“Is there really a Santa Claus”? I ask with trembling lips, on the verge of tears, having pattered out of bed in my flannel nightgown, wanting desperately to have my doubts removed by warm reassurance. Uncle Harry doesn’t have a fireplace in his swish condo and yet our stockings are laid out near the dining room. I cannot figure out the logistics.

My mother, father and Uncle Harry sit on the sofa, my question: W5 interruptus.

All three of them snicker, my mother is ribbed to answer. Incredulous, she stifles a guffaw: “Cia, you don’t still believe in Santa, do you? You’re almost nine years old.”

I am silenced with shame and devastation. My impatient Dad waves me off with his beer, slight Italian accent: “You think he’s that guy at the shopping mall, in the suit?”

No! I’m not an idiot! I know that Santa was a pretend one. And I resented him for being a faker. Cotton beard. I didn’t even tell the mall Santa my real wish list.

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It’s far too quiet in the house. Where is she? I open my bedroom door and there’s my three year old daughter in all her glory, wearing her princess dress, arms spread wide.

“Look at all these toys I found, Mama!”

She has my black blindfold over the face of her teddy bear. She’s wrapped my pink vibrator in one of her dolly blankets and tucked him into a cozy shoe box, a happy little bedfellow grinding away in full speed vibration and gyration mode. She’s stroking her own cheek blissfully with my feather tickler and revving my vibrator under her foot like a gas pedal.

“Watch Mama, it tickles!” Buzz, buzz, buzz, it goes, under her chubby little toes. She giggles. “Feels good” She says.

Oh yes, Mommy knows. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to gasp in horror or laugh my ass off.

I remember a friend telling me about the time she came across her Mother’s vibrator under the bed while playing hide and go seek. She brought it out, brandishing it at the dinner table. Her mother, mortified, slapped her across the face and snatched her Longfellow. “Don’t you ever snoop through Mommy’s room again!”

I wasn’t about to frighten or shame my daughter. There’s nothing wrong with sex. I do think a person should be open about it. However…

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My psychologist is hot for my husband, I’m sure of it. We have decided to go to couples therapy. This is our first visit, and I’m losing.

She knows we are here at the geneticist’s suggestion after our child died of a chromosomal disorder. But that’s not why I’m here. I have other issues with our marriage. I list them off, typical sordid couple fare: money, sex, parenting, and whose turn it is to walk the dogs. I start my monologue in a clinical tone but soon spiral into teary blubbering, ending with a self pitying remark about being “too soft” to handle this relationship.

Silence. Tough crowd. I’m not even offered a tissue.

My husband is asked to speak. He has a beautiful rich calm voice and he’s incredibly articulate. It’s like Eckhart Tolle has invaded his body. He’s agreed to come to couples therapy. That wins him big points right there. He does not counter, he does not blame. He is saddened and shocked at how upset I am. He’s willing to do anything to keep our love alive in this marriage. And he’s wearing that blue shirt that brings out his shockingly light eyes. Great. Don’t I look like the ungrateful turd?

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Being a good Catholic Italian girl and wanting to save sex for marriage, at the age of 26 and no proposals on the table, I was still a virgin. When it came to the dating scene, guys thought I was a freak and the only ones who seemed to value my virtue were me, God and Nonna. I still mourn the fact that someone worthy never came along and appreciated my love offering but I couldn’t hold out any longer. My head was going to explode with libidinal energy. So, I decided rather rationally and coolly to finally engage in sexual activity. I had a sulky boyfriend at the time. Fine. An ignoble end to my purity.

Call It Research

I figured I should do my research before I embarked, not wanting to make a fool of myself, even with him. I read a few books and then decided I should get a visual. But where would a girl get such a thing? So after prayer and contemplation, I walked into an x-rated film store with a hood pulled over my head and asked the clerk, “Do you have anything purely instructional?” He gave me three slow solid blinks, as though his eyelids were coated in wax. In a thick accent that betrayed his inability to understand what the hell I was asking he replied, “You want sex tape?” I sighed. How much more painful can this evening get? “Yes. To learn how to do it.” His eyes opened wide. He gave me a quick once over, contemplating offering a personal instructional session no doubt. “All tapes are sex. They show you.”

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Lucia’s beautiful article about explaining death to children brought up some great dialogue about when to talk about serious issues with children. In response to one comment that “our kids just work with the info to the level they’re ready, then let it surface again later with a different depth,” the author wrote back, “I think you’re so right.” This confirms to me its never a waste to start talking about these things young.

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