Sex education is not taught in elementary school, which is a good thing since you really should know your multiplication table before you know how to multiply.

But that does not mean kids don’t think about it at all. By the time they’re 8 or so, they realize babies are not the product of overactive parental imaginations that create children springing from cabbage patches or delivered by storks. Because by 8, they notice there are certain fat women who are not fat, but having a baby. That blows the “Well, babies just are” theory of procreation all to hell.

(Though it never ceases to amaze me how kids, when told “A baby comes from a mommy’s tummy,” are satisfied with that. Because my first reaction was, and still is, “How the hell does it get out of there? Where’s the escape hatch, because ain’t no way a kid is sliding out of there without some serious arguments from mom.”)

Bryson’s theory of where babies come from has advanced lately. About a year ago, he knew it happened when a boy and a girl pushed their privates together. If this were technically true, every woman who’s ever ridden the Tokyo subway would be pregnant. “I don’t know, doctor, when I boarded everything was fine, by the Ginsu District I was suffering from morning sickness.”)

Bryson and I were watching TV the other night (who needs the sex talk when you can just watch The Simpsons, right?) when, as Homer was filling Bart in, my own son turned to me and said, “I know how they do it.”

“Do what? Animate this show? Come up with all the funny voices? Get away with the talking about sex during family hour? Wait, scratch that last one.”

“You know. How a boy and girl have a baby? I’m not sure how I know, but I know. Maybe mommy told me. Or you.”

Or, more likely, one of his 9-year-old friends. I would have liked to have been the one to fill him in on the whole sex thing, but I would have waited for a more comfortable age. Like when he was old enough to drive. Himself to the retirement home.

But when he’s 9? If I were to fill him in, the conversation would be a confusing mix of “his thing” and “her deal.” Bryson would understand it about as much as he does the need for triple-digit addition (“Isn’t that what cash registers are for?”).

So I was more than happy to hear him out.

“OK, so what happens between a man and a woman?”

Now I would have said to that, “That explains why you’re single.” But Bryson, ever innocent and understanding, said, “OK, it starts with boy who, well, I don’t want to say it, but –“

He places both hands over his groin and continues without pausing.”

“-he puts his MMM-mmm into a girl’s, something, and you get babies. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Bryson is assuming, of course, that the girl wants anything to do with the boy’s MMM-mmm, because maybe the guy’s a real MMM-mmm-head.

But that’s a topic for another conversation.

Humor is lost on the sleepwalking.

“Daddy, daddy, help me.”

This is how it starts. In the past I would throw off the covers, feel my way in the darkness until Bryson’s nightlight showed me the way, entering his room with a, “Bud, everything’s OK.”

But that was about a dozen sleepwalking episodes ago. Now I try to manage it from the comfort of my bed, head buried under the blanket, hoping the comforting sound of my voice would reach deeply into his subconscious and say, “Dude, can’t you see your dad is sleeping? And that you are too? Go back to bed.”

Lately I have had a hard time working up any enthusiasm to make sure he’s not dreaming that he’s a bird, launching himself off the bed. Besides, he does that when he’s awake and lands safely. Most of the time.

So maybe last night, I’m thinking, I’m getting a little too lackadaisical.

Bryson: “Daddy, daddy, help me!”

Me: “Huh? Bryson, you’re fine.”

“Nooo, please come please come, help me!”

(Sound of covers shifting, creak of bed, soft footsteps on the carpet.)

“Whatever you do, do not turn on the-“

(Brightness turns inner eyelids a shade of red that makes sleep difficult, if not impossible.)

“-light. Oh Bryson, what’s up?”

“Help me, daddy.”

“You’re sleeping. Sound asleep.”

“No, daddy, I need … I can’t …”

“Bryson, look up. Do you see clouds?”

“No.”

“Because you’re inside. Where it’s safe. In our house.”

“No, it’s not true.”

“What’s happening right now in your version of the world?”

“What?”

“What’s happening to you now?”

“They’re chasing me.”

“Who?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“There’s no such thing. Well, there were but, you know, this is not a conversation I feel like having right now.”

“They’re chasing me, daddy!”

“If you’d been born about 65 million years ago, that had a possibility of being true. Assuming people existed back then. Which they didn’t.”

“But-“

“And you didn’t exist until 10 years ago. Do the math.”

“Daddy, I don’t know what to do?”

“Turn off the light. That’s the first thing.”

“What light?”

“That light. On the wall. The one you never have trouble finding when you want to turn it on.”

(There is a hum followed by a whirring noise.)

“No, dude, that’s the fan. The switch right next to it.”

“What switch.”

“The one that goes up and down. The other one.”

(Hum stops. Brightness disappears.)

“OK, that’s great. Now go back to bed.”

“But daddy, what do I do?”

“Go to your room. Get into bed. Close your eyes.”

“Where’s my bedroom?”

“Go toward the light. Go … toward … the … light.”

“The light?”

“The … light. Only there will you find rest. At least until the morning.”

“I don’t want to.”

“At first it is natural to resist. But you must. You must go toward the light.”

“But-“

“Then go to the bathroom.”

(Brief silence. Splashing water. Faucet being turned, running water. Rattle of towel rack. You know you’ve ingrained the “Wash your hands after going to the bathroom” ritual when your kid does it even when he sleepwalks).”

“Daddy, the dinosaurs …”

“Do you need some medicine?” (When all else fails, resort to medication.)

“No.”

“OK, then wait for me in your bathroom. I’ll get the medicine.”

(Footsteps.)

“I’m here daddy. Help me.”

“Here I come.”

(In a bit.)

“Daddy-“

“Be right there.”

(Time passes.)

“Daddy!”

“OK, OK.”

(Climb out of bed. Feel way around bed. Follow light coming from Bryson’s room, turn corner to bathroom. It’s empty. Cross hallway. Look in his room. He is in bed. Motionless.)

“Goodnight, bud.”

Footnote: The following morning, Bryson says he remembers his nightmare and wonders why I did not help him. “I kept saying, ‘My throat is sore, my throat is sore.’” That’s not what I heard and I’m sticking by my story. Because I was the only one awake.

Proof that, in an electronic world, corporations are more out of touch than ever. Below is an email sent to Gevalia coffee after I received a letter that it would be late delivering the coffeemaker and two packs I coffee I ordered (how much would you pay? $99.95? $79.95? How about $49.95? No, I received all that for just $14.95). They offered to cancel my order. The reply to the email below was, "Thank you for contacting customer service." And yes, the product was received.

I've just been informed my order is late, and if I do not contact you within 37 days, you will cancel the order. This is to let you know to keep me on the list no matter how long it takes. A free coffeemaker for $16.95 in coffee? Please, where else am I going to get that deal? I appreciate your rather paltry offer of 20 percent off any items in the catalog (which would hardly make me happy as a valued customer, but I am not, as you will see, a valued customer), but I will pass since I have no intention of ordering any coffee once I receive the coffeemaker.

Thanks again. I await patiently my coffeemaker, as well as the opportunity to cancel Gevalia service as soon as I receive it.

Scott Craven