feel that I should have dominion over all animals on our lot.  My neighbor Jane and I share a fence line where we both enjoy the plants that appear to grow on both sides.  I have saved two squirrels from death in my back yard in recent years.  One was trapped in the light-post glass and the other had fallen into a barrel of rain water.  We rescued them both with oven mitts and without hesitation.  When a bug is found in our home, anything from an ant to a centipede, we gently capture it and escort it outside.  (We are less warm to any mice that wander in)  Our household upholds a welcoming policy.

BUT eating my eggplant is where I draw the line.  As we speak, the eggplants are featuring five more purple blossoms with hopes of maturity.  This week, I am heading over to a gardening store to secure some chicken wire to surround my plants.  Depending on who the eggplant lover is, it may or may not help.  My husband added another owl to the garden and quite frankly, I prefer this more natural approach to protection but I have been driven to use unsightly chicken wire to protect my eggplants.  

Useless owl presiding over the eggplants.

As each eggplant begins to emerge from the purple blossoms, I imagine the dishes I will make with my aubergine vegetables; the parmesans, the fried eggplant with lemon and the eggplant sandwiches.  I am headed out of town for an overnight and hope that in my absence, my two owls and chicken wire do their job and protect my highly popular eggplant.  I will keep you posted on the survival of my veggies and if the mystery is solved as to, “Who’s eating my eggplant?”

Update – Monday 10/1 – Well I never made it to the hardware store before departing to purchase the chicken wire and construct my protective structure.  So when I returned Sunday evening, one of the small eggplants was gone.  Disgusted with myself, I headed over to Allerdice hardware  Monday morning, and as I am discussing my eggplant dilemma with one of the male clerks, the person to my left taps my arm.  I turn and it is a friend of mine who is an avid gardener.  We all discuss the animal possibilities and decide that it is either squirrels or bunnies and she recommends cayenne pepper.  Kim suggests that I sprinkle it around the ground, and plant.  No harm will come to the animals and as they nibble the plant or lick their paws they will experience the cayenne’s peppers spicy heat that will send a message not to come back.  Sounds safe and easier and less unsightly than the chicken wire.

Upon arrival at my home, I head into the kitchen, snatch the cayenne pepper and start sprinkling away. Inventory reveals that I have three blooms left and one small, lonely eggplant holding on in the fridge waiting for others to join it and make a meal.  At this rate, I may have to cave and make one serving of whatever – either one parmesan, one sandwich or one serving of fried eggplant.  This story is not over yet.  Even if my remaining eggplants survive, I still want to know, “Who’s eating my eggplant?”


Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BOB??

About five months ago, we became a one car family as Bob is no longer with us. Many of our friends and family knew and were fond of our red Honda Accord Bob.  A number of you have asked about him and his whereabouts.  Well –here are  Bob’s final days.

Johnny was driving home in December from Schenectady when a concerning amount of smoke appeared from Bob’s hood.  With much coaxing and a little luck, Johnny made it home.  I think Bob would have wanted to live out his days at home so we did not rush him to the garage.  We gave Bob some rest over the holidays, with the occasional unsuccessful start up.  After the holidays,  the garage gave us the prognosis that Bob had suddenly developed a number of  serious issues that he would not recover from.  We were given a couple of choices and in the end went for quick and painless, selling Bob to Jerry for scrap and moving on.  Bob would have wanted it that way.

On a Wednesday in early February – Johnny and I met Jerry down at the garage to say goodbye to Bob.  I staged a brief photo session with Jerry as the photographer, Johnny and I as the showroom models and Bob as the consummate star.  Most shots were familial with Johnny and I standing next to Bob, some were of Bob alone and some of Bob and I hinted at a deeper relationship. (The edgier pictures have been lost)

 I questioned Jerry as to his experience with photo sessions and cars and he said that my reactions had been run of the mill, middle of the road or god forbid, “average.”  Imagine – me labeled as average. In the end, I was thankful for that label as Jerry described women who sobbed on the hood of the car not letting go or who chased Jerry and their car down the driveway.  In this case, average was just fine.

It is now July with no new car on the horizon.  We have easily adjusted to one car with more walking and the occasional complicated ride scenario.  The first month, we casually researched a new car and listlessly perused the classifieds for a second hand car.  Nothing felt right, nothing felt appropriate.  We’re not ready yet.  It would be like remarrying before the one year anniversary of the death of one’s spouse.

At some point, we will be ready and something will strike us.  Until then, we have celebrated Bob with a short tribute of poems  and photos to Bob.

ODES TO BOB

Bob was my pal, my roommate,  my go to guy

Bob was trustworthy, reliable and unflappable

He was sturdy, low to the ground and had control

One might say –Bob was one of a kind

Bob did not disappoint

He carried me without hesitation through the Smokey Mountains

To Arkansas and to my dying father

And back again consoling me with his strong frame

Bob delivered us safely on all our travels

Surviving one or two scratches

And a substitute hood in a different color

A couple of bad hair days for Bob

But he rebounded back for another nine years

Purchased by my grandmother in 1992

Bob would have turned 20 this year

That’s 90 in car years you know

A life well lived, a life well remembered               

An example to all                                                                                                                            

My memories of Bob are many and varied

My gratitude to him unending

Thanks Bob

By Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Bob was always quite great

We’ll never forget him

He’s always  our first mate

We’ll always remember him

Concealing him in our hearts

 AFTER…………

Scrapping away his  parts                                       

 By Lucas Martinez

AND now for some Haiku – A nod to Bob’s Japanese roots.

The only car dad

Would  allow me to drive - gone

Run into the ground

By Joseph and Diane Martinez

Work horse, strong, driven

Treasured family member

Limitless road, Bob

By Johnny Martinez

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BOB??

A couple of months ago, we became a one car family as Bob is no longer with us. Many of our friends and family knew and were fond of our red Honda Accord Bob.  A number of you have asked about him and his whereabouts.  Well –here are  Bob’s final days.

Johnny was driving home in December from Schenectady when a concerning amount of smoke appeared from Bob’s hood.  With much coaxing and a little luck, Johnny made it home.  I think Bob would have wanted to live out his days at home so we did not rush him to the garage.  We gave Bob some rest over the Holidays, with the occasional unsuccessful start up.  After the holidays,  the garage gave us the prognosis that Bob had suddenly developed a number of  serious issues that he would not recover from.  We were given a couple of choices and in the end went for quick and painless selling, Bob to Jerry for scrap and moving on.  Bob would have wanted it that way.

On Wednesday February – Johnny and I met Jerry down at the garage to say goodbye to Bob.  I staged a brief photo session with Jerry as the photographer, Johnny and I as the showroom models and Bob as the consummate star.  Most shots were familial with Johnny and I standing next to Bob, some were of Bob alone and some of Bob and I hinted at a deeper relationship.

 I questioned Jerry as to his experience with photo sessions and cars and he said that my reactions had been run of the mill, middle of the road or god forbid, “average.”  Imagine – me labeled as average. In the end, I was thankful for that label as Jerry described women who sobbed on the hood of the car not letting go or who chased Jerry and their car down the driveway.  In this case, average was just fine.

It is now April with no new car on the horizon.  We have easily adjusted to one car with more walking and the occasional complicated ride scenario.  The first month, we casually researched a new car and listlessly perused the classifieds for a second hand car.  Nothing felt right, nothing felt appropriate.  We’re not ready yet.  It would be like remarrying before the one year anniversary of the death of one’s spouse.

At some point, we will be ready and something will strike us.  Until then, we have celebrated Bob with a short tribute of poems  and photos to Bob.

ODES TO BOB

Bob was my pal, my roommate,  my go to guy

Bob was trustworthy, reliable and unflappable

He was sturdy, low to the ground and had control

One might say –Bob was one of a kind

Bob did not disappoint

He carried me without hesitation through the Smokey Mountains

To Arkansas and to my dying father

And back again consoling me with his strong frame

Bob delivered us safely on all our travels

Surviving one or two scratches

And a substitute hood in a different color

A couple of bad hair days for Bob

But he rebounded back for another nine years

Purchased by my grandmother in 1992

Bob would have turned 20 this year

That’s 90 in car years you know

A life well lived, a life well remembered               

An example to all                                                                                                                            

My memories of Bob are many and varied

My gratitude to him unending

Thanks Bob

By Diane Lachtrupp Martinez

Bob was always quite great

We’ll never forget him

He’s always  our first mate

We’ll always remember him

Concealing him in our hearts

 AFTER…………

Scrapping away his parts                                                                                           

By Lucas Martinez

AND now for some Haiku – A nod to Bob’s Japanese roots.

The only car dad

Would  allow me to drive - gone

Run into the ground

By Joseph and Diane Martinez

Work horse, strong, driven

Treasured family member

Limitless road, Bob

By Johnny Martinez

SANTA OR SEX

 

    

   Oddly enough telling our children that we have been playing Santa for the past ten years and telling them about sex, seems to developmentally occur around the same time.  This year my younger son (fourth grade) did not write a letter to Santa, did not set out cookies and milk and seemed relatively unthreatened that Santa was watching and he better snap to.  At the same time, he and all of his friends are all ears, giggling when the word sex is mentioned and his eyes are glued to the screen during  kissing scenes.

       Hence – my dilemma – Santa or Sex.  Which do I tell him about first?  As luck would have it, I have a fifteen year old and can draw upon that experience five to six years ago to guide me.  I recall discussing both Santa and sex with my older son but I cannot for the life of me remember which one‘s truth was first revealed.

        The Santa discussion I believe was in the fall, before Christmas and I encouraged him to now be a Santa for his younger brother and sustain his belief.  He took it pretty well, with a little surprise but I thought he understood until Christmas Eve when he frequently kept checking the Santa tracker on TV.  I remember thinking, didn’t we just go over the existence of Santa and why is he constantly checking on Santa’s whereabouts?  I didn’t mention it at the time and by the next year he seemed to have adjusted.  Perhaps, he was in a transitional phase.  Understood.  I’m still not over it.

       The sex discussion, I believe was the following spring near the end of school after his 11^th birthday.  I went to the library and after looking over several books on “breaking the news” I selected one that was “middle of the road.”  Some were all about the egg and sperm and really skirted the intercourse issue by saying “when the Mommy and Daddy hold each other really close.”  Hmmm.  At the other end of the spectrum, there were books that were committed to discussing the pros and cons of a variety of condoms.  Okay – we weren’t there yet.  In the end I selected something that described some of the biology and got down to it with a paragraph that described intercourse.   At last – the defining paragraph. 

  

     I brought the book home and set up a time to read it together with my older son;  quite a change of pace from our usual morning ritual of reading Harry Potter together.  Nonetheless, I was committed to sharing the good news.  He took it all really well and seemed a bit bored actually until the “defining paragraph.”  Although the date escapes me, I recall him saying –“Could you read that paragraph again?”

After rereading the paragraph, I asked him if he had known that.  He answered honestly that he had not and then came the classic question “Do you and Dad do that.”   Despite my relative ease with the topic, I owned up to it only happening  once by saying,  “We had your brother didn’t we?”  My older son is adopted so that answer would make sense to him but it also opened up a new door about his biological parents.

       The ensuing discussion went well focusing on the reproductive qualities of sex rather than the pleasure factor.  My husband promised a follow-up discussion but that did not happen for at least a year.  In the meantime, I had my own follow-up discussions covering such topics as protection, masturbation,” no means no”, legalities, i.e., you are seventeen and your girlfriend is sixteen.   Many of these topics were covered on car rides when my son and I were alone, he was seated up front and I unfairly had a captive audience. Whenever, I embarked on one of my information sessions, I usually got an “Oh Mom,” but I did notice how sweet and attentive he was with his girlfriend a couple of years later. I tried to have a tone that communicated a healthy but responsible attitude towards sex.  Somewhere along the line, I think he now knows that we had sex more than just the time we conceived his brother.  Whatever.

       I believe as a child I may have learned about Santa first.  I recall my Mom telling me about Santa and confiding that my older brother, David, already knew and had been keeping up the charade.  As to sex, I recall pestering my Mom about how one became pregnant.  When she broke the news calmly about intercourse, I was shocked, really shocked.  One would think that I would have had an inkling.  After all, my mom had already informed me about menstruation and how babies were born.  Furthermore, we had a small farm and there was a virtual sex arena in our backyard as the cows gave each other “piggyback rides”.  One would think, but no I was shocked.  The conversation did not stop there.  I beleaguered my mom with question after question.  My brother had apparently heard the news and walked away without a question.  I think there could be the same outcome in our home: my older son took it quite calmly and my younger son will be filled with questions.  And why not.  It’s worth questioning.

       So – Santa or Sex.  I’m not sure yet but perhaps next fall as my younger son is in 5^th grade and Christmas is around the corner, an opportunity will present itself and my dilemma will be solved.  You see, it truly will be  Santa or Sex;  somehow, the topic comes up at the same time.  But if I had my druthers, there would be a Santa and then my problem really would be solved.

Diane Lachtrupp Martinez