It's not easy being an Irish Catholic dad watching his young girls grow into womanhood, writes MIKE FARRAGHER, who's unable to come to grips with dealing with the birds and the bees and the school puberty video.

"THIS is the big change that signals you are growing from a child to an adult. It's a whole new experience, but it doesn't have to ruin your day." Whoever wrote that sentence did not direct that at an Irish American father, for it is just as hard to write the words on this page as it was to read the first time I picked up the pamphlet entitled "It's a Girl Thing."

The school dropped it in my daughter's book bag as a parting gift at the end of the school year. It also served as warning to parents that THE VIDEO was being viewed in health class by the fifth grade girls that week.

There was no denying that my little girl was growing up. I could no longer trick myself into thinking that this was someone else's training bra I was throwing into the wash, assuming I had the stomach to touch it in the first place.

The dark, brooding clouds that would form behind my Annie's pupils and change her mood at the drop of the hat was definitely a sign that the storm of puberty was coming.

So, I eyed the pamphlet on the kitchen countertop for a solid week before even chancing to open it. In a stroke of branding genius, I noticed that Kotex had prepared the brochure in an attempt to be well positioned when opportunity dropped, so to speak.

Like every man who needs to concentrate on an important document, I took the pamphlet into "the porcelain library." I began to get light headed when the words started rushing at me. Vulva. Cervix. Endometrium. Ovulation!

"Are you okay in there?" asked the 9-year old younger sister from the other side of the door.

"I just got hold of a bad burrito; I'll be fine," I muttered weakly as I clawed at the sides of the toilet. Of course, I wasn't.

Why was I having this violent reaction? I have made a nice living selling diagnostic tests to detect the onset of disease states, and I could probably get a medical degree after sitting through countless physician conferences, so none of these words or concepts were foreign to me.

Was I having a hard time facing the fact that my kid was no longer a baby? I'm sure that was part of it.

More likely, the vast majority of my discomfort probably stems from my learning about the birds and the bees from the Catholic school system. Despite conning myself into thinking I had evolved, I had to face the fact that my adult sexuality was a mere crouton floating atop a scalding soup of repression, Irish guilt, and shame.

I remember when I first heard about THE VIDEO. I was a few years older than my daughter. The nurse appeared at the classroom door one day and with one affirming nod to Sister Celine, the boys were shuttled into the hall as a television and VCR were wheeled into the room.

"The girls are watching a movie about changes in their bodies, and I want to talk to you about yours," said the nun.

I was glad she brought that up. We didn't have the benefit of Google in the seventies, and my body did not come with an owner's manual. I was praying that someone would explain why hair grew in some places and not others, how to tame certain body parts that would not stop standing at full attention, and why I felt all fluttery when Miss Kemp walked by.

Sister Celine liked to describe her and the other nuns as "brides of Christ," but I was convinced that with her ropey heels and tight fitting fashions, the Man Upstairs would probably have the bartender walk past the nuns and place a drink in front of Miss Kemp on any given Saturday evening. I would sit through her class in agony as the hormones pored out of my body like maggots teeming out of a bag of hot garbage and I was hoping, above all else, that Sister Celine would give me tips on how to pull my grades up in Miss Kemp's class.

"Many of you have noticed changes," she began. "Hair is growing on you, and you may even begin to smell bad odors coming out of you. We would like for you to begin wearing deodorant under your arms from now on. Sometimes, the stench is unbearable in the classroom."

The old Polish nun began to pace now, her sensible shoes squeaking on the tile as she walked. Her upturned lip did little to hide her disgust and discomfort.

"Some of you may have urges or impure thoughts. These are sinful and could remove you from God when you die."

Period. End of story. Sister Celine had nothing for me.

There would be some other references to touching yourself inappropriately in religious education classes through the years, but it wasn't until high school that Brother Bernadine gave it to us straight up with no chaser.

He was a kind, lazy bear of a man from Louisiana, the slow drawl masking a quick wit and supreme intellect. We were in Latin class in this all boy Catholic high school, and even Brother Bernadine would love to escape the rigors of verb dissection in the ancient tongue through an occasional side story.

He asked us how the dating was going. Since no girls were digging the Osmond-retaining-water look I was sporting at the time, I had nothing to contribute to the conversation.

Of course, the toe-headed swimming studs were all too eager to speak up, taking the opportunity to brag about their conquests to the rest of us. Brother Bernadine smiled and nodded knowingly; he had them just where he wanted them.

"You know what you're doing is a mortal sin against God, right, boy?" With his drawl, the word "boy" sounded like "boa." Like the snake of the same name, he was constricting the air out of his prey in front of our very eyes.

"Having sex with someone you're not married to is gonna land you in hell. You also might be tempted to have your mind wander into dirty thoughts, and then your hands will follow. You do know that's a mortal sin, too, right? I just wanna see y'all in heaven with me, that's all."

You could have heard a pin drop.

You might be wondering where my parents were during all of this? The first time sex was mentioned to my recollection was during college. I had begun regular activity with a woman who would become my wife in the dorm rooms, and mom attempted to broach the topic one morning during spring break.

"Is it serious with you and Barbara?" she asked nervously.

"Um, yeah," was the reply.

"Well, you didn't get that thing down there for stirring your tea, so be careful."

I had the mug in my hand but thought better of testing her theory. My face was red with embarrassment and there was a fair bit of resentment that the subject of sex was never brought up until now.

Once I was out of the house and married, I swore I would create a household where no topic was off limits.

Twenty four years and a stack of bills later, I have failed miserably in that regard. I was reminded of this shortcoming recently when our new puppy was in heat. She was spotting blood around the house and hammering away at any stuffed animal that had the misfortune of crossing her path.

"What's going on with her?" asked the girls.

Here was my chance. The pooch could be a metaphor for the changes that would occur in their own bodies. I practiced this speech numerous times in my mind but when opportunity rose, I folded like a cheap chair.

"Um, it's a Mexican hat dance or something," I muttered, referencing the Chihuahua blood in our mixed breed. There was wild laughter around the room.

I loaded mariachi music on the iPod stereo nearby and we all got up and danced around the dog as she grinded on the plush toy at our feet. After the giggles subsided, my wife winked at me and I could hear the wings of the birds and the bees on the horizon.

I did what any repressed Irish Catholic man would do under the circumstances - I reached for the leash and took the dog on a walk. The pamphlet may have announced that my little girl was changing from a child to an adult, but in speaking openly on carnal matters, dear old dad clearly had a lot of growing up to do.