On my daughter’s third birthday, I decided it was time to share the story of her arrival: how my water broke with a sound reminiscent of a juice box popping, how strangers outside the hospital offered Dad and me encouraging thumbs-ups, and how she made a swift entrance into the world.
She paused mid-bite of her birthday cake and blinked at me. “What, Mom?”
Oh dear. I thought I had covered that already. I find myself trying to strike a balance between the obliviousness of my own upbringing and the hyper-aware parenting style that seems prevalent in our Brooklyn neighborhood. Growing up, euphemisms were the norm; I still chuckle at the silly term I learned for penis (was it really “snicklefritz”?). To confirm, I recently called my older sibling, and yes, it was! At my daughter’s checkup, I asked her doctor if I was shielding her from the truth. “Not at all,” he assured me. “Children need proper terminology. No silly code words like ‘cupboard’ or ‘butterfly.’ You’ve given her information, and as she matures, you can share more.”
My daughter has taken this advice to heart. Last year, during a carpool ride home after a tough day at school, she announced she wanted to have girls. “It doesn’t work like that,” I explained. “The daddy decides if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“What?” Her disappointment was evident. “Why not?”
I launched into a simplified version of chromosomes: “If you have two oranges and I ask for some fruit, what could you give me?”
“Oranges make me burp, remember?”
“Okay, how about peaches? What can you give me?”
“A peach, Mom.”
“And if Jake has a peach and an orange, what can he give me?”
“A peach or an orange. But Jake, give her the peach.”
“Exactly! Jake can choose either a peach or an orange. You can only give me peaches. It’s similar with babies. Do you get it?”
Perhaps that was too complex. “The mommy has one kind of part to offer. The daddy has two options. If he gives the part like the mommy’s, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other one, it’s a boy.” I was starting to confuse myself. “You know you’re made of a little piece of Mommy and a little piece of Dad, right?”
She pondered this for a moment. “Fine, I’ll just adopt girls.”
Jake, who had been quiet until then, chimed in, “But how does the daddy give the mommy his little part?”
“That, kiddo,” I said, pulling up to his house, “is a great question for your own parents.” I locked the car door behind me. “Brace yourself,” I told his mom. “I think Jake’s about to have a chat about reproduction tonight.”
“Oh?” she replied, looking cautious.
“I was explaining how chromosomes work, and he wants to know how the sperm gets to the egg.”
She squinted at me.
“I didn’t mention sperm or eggs; just fruits like peaches and oranges. Two peaches result in a girl. An orange and a peach means a boy.”
“Oh boy,” she laughed. “He asked where babies come from the other day.”
“What did you tell him?”
She chuckled. “I said elves bring them.”
We both burst into laughter, my daughter knocking on the car window to interrupt. A year later, the same season, my now five-year-old son asked from the back seat, “So, do the mommy and daddy just rub their bellies together to make a baby?”
Did I surpass the “elves” explanation with some age-appropriate biology? Did I do better than the nonsensical terms of my childhood? Sometimes, my inner West Indian modesty clashes with my attempts to be a more open Brooklyn parent. “Oh look!” I exclaimed, nearly honking the horn in excitement at hearing my favorite Christmas song on the radio. We had been waiting for it all week.
My son hasn’t been following the pediatrician’s advice. When he gets a snippet of information, he demands more. My daughter had kept munching on her birthday cake when I mentioned that babies are born through the vagina. My son’s first question was, “Does that hurt?” And before I knew it, I was explaining cesarean sections, epidurals, and natural childbirth methods.
At 8, a sweet neighbor named Linda took it upon herself to educate the local kids with a small, unassuming book that revealed the “facts of life.” For years, I envisioned a naked mommy and daddy squishing together and a tiny, blind baby navigating a birth canal, which I likened to the mossy drainpipe by our house. The only reproduction-related conversation I’ve had with my now 70-year-old mother happened shortly after my daughter was born. She vaguely warned about the risks of unexpected pregnancies while nursing—a caution from someone whose first four children arrived within six years.
I’m bracing myself for my son’s next question. No matter how curious he is, I’d prefer to eat an earthworm rather than use any prepositions to describe how the daddy and mommy parts connect—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve relied on the verb “have.” Girls have, you have. I need to come up with something better soon.
Meanwhile, my daughter remains determined to adopt.