Why Your Parents Had Sex

Born today? This is why your parents had sex.
March 7
HARTFORD — June 7, 1965: “…’ Connecticut’s birth-control law unconstitutionally intrudes upon the right of marital privacy.’ Yes!”
"Amazing! Nice job, Griswold."
"Let’s celebrate."
"Hear, hear!"

March 7

HARTFORD — June 7, 1965: “…’ Connecticut’s birth-control law unconstitutionally intrudes upon the right of marital privacy.’ Yes!”

"Amazing! Nice job, Griswold."

"Let’s celebrate."

"Hear, hear!"

March 6
SAN DIEGO — June 6, 1984: “So, it’s a game about sex, right?”
"Oh come on," your father’s roommate, sitting in a wooden chair next to him shook his head. "It’s not about sex."
"It is though. Constant penetration. You really need to get out more. This is just sad."
"Bullshit! It’s about organization, so maybe you should pay attention." He maneuvered the falling blocks with his keyboard, eyes glued to the PC screen.
"How trite, getting mad at your roommate about organization. What’s next? The dishes?"
"Actually—"
Your father’s roommate cut off at the sound of a knock at the door. Your father hopped out of his chair, his eyes flicked around the room, he pressed his palms to his thighs, smoothing out wrinkles in his jeans. He took a deep breath and walked toward the door. He opening the door and your mother sidled in, hands clutched tightly to a tote bag, quickly surveying the room. She pushed her bangs off her face, almost dropping the tote bag. 
"Nice place."
"Thanks. Let’s head to my room. He’s been playing this stupid game all day and I’m pretty sure we can’t convince him to stop long enough to leave us alone."
"What can I say?" came the reply from the computer desk, "I just like to stay organized."

March 6

SAN DIEGO — June 6, 1984: “So, it’s a game about sex, right?”

"Oh come on," your father’s roommate, sitting in a wooden chair next to him shook his head. "It’s not about sex."

"It is though. Constant penetration. You really need to get out more. This is just sad."

"Bullshit! It’s about organization, so maybe you should pay attention." He maneuvered the falling blocks with his keyboard, eyes glued to the PC screen.

"How trite, getting mad at your roommate about organization. What’s next? The dishes?"

"Actually—"

Your father’s roommate cut off at the sound of a knock at the door. Your father hopped out of his chair, his eyes flicked around the room, he pressed his palms to his thighs, smoothing out wrinkles in his jeans. He took a deep breath and walked toward the door. He opening the door and your mother sidled in, hands clutched tightly to a tote bag, quickly surveying the room. She pushed her bangs off her face, almost dropping the tote bag. 

"Nice place."

"Thanks. Let’s head to my room. He’s been playing this stupid game all day and I’m pretty sure we can’t convince him to stop long enough to leave us alone."

"What can I say?" came the reply from the computer desk, "I just like to stay organized."

March 5
NASHVILLE — June 5, 1956: “Turn it up honey, Elvis is about to come on!”
"Oh, this is exciting." Your mother leaned in and rotated the volume knob. 
"Here he is!" Your father was bouncing his leg with excitement from his chair. "Hound Dog. Good choice!"
"Oh my," your mother put her hand to her mouth. "Do you see what he is doing with his hips?"
"I sure do. Wow … I sure do."
"Me too."

March 5

NASHVILLE — June 5, 1956: “Turn it up honey, Elvis is about to come on!”

"Oh, this is exciting." Your mother leaned in and rotated the volume knob. 

"Here he is!" Your father was bouncing his leg with excitement from his chair. "Hound Dog. Good choice!"

"Oh my," your mother put her hand to her mouth. "Do you see what he is doing with his hips?"

"I sure do. Wow … I sure do."

"Me too."

March 4
LONDON — June 4, 1962: “Are you seeing this?”
Your father pointed to the television. Your mother was not seeing this. The living room was a mess. In his excitement a portly, balding man had knocked over a lamp. He was sweeping fragments of the bulb into a dustbin. His butt crack was showing. Three other men were standing around him, not helping but rather yelling at the television. Your mother was distracted by the butt crack and not particularly interested in the televised proceedings. 
"He just broke that guy’s nose!"
Your mother looked up and took in the scene on the broadcast. Police were streaming onto the football field, breaking up what was escalating toward open combat — Italians vs. Chileans. She muttered under her breath, “disgusting.”
She poured herself a glass of gin — no ice — and brought it right to her face. Sports are so fucking stupid.

March 4

LONDON — June 4, 1962: “Are you seeing this?”

Your father pointed to the television. Your mother was not seeing this. The living room was a mess. In his excitement a portly, balding man had knocked over a lamp. He was sweeping fragments of the bulb into a dustbin. His butt crack was showing. Three other men were standing around him, not helping but rather yelling at the television. Your mother was distracted by the butt crack and not particularly interested in the televised proceedings. 

"He just broke that guy’s nose!"

Your mother looked up and took in the scene on the broadcast. Police were streaming onto the football field, breaking up what was escalating toward open combat — Italians vs. Chileans. She muttered under her breath, “disgusting.”

She poured herself a glass of gin — no ice — and brought it right to her face. Sports are so fucking stupid.

March 3
NEW YORK — June 3, 1932: “Can you believe it? Four Babe’s for Gehrig and a cycle for Lazzeri!” your father shouted at the stranger on the chair next to him at Hickory House Bar on 7th Avenue.
"A natural cycle at that," the stranger shouted back.
Your father didn’t hear him. Your mother had just taken her place at the microphone behind the bar, joining the musicians who had been setting the mood for her arrival. Apparently, the mood suited your father. He stopped caring about baseball.

March 3

NEW YORK — June 3, 1932: “Can you believe it? Four Babe’s for Gehrig and a cycle for Lazzeri!” your father shouted at the stranger on the chair next to him at Hickory House Bar on 7th Avenue.

"A natural cycle at that," the stranger shouted back.

Your father didn’t hear him. Your mother had just taken her place at the microphone behind the bar, joining the musicians who had been setting the mood for her arrival. Apparently, the mood suited your father. He stopped caring about baseball.

March 2
CHARLESTOWN, Massachusetts — June 2, 1979: “The Pope’s in Poland today.”
"Why shouldn’t he be? He was born there." 
"Just because you are born somewhere doesn’t mean you have to be there. Take, for instance, us and being here right now." 
"As soon as dad croaks, we will move. Not a moment sooner, okay?"
Your mother delivered this rhetorical question in a tone that usually set the table for one of her infamous right hooks. 
"Right, sorry. Just in a shit mood," your father responded, shifting his weight back on his heels. “And it still matters to me that the Pope is in a communist country.”
"Why?"
"Why not? It’s not right."
"Oh? Go on."
"Oh. Why don’t we all just turn red while we are at it?" Your father was turning red from the neck up.
"Maybe we should. It couldn’t be much worse than this shit, could it?" Your mother’s eyes were hard but a neutral observer would likely pick up that she was enjoying this exchange. Your father was neither a neutral observer nor enjoying the exchange.
"Really?!" 
The door slammed and he was gone. 
Your mother meandered over to a window and stuck her head out. "See you at Sully’s!" 

March 2

CHARLESTOWN, Massachusetts — June 2, 1979: “The Pope’s in Poland today.”

"Why shouldn’t he be? He was born there." 

"Just because you are born somewhere doesn’t mean you have to be there. Take, for instance, us and being here right now." 

"As soon as dad croaks, we will move. Not a moment sooner, okay?"

Your mother delivered this rhetorical question in a tone that usually set the table for one of her infamous right hooks. 

"Right, sorry. Just in a shit mood," your father responded, shifting his weight back on his heels. “And it still matters to me that the Pope is in a communist country.”

"Why?"

"Why not? It’s not right."

"Oh? Go on."

"Oh. Why don’t we all just turn red while we are at it?" Your father was turning red from the neck up.

"Maybe we should. It couldn’t be much worse than this shit, could it?" Your mother’s eyes were hard but a neutral observer would likely pick up that she was enjoying this exchange. Your father was neither a neutral observer nor enjoying the exchange.

"Really?!" 

The door slammed and he was gone. 

Your mother meandered over to a window and stuck her head out. "See you at Sully’s!" 

March 1
BOSTON — June 1, 1974: “I literally just learned how to do this today.”
"Well, thank God for that." Your father pulled himself off his knees, picked up the yellow plastic chair from where it had fallen to its side and returned it to it’s place. He sat down, placed his hands on his knees.
"I hope it didn’t hurt too much."
Around the dining room, onlookers reseated themselves as well. Conversation resumed where there had been stunned silence a moment earlier. 
"No, it didn’t hurt — at least I don’t think it did — I’m all adrenaline now. Thank you."
"No problem, I suppose I should introduce myself, now that I’ve throttled you."
Your father looked up, color returning to his face, and met your mother’s eyes. “Sure, how about over a coke or a milkshake? Something I can’t choke on. My treat.”

March 1

BOSTON — June 1, 1974: “I literally just learned how to do this today.”

"Well, thank God for that." Your father pulled himself off his knees, picked up the yellow plastic chair from where it had fallen to its side and returned it to it’s place. He sat down, placed his hands on his knees.

"I hope it didn’t hurt too much."

Around the dining room, onlookers reseated themselves as well. Conversation resumed where there had been stunned silence a moment earlier. 

"No, it didn’t hurt — at least I don’t think it did — I’m all adrenaline now. Thank you."

"No problem, I suppose I should introduce myself, now that I’ve throttled you."

Your father looked up, color returning to his face, and met your mother’s eyes. “Sure, how about over a coke or a milkshake? Something I can’t choke on. My treat.”

February 28
AUBURN, Alabama — May 28, 1932: “Damn, that’s pretty.”
Your father pulled his handkerchief across his forehead. His hairline was damp with sweat, his forehead raw pink. He had forgotten his hat. He pocketed his handkerchief and rested his hands on his lower back. His head followed the Fordson tractor approaching him.
The tractor pulled to a stop a few feat in front of him, red dirt kicking up into clouds around the tires. Your mother stepped off the back and walked around the side, pulling off her hat, smiling. Your father returned the smile.
"How do you like it?" she asked.
"I love it," he responded and began to chuckle. 
"Why are you laughing."
"I’m not sure. I think I’m happy."

February 28

AUBURN, Alabama — May 28, 1932: “Damn, that’s pretty.”

Your father pulled his handkerchief across his forehead. His hairline was damp with sweat, his forehead raw pink. He had forgotten his hat. He pocketed his handkerchief and rested his hands on his lower back. His head followed the Fordson tractor approaching him.

The tractor pulled to a stop a few feat in front of him, red dirt kicking up into clouds around the tires. Your mother stepped off the back and walked around the side, pulling off her hat, smiling. Your father returned the smile.

"How do you like it?" she asked.

"I love it," he responded and began to chuckle. 

"Why are you laughing."

"I’m not sure. I think I’m happy."

February 27
SIMSBURY, Connecticut — May 27, 1995: “Shit. Are you serious?” 
Your mother nodded, the look of concern on her face fixed, though she wasn’t entirely attached to it. She seemed to be swallowing the impulse to say something inappropriate. She was, after all, in church, though it was a Saturday.
"Shit," your father said again, this time in a murmur as his chin dropped to his chest. He hung his head there for a moment, letting it loll back and forth. "well, don’t that beat all?"
"It’s a shame." 
Your mother pivoted clumsily back to the waist-high vase of flowers she was arranging on the steps leading up to the alter, a titter and maybe even a half smile playing across her face as she turned. 
"What was that? This isn’t funny."
Her back to your father, she replied, “Yes … it is. Sorry, I don’t care. Yeah, it’s a man and that is sad. But why should we care? Because it’s Superman? On TV? That makes it more funny rather than more terrible than any other tragedy.” 
"That’s cold."
Your mother gave the flowers one more rustle and turned around. “But you know I’m right. This is silly and fake and relates to nothing, just like that character. You don’t actually feel anything about it.”
"Yes you are right and that’s why I like you. But it’s still a person."
"And for him and his, I will be sad. But not for a symbol."
"And that’s why I really like you."

February 27

SIMSBURY, Connecticut — May 27, 1995: “Shit. Are you serious?” 

Your mother nodded, the look of concern on her face fixed, though she wasn’t entirely attached to it. She seemed to be swallowing the impulse to say something inappropriate. She was, after all, in church, though it was a Saturday.

"Shit," your father said again, this time in a murmur as his chin dropped to his chest. He hung his head there for a moment, letting it loll back and forth. "well, don’t that beat all?"

"It’s a shame." 

Your mother pivoted clumsily back to the waist-high vase of flowers she was arranging on the steps leading up to the alter, a titter and maybe even a half smile playing across her face as she turned. 

"What was that? This isn’t funny."

Her back to your father, she replied, “Yes … it is. Sorry, I don’t care. Yeah, it’s a man and that is sad. But why should we care? Because it’s Superman? On TV? That makes it more funny rather than more terrible than any other tragedy.” 

"That’s cold."

Your mother gave the flowers one more rustle and turned around. “But you know I’m right. This is silly and fake and relates to nothing, just like that character. You don’t actually feel anything about it.”

"Yes you are right and that’s why I like you. But it’s still a person."

"And for him and his, I will be sad. But not for a symbol."

"And that’s why I really like you."

February 26
ORLEANS, France — May 26, 1986: “This is seriously what we are going with? You know, I bet the whole blue thing is not going to go over well over time. And the stars just scream pretension. Like, what a neat little club to be a part of!”
Walking together, your mother and father rounded a corner and paused in front of a patisserie. Your mother looked tired. It was too early to be having this conversation, or any for that matter, and she wondered why your father was so worked up about the matter. He plowed ahead.
“Please try not to remember us as bullies who feel genetically superior and tacitly use this as an excuse to control access to resources and decision making. You see, it’s okay because we are God’s little stars.”
"Isn’t it a little early in the 80’s for you to be this sarcastic?" your mother asked, opening the patisserie’s glass door. 
"One, I have no idea what that means and two, it’s the mid 80’s, so catch up."
They approached the counter, your father pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.
"Another thing," he continued, scanning the menu on the counter, "why do we need to make this official anyway? What about just continuing to run everything behind closed doors?"  
Your mother sighed. “Well, I suppose they will keep doing that too. I don’t see why you care. This doesn’t change anything. It’s a flag. There have been many, there will be more. Relax.” She placed her hand on the small of his back and he stiffened, inhaling.
She rose to her toes and kissed his cheek. “Get me something with cinnamon on it.”
He ordered two rolls. "Here goes the last of my money."
"I know. Let’s take these to the park. Then we look for work again."
"Or we just give up and go home."
"Or that."
The rolls arrived. They looked like cake. They smelled like cake. Your mother raised hers in a toast, “here’s to God’s little stars.”

February 26

ORLEANS, France — May 26, 1986: “This is seriously what we are going with? You know, I bet the whole blue thing is not going to go over well over time. And the stars just scream pretension. Like, what a neat little club to be a part of!”

Walking together, your mother and father rounded a corner and paused in front of a patisserie. Your mother looked tired. It was too early to be having this conversation, or any for that matter, and she wondered why your father was so worked up about the matter. He plowed ahead.

Please try not to remember us as bullies who feel genetically superior and tacitly use this as an excuse to control access to resources and decision making. You see, it’s okay because we are God’s little stars.”

"Isn’t it a little early in the 80’s for you to be this sarcastic?" your mother asked, opening the patisserie’s glass door. 

"One, I have no idea what that means and two, it’s the mid 80’s, so catch up."

They approached the counter, your father pulling his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Another thing," he continued, scanning the menu on the counter, "why do we need to make this official anyway? What about just continuing to run everything behind closed doors?"  

Your mother sighed. “Well, I suppose they will keep doing that too. I don’t see why you care. This doesn’t change anything. It’s a flag. There have been many, there will be more. Relax.” She placed her hand on the small of his back and he stiffened, inhaling.

She rose to her toes and kissed his cheek. “Get me something with cinnamon on it.”

He ordered two rolls. "Here goes the last of my money."

"I know. Let’s take these to the park. Then we look for work again."

"Or we just give up and go home."

"Or that."

The rolls arrived. They looked like cake. They smelled like cake. Your mother raised hers in a toast, “here’s to God’s little stars.”