It was a surprisingly smooth evening, which is a rarity with three daughters in the house. Dinner passed without a hitch—no disputes over the meal I had prepared, no arguments about who would share their day first, and no drawn-out bedtime routines that leave me feeling exasperated. I felt a blend of contentment and a hint of pride, thinking, “I’ve got this.”
With my two youngest, Harper and Lily, already fast asleep, I entered my eldest daughter, Mia’s, room. She was waiting quietly, her eyelids heavy with sleep. I crawled under the covers beside her, and we exchanged gentle nose rubs. After a few minutes of light chatter, she hit me with the big question—the baby question. This wasn’t a casual inquiry like before.
“How does it happen? Who does what? How does it feel?”
The questions came in rapid succession, leaving me no time to hesitate. I had a fleeting moment of realization: “This is it; we’re having the talk.” The exchange lasted about fifteen minutes until she abruptly switched topics, declaring, “I think I found my library book!”
I kissed her goodnight and stroked her forehead, feeling somewhat dazed as I left her room. It’s funny how we watch sitcoms and hear stories from others, thinking that our experience will be different—that we’ll have more time or be better prepared. As I descended the stairs, I felt a mix of accomplishment and nervous energy. I shared the news with my partner, Jake, joking that it was his turn for the next daughter. He chuckled and said, “Oh no, we had daughters; this is your territory.” While he was joking, I suspect they’ll likely come to me with their questions.
Last night, another conversation unfolded with Mia. I felt more prepared this time, so when she didn’t initiate the questions, I took the lead. Her eyes widened a few times.
“Are you ok?” I asked, noticing her blush.
She nodded, smiling but clearly nervous. “I know this is weird, right? I’m a little anxious too, but this is important.”
I reassured her, “It’s okay to talk to me about anything that may be concerning you.”
She propped herself up, making exaggerated gestures, “If it’s about my all-of-this,” she said, her movements so animated that I burst into laughter.
“No, not quite. You don’t need to share every detail about your body; just anything that’s important for your health and safety, alright?” She nodded somberly.
“You have a lot going on, and I remember when I started noticing changes around your age. I used to check for hair under my arms every time I took a bath,” I said, mimicking the action. She leaned in, grinning but confused.
“And?” she asked eagerly.
“And I kept checking until I eventually stopped. I don’t even remember when it all happened! The truth is, while you may feel excited or anxious about changes, your body just moves along at its own pace. What matters most is that you feel comfortable coming to me with any questions.”
She met my gaze and nodded seriously.
“I’m going to be nervous too,” I admitted, feeling my eyes well with tears. “But we’ll navigate the awkwardness together. I promise to answer any questions you have. And remember, you don’t have to share everything with your friends. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can keep it to yourself.”
“Wait, so I can lie?” she interjected.
“No, you can choose not to disclose anything you want. It’s not lying. You can keep things private from others, but you must be honest with me if something doesn’t feel right. Deal?”
“Deal! I promise,” she replied thoughtfully, her cheeks still flushed but her eyes bright. “Thanks, Mom, for everything. For you, for me, for this moment.” She rolled back nervously.
“I’m so proud of you, Mia,” I said, my voice trembling as tears filled my eyes.
“I love you too, Mom. So much,” she said, pulling me in for a hug.
I left her room before she could see my shoulders shake with silent sobs. It was incredible to reflect on the distance we had just traversed—timid at first, but unwavering. Downstairs, I replayed the conversation in my mind, recognizing the importance of the words I had shared. I felt a profound certainty that, while out of my depth, I was rising to the occasion.
I scrolled through nearly a decade of photos and videos of her life, reminiscing about her quirky childhood moments. I recalled how she used to interpret her sister’s babbles, saying things like, “She said dah, dah, dah, dah. Lily likes to say dah. You hear that, Mom?” I shed tears as I revisited moments when she tried to grasp shadows in playful innocence.
From walking to the bus stop alone to singing the national anthem in front of thousands, my firstborn—the one who made me a mother—is growing up. All the clichés about time flying by hold a painful truth. As we approach the changes of puberty, the memories of her infancy and my early days as a mom feel so vivid. I know it won’t always be this way, but for now, I feel a sense of peace.
“You did well, Emily. You did right by her,” I told myself, finally believing those words.