When I was a small child, my mother was quite coy about certain "facts of life". This is ironic in that she went on to become a sex therapist later in life, and embarrass me in all manner of ways by making up for her previous reticence with with regular TMI conversations.
But first she managed to mislead me about a number of key bodily functions & processes. For example, those ads that were on the TV in the 70s during the afternoon soaps for "sanitary napkins". For years she had me convinced that these were a special ladies' version of the thing you find at the dinner table. Luckily she managed to catch me one day before I managed to raid the grocery bags, open the box, and lay out the pads for the two of us (the ladies of the house).
The other thing which I found confusing was how and when babies were made. My mother hadn't gone into detail, since she no doubt thought it inappropriate for someone so young, but I had a rudimentary idea of the mechanics. She did convey the notion that it involved a man & a woman being naked together.
So I thought about when I was most likely to be naked, figuring that was the same for grown ups. What I concluded was that I was usually naked at three points in the day: getting dressed in the morning, getting undressed at night, and whilst having a bath.
Morning made no sense as the likely time- you had to get to school or work or downstairs to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Nighttime, likewise, you would be sleepy, (and in our house, where heat was considered to be a luxury item) freezing cold. You'd want to get into your jammies quick quick quick and into bed.
Therefore, I deduced- it must be in the bathroom.
Naturally, I realised some years later that my reasoning was flawed, and in fact, the boudoir was the more likely venue.
However, E. and I have been required to undertake our babymaking activities in the bathroom on a number of key dates in the last year. This is primarily because there have been other people in the house, and E. is utterly paranoid about being overheard. He tends to figure we can drown out the noise of our lurrrve by the sound of running water.
The most memorable occasion was at my parent's house last winter, where I flailed for something to hold onto, grabbed the towel rail and snapped it clean off. It's a wonder neither of us concussed ourselves on the side of the bathtub.
And most recently, during their extended stay, we availed ourselves of the relative privacy of our ensuite. I lay on the floor with my feet up on the toilet afterwards. If nothing else, it was a change of scene.
So I wonder, if I somehow conceive after our efforts this cycle, what will I tell my child about where babies are made?