When I was knocked up with my daughter a few years ago, my son, three-years-old at the time, would give updates on my pregnancy to his pre-school teachers that went something like this: “Baby’s in mommy’s ootawus and soon she push it out her badinah.”

In our family, there are no woo woos or ding dongs. Body parts are body parts, no matter where on the body they may be. What I never realized is how tricky it would be (to keep a straight face) as he got older.

Recently, when my husband was out of town (of course), my son started asking me questions about his boy bits and how they worked (the fact that I refer to them as ‘boy bits’ gives you an idea of how comfortable I was with this line of questioning).

Basically, he wanted detailed, user-manual-type information about his gear and would not be deterred by my answers – which were fairly vague, mainly because I wasn’t sure I remembered what all the bits were for. We chatted about generalities (“Those hold the sperm, honey, like a purse holds money…”) until he asked the big question: “But mommy, how does the sperm get to the egg?”

How indeed. This was always a talk I figured my husband and son would have on a road trip – somewhere far away from me. I took a deep breath and uttered the 10 most clichéd words in parenthood: “When a mommy and daddy love each other very much…”

And so it began. I kept trying to dole out the barest scraps, seeing if they would satisfy him. They didn’t. He wanted to know exactly how A got to B became C, so I told him. By the time I finished, the look on his face was one of shock mixed with mild disgust, but he recovered quickly and asked, “Does a nurse have to be there when you do it?” and “Do you have to wear gloves?”

The reason I bring this up is because I always assumed that would be the end of sex talks for a couple of years (and, if there is a God, my husband would be home for the next one). But no. A few weeks ago, driving home from the store, my now-seven-year-old son started asking about a lack of visible daddy in the lives of his friends with two mommies. Or the other friend who was inseminated. And the other friend who is acting as a surrogate (obviously, we have awesome friends).

My clichéd talk of mommies and daddies in love wasn’t cutting it—and in today’s world, he definitely had a point. And that, my friends, is how we launched into a discussion about the mechanics of artificial insemination.

This time he wasn’t grossed out; merely fascinated. Questions included: is the doctor the donor; did the ‘bank’ have money and sperm; how does it get from the man into the cup; how does it get from the cup into the lady; and, my favorite, how does it know to swim to the right place, instead of, like, her armpit?

I answered the best I could, with a straight face and being honest if I didn’t know. Next time, I will be prepared. I will have diagrams. I will have books. I will have my husband on speed dial.

So tell me, how do you handle the sex talk (with your kids…don’t get me banned from FB again!)

This is my future.