My father, a college football player turned gynecologist, is a walking paradox for the stereotypes that revolve around a “vagina specialist.” He is a massive Italian man with calloused bear paws, overweight from his years as an offensive lineman. And in his dwindling age, his strength and leverage still linger—prevalent as ever—but instead of crushing another man’s sternum he now masters the speculum and the ability to soothe the soul of a first time mother.

Around the age of nine I told my father that I was in love with a girl named Erin that rode the afternoon bus home from school. I told him we were going to get married and he could be the doctor to hand us our baby—for at the time I thought he delivered babies. Upon hearing this, my father found the boyish announcement to be the perfect catalyst to dive into the full details of his professional work. Perhaps this was his attempt to kill two birds with one stone?

The ambiguously awkward “make a baby” speech is a right of passage for every suburbanite pre-teen. They all come in many forms: from whimsical sock puppets, to allusions of a magical garden, or even abstinent-stressed horror stories that leave children in a state of guilt for having their own set of reproductive organs. My father maybe lacked that creative vibe, nevertheless with his plethora of knowledge he would soon violate my mind like every parent before him.

  He took me to his office, a civil war themed, mahogany rich cave and sat me down. I remember he opened the blinds, probably as a way to see if color faded from my face. He addressed me to listen very, very carefully and to hold questions to the end—much like I was a co-paying patient, a habit that, to this day, he cannot break.

  “Michael, it is time for you to know exactly was your daddy does for work.” He looked stern into me, eyes so massive compared to the tiny spectacles rested on his lower bridge. I couldn’t respond. I just kicked my feet back in forth, sitting on my hands, nodding like an idiot. 

  He started with something called ov-u-lation.

“In my line of work, Son, this is key for parents to have a baby.” There was a long pause, maybe he was feeling out what to say next as he digressed into the inner workings of ideal procreation, but I recall finding the similarity of the word to my favorite chocolate milk… I want my ovulation, please!

“Michael, look up at me. When its time to ovulate, this is the time for a man and a woman to become intimate…they need to love each other through sexual intercourse.” He watched me blush at his emphasis of those last two words. He loosened up a bit.

  “Aw, boy, it's not something to be worried about, its actually the best part of having a baby,” he said with that residual sense of jock humor. He began to point to areas of the body, pulling out a piece a paper to portray the woman’s womb. With a half folded piece of loose-leaf, he guided his finger.

“Now, you take your penis and have to place it into a woman’s vagina.” I began to giggle and he told me this part is not a laughing matter. I couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the side note—and still can’t—but it resonated.  After this poor visual experience of intercourse, he transcended into narrative form. He was going to depict a vision of heroic adventure of how the sperm finds the treasure, the ovulated egg.

“Young man, you will release a sperm which will fight amongst many others. That one sperm is the chosen one. He will be the one to journey through the fallopian tubes and find her in the ovary.”

He stood as if he too was about to set off on pilgrimage. Yet once again, I misinterpreted his meaning after such a glorious attempt. I had a friend in Mrs. Brandenburg’s math class who was from the Philippines and I addressed him as Phil because his real name was far too hard for me to pronounce. So naturally I made the assumption that the sperm had to journey somewhere in the Philippines or perhaps, accompanied by my friend Phil. Just a knight and his squire on a mission in an exotic world—which in retrospect, would make an excellent premise for a porno.

After the rescue was made, which by all means had been nowhere as epic as The Princess Bride, he ended the tale by depicting the sperm having sex with the egg, even if it is completely redundant—but that’s my father; thorough. He stressed again how our parts fit together, this binary anatomy, and it all just seemed so complicated. How was I supposed to remember all those steps or use that much power or muster that much bravery? I was still having trouble getting passed Level 3 in Tetris!

I looked up at my father, watched as he self-gratifyingly nodded his head, his walrus mustache twitching from side to side as he produced a smile.

“Wait nine months, Son, and that baby is cooked and ready, waiting to come out,” he concluded, slapping his hands together.

This produced, yet again, another allusion, this time to Thanksgiving. It was when I put my hand inside the cooked turkey’s butt. I saw it on the counter top, this gaping black space with flaps of skin that hung loosely around the edges. I stuck my hand in, felt the warmth of it, as the goop slid in between my fingers. Ever since then I imagined that was what a vagina must have felt like and with my father’s word choice of cooked, he solidified this judgment.

He then folded his hands, sitting back in leather, ready for any questions but I had nothing to ask.

“Now, boy, you don’t want any of that until you are an adult. You need responsibility.” I cringed at that word. Mother used it way too often. I just wanted to get out of that office.

My father looked me over, my silent self, and he assessed perhaps he wasn’t as effective as he wished. I got up and he pointed back over to the seat. “Sit on down there, boy. Now I’m going to tell you how a baby comes out.”

This is a whole different story.