Updated: Jan. 13, 2023
Originally Published: Jan. 13, 2023
It had been a surprisingly smooth evening, which is a rarity when you have three daughters. Dinner passed without a hitch—no complaints about my cooking, no arguments about who would share their day first, and bedtime didn’t stretch out in that maddening way that makes me want to pull my hair out. I felt a mix of pride and a hint of, “I’ve got this.”
With my youngest, Mia, and her twin sisters, Ella and Zoe, tucked into bed, I was ready to unwind. Mia, still awake, was quietly waiting for me in her room. I crawled under the covers beside her, and we exchanged sweet nose rubs before she suddenly asked the big question. It wasn’t casual this time; she was serious.
“How does it happen? Who does what? How does it feel?”
The barrage of questions came so quickly that I barely had time to process it, though I did have a fleeting moment of realization: “We’re having this conversation.” We talked for about fifteen minutes, and just as I thought it was winding down, she pivoted the topic. “I think I found my library book!”
After kissing her goodnight and brushing her hair back, I left her room in a daze. It’s amusing how you see movies and hear stories about these moments, thinking you’ll have more time to prepare or that it’ll be easier for you. As I descended the stairs, I felt a mix of relief and a bit of nervous energy. I shared the experience with my partner, Jake, joking that he’d be next for the talk with our other daughters. He laughed, saying, “No way, we have girls; you’re on duty.” While he was joking, I suspected they’d likely come to me for answers.
Last night, I had another chat with Mia. This time, I felt more ready. When she didn’t ask questions, I took the lead. Her eyes widened at times.
“Are you ok?” I asked, noticing her blush.
She nodded with a smile. “I know it’s weird, right? I’m a little nervous too, but this is important.”
“Exactly! You need to be able to talk to me about this stuff, especially if it’s—”
She sat up, making sweeping gestures over her body. “If it’s about my all-of-this,” she said dramatically, making me laugh. “Is it right, ha-ha?”
We both chuckled, then took a deep breath. “No, not exactly. You don’t have to tell me everything about your body. Just anything that you need to keep yourself healthy or safe, got it?”
Mia looked at me seriously and nodded. “I remember being in third grade, checking for changes every time I took a bath.” I raised my arm dramatically, pretending to inspect my armpit. “Is it there? Do I have hair yet?” She leaned in, grinning but confused.
“And?”
“And I kept looking until I didn’t anymore. Can you believe that? All that anticipation, and then I missed it! Your body just keeps moving forward, even when you’re excited or worried. What matters most is that you feel like you can talk to me about any of it.”
Mia met my gaze and nodded.
“I’ll be nervous too,” I said, feeling tears well up. “We’ll navigate the awkward parts together, but I promise to answer any question you have. And remember, you don’t have to share anything with other kids. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can—”
“I can lie?” she interjected.
I leaned closer and said, “You can keep things private. It’s not lying, okay? You can have secrets, but you need to be honest with me if something doesn’t feel right. Deal?”
“Yeah, I get it. I promise.” Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes sparkled with understanding. “Thanks, Mom, for everything. For you, for me, for this, thank you.”
As she settled down, I felt a rush of pride and emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Mia.” I hugged her tight.
“I love you too, Mama. So much.”
I walked out, my shoulders shaking from tears I didn’t want her to see. I couldn’t believe the ground we had just covered together—tentative at first but never wavering. I made my way downstairs, replaying our conversation in my mind. I thought of the words we exchanged, things I held back for her privacy.
I scrolled through years of photos and videos of her—her adorable lisp, the way she used to interpret her sisters’ babble. I sobbed at memories of her trying to catch shadows shaped like umbrellas. “Pretend to hold it over your head, Mia!” I’d say. “I can’t, Mama. I cannot pick up duh, duh, un-uh-rellla.”
She’s grown so much from walking to the bus stop alone to singing to a crowd of thousands. My firstborn, the child who made me a mother, is maturing. Those cliché sayings about time flying are frustratingly accurate. Yet, as we stand on the edge of adolescence, I feel the echoes of the newborn days still with me.
It won’t always be this way, but for now, as the dawn breaks beautifully, I feel okay. “You did good, Jessica. You handled it right,” I whispered to myself, finally believing it.
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