The Facts of Life Never Seemed So Wondrous

We are sitting shoulder to shoulder in a darkened auditorium, previewing the video on approaching adolescence that our 10-year-olds are scheduled to see.

It’s a modern version of the film we recall from our own school days . . . well, not too modern. The boys are still sporting afros and shag hairdos, and the girls all sound like Marcia Brady. And the basic stuff about sperm and egg has pretty much remained the same, of course. “You’re growing up . . .” the message begins, and the screen fills with images that make us parents flinch--girls and boys hardly older than ours, with budding breasts and wispy facial hair. One minute they’re playing dodge ball together on the playground. Then, fast forward, it’s a gymnasium scene. But there are no sports in this picture, only crepe paper streamers and a dance floor ringed with folding chairs.

And swaying to the music is a smiling couple--a red-faced girl with pimples and a boy who barely reaches her chin--locked in an awkward, stiff-armed embrace.

It’s a gateway from childhood to adolescence, this class in the “facts of life” presented each year to fourth- and fifth-graders across the state. Its content may shift and change somewhat, but it remains a rite of passage that ushers each generation from jump rope and Barbies, roughhousing and grass-stained knees, to a world of dates and driving, makeup and shaving, blinding romance and broken hearts.

It may not be their first brush with sex education. Any 10-year-old with younger siblings is bound to have asked Mom that inevitable question: “So, how did that baby get inside you, anyway?”

It certainly won’t be their last, not with lessons to come on AIDS and abstinence, condoms and sexual decision-making.

And despite its graphic imagery and frank vocabulary, this grade-school lesson is not so much about sex or romance or procreation as it is about raging hormones and deepening voices, hair that will sprout in embarrassing places, oily skin and sweaty underarms . . . and why your heart sometimes seems to pound around a certain boy or girl who just yesterday set your teeth on edge.

It’s taught to children who giggle and blush and squirm in their seats when forced to say words like “testes” and “menstruation.” To girls who cover their eyes when the teacher displays a line drawing of a nude male body, and boys who snicker and gawk when confronted with a picture of a girl their age with budding breasts.

They may be steaming toward puberty, but they are still children--embarrassed, intrigued and mystified by the inner workings of machinery that soon will kick into gear and propel them headlong into adolescence.

Health teacher Sharon Sinclair has spent a generation teaching children about their bodies, explaining everything from menstrual periods to nocturnal emissions.

Her view from the classroom in the Los Angeles Unified School District tells her that over the years, some things about kids have remained the same: “I was talking to a group of seventh-graders recently, and I realized that the behavior and questions I see and hear today are almost identical to what I dealt with 20 years ago.”

She takes comfort--as a mother and a teacher--in the notion that, despite all the changes in the world around us, your basic 10-year-old is still a little kid. “We’re always so afraid that they’re marching so fast. . . .

“And we don’t want that to happen because this is such a wonderful time in their lives.”

It is a wonderful age . . . and I understand now that I didn’t savor it enough the first time around as a mother, didn’t realize with my oldest daughter that I should cherish this break between the numbing neediness of childhood and the exhausting tumult of the teenage years.

Now, I soak up the wonder as my middle daughter hovers there . . . a child who understands the science of sperm and eggs but still believes in the magic of Santa Claus, who considers sex “the s-word” but eagerly awaits the romantic possibilities of Valentine’s Day, “when I’ll find out if a boy might like me.”

So I watch her as she returns from school on the day her class gets its facts-of-life lesson. I study her body language for clues, for signs of discomfort, embarrassment, curiosity.

Her routine remains the same. She unpacks her backpack, pours her milk, makes a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

“So how’d it go today . . . learn anything new in that special class?” I strive for nonchalance that I don’t feel, girding for her questions on procreation.

She thinks for a moment, then, suddenly serious, faces me. “I learned,” she says, and I hold my breath, “. . . I’m going to be needing deodorant soon.”

Sandy Banks’ column is published on Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.