CLICK

     Several years ago, the Washington Nationals were the constant door mat of the National League East, and it wasn’t unusual for me to either change the channel before the game was over and possibly roll over and stare at my wife and mutter these words--  “Man, I sure wish the Nats would get their act together!  You want to have a little fun tonight?”  I would make my request with wide eyes and a sly grim, hoping that she would see my invitation as something more exciting than the book she was reading which could have been about the Roman Empire or perhaps the migratory patterns of Caribou in the frozen north.  She’s an avid reader, and her interests cover a wide array of topics.  Oh, I’m off topic.  Back to the proposition.
     Anyway, I always got the standard reply to such requests.  “Are the kids asleep yet?  I just can’t enjoy things with the kids pounding on the door,” she’d say, never looking up from the pages of her book.
     “Yeah, they’re asleep.  I haven’t heard anything from them for some time,”  I would say, having absolutely no idea if they were asleep or not.
     Finally, she’d dog ear the page she was working on and make the usual proclamation, “I’ll check just to be sure.”
     Upon quietly returning to our bedroom, she mostly would say, “yeah, they’re asleep.  I had better lock the door just in case.”  Gently and ever so quietly, she would tiptoe back to the door and  place the pads of her fingers on the locking mechanism and ‘click’, the door was locked.
     Approximately three milliseconds after the click, a miniature stampede could be heard rumbling down the hall finishing up at our bedroom door.  “MOM!  Why did you lock the door?  I’m scared!  Open the door!”  and the screaming would be accompanied by incessant pounding on the door.  Occasionally, it sounded as though the hinges would simply give up and allow the door to slam to the floor.
     “Just sit quietly, they’ll get bored and go away,” I would whisper, hoping that the mood hadn’t been smothered by the continuous yelling and pounding.
     “They’re five and three years old!  Are you kidding me?  Sit quietly and they’ll go away!?  What’s wrong with you?  They’re scared, besides, I’m tired,” Kristi would respond, while rising from the bed and heading toward the door to rescue her frightened offspring.  I would simply turn the television back on to continue watching the Nationals lose, all the while frustrated that our two little sex radar having children had spoiled yet another intimate encounter.  To be clear, there was nothing wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m a man and can conduct business in any situation, under any circumstances.  Men and Navy SEALs operate in much the same way.  Women? Not so much.  The planets have to be perfectly aligned, the lighting must be just right, and there can’t be children pounding on the bedroom door.
     Ryan, our oldest child has always had a very analytical mind.  He simply wouldn’t take the standard answer as to where he came from.  “From mommy’s tummy,” I’d say, while he peered up at me while dreaming up another question. 
     “I know, but HOW did I get into mommy’s tummy?” he’d ask, not satisfied with my answer.
     “God put you there.”
     “It makes no sense.  I know God put me there, but how?  Did he do it in the night when she was sleeping?”
     “Yeah, sort of.  He put you there in the night, when mommy would have rather been sleeping.  That’s for sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get my joke.
      Finally, one day, I decided to level with my 8-year-old son.  “Ryan, I’m going to tell you EXACTLY how you got here,”  I said.  We were in my workshop, where he had most of my tools scattered around and was covered in sawdust from drilling holes in scrap boards and crawling around among the shelves of lumber.  “Here, have a seat,” I said, as I pulled each of us a stool from the corner to sit on.   He sat, and eagerly stared at me waiting anxiously for the story of how Ryan Gregory Fix came into existence.
     “You see son, when a man and a woman fall in love and get married, they often decide that they want a child.  In order to have a child, well, you’re part me and part mom.  So what they do is… uh, they get together and… are you sure you want to hear this?”  I stammered, nervously trying to find the right words.
     “Yep, I want to hear it.,” the boy said, leaning closer to me.
     At that point, I threw caution to the wind and gave him the whole play by play.  I used clinical terms and occasionally a word that he could understand, while his face continued to display horror at what his old man was telling him.  By the end of his first lesson on making babies, his faced resembled a shriveled orange left over from Christmas.  His eyes were mere slits, and his cheeks were red, while his little forehead showed wrinkles that came from the contracting muscles in his face and neck.  His mouth was agape, showing the spots where his baby teeth had fallen out.  Finally, I finished my lesson on procreation.  “Any questions?”  I asked to the now squirming child.
     “Do you just do it once, or twice, or just when you want to have a baby?”  he inquired.
     “Well, it’s not only for making babies, it’s an act of love between a husband and wife.  It’s enjoyable.”
     “You mean you KEEP doing it, just to do it!?”  he barked.
     “Well…yeah.”
     “Now I get it!” he exclaimed.  “THAT’S why mommy keeps locking the bedroom door!  Is that what you two are doing in there?” he finished, with an ominous frown drawing the corners of his mouth down.  “That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard!  If you ever wanted grandkids, you can forget it!  It’s gross, nasty, ewww!  I need to puke," he bellowed, while sticking his pointer finger into his mouth.                                             “Oh, you’ll come around.”
     Our daughter got the same talk, only my wife and I both broke the news to her.  Also, just as expected, she felt the same way as her older brother did.  No grandkids for us. 
     Things have changed over the years.  The kids are older, and no longer bang on the door when the little ‘click’ of  the lock echoes down the hall.  The Nationals are consistently in the pennant race, and my wife is still reading.  We now hold out hope that we sure enough will be grandparents one day.  And, as I finish up this story, I can hear the game from the other room.  The Nats are losing tonight.  Heck, I’m going to wrap this thing up and maybe I can make the lock go ‘click’, and with any luck, the planets are lined up perfectly.