On her third birthday, I decided to share the story of my daughter’s birth. I recounted how the water breaking sounded like a juice box being punctured, how strangers in the hospital cheered for us, and how she slipped into the world with barely a push. She paused mid-bite of her birthday cake, looking perplexed. “What, Mom?”
I realized I might not have covered that ground yet. As a parent, I find myself navigating the tricky waters between my own West Indian upbringing, which was filled with euphemisms, and the overly explanatory parenting style prevalent in Brooklyn today. In my childhood home, we danced around certain topics; I can barely recall the term we used for penis—definitely not “kilily,” as I joked with my sister just to confirm it was indeed that ridiculous. When I asked my daughter’s pediatrician if I was ruining her innocence, he reassured me. “Children need proper vocabulary. Skip the silly terms like ‘flower’ or ‘cabinet.’ You’ve given her information. As she matures, you can share even more.”
Embracing Openness
My daughter has embraced this approach beautifully. A year ago, while driving the carpool home after a tough day at school, she boldly announced her preference for girls. “It doesn’t work like that,” I explained. “The daddy decides if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“What?” she replied, sounding shocked. “How come?”
I tried to simplify chromosomes using an analogy. “If you have two oranges and I ask for fruit, what can you give me?”
“Oranges give you gas, remember?”
“Okay, fine. How about bananas? What can you give me?”
“A banana, Mom.”
“And if our friend Max has a banana and an orange, what can he give me?”
“A banana or an orange. But Max, give her the banana.”
“Exactly! Max can give me either fruit. You can only give me bananas. It’s the same with babies. Get it?”
That might have been too detailed. I continued, “The mom has one specific piece to contribute. The dad’s body can choose from two different pieces. One is like the mom’s. The other one is unique to him. If he gives the piece like the mom’s, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other piece, it’s a boy.” I noticed I was losing clarity in my explanation. “Just like you are a bit of me and a bit of Dad, right?”
She mulled over this information. “Fine then. I’ll just adopt girls.”
A Curious Mind
Max, who had remained silent until now, chimed in, “Yeah, but how does the daddy give the mommy his little piece?”
“That, buddy,” I said as we arrived at his house, “is a great question for your own mom and dad.” I locked the door and turned to his mother. “Brace yourself,” I warned. “I think Max is about to ask about reproduction tonight.”
“Oh?” she replied, sounding apprehensive.
“I was explaining chromosomes and gender and he wants to know how the sperm gets to the egg.”
She squinted at me.
“I didn’t mention any explicit terms, just fruits. Two bananas, girl. A banana and an orange, boy.”
“Oh man,” she chuckled, “the other day, he asked where babies come from.”
“What did you say?”
She laughed harder. “I told him the storks bring them.”
We burst into laughter, with my daughter tapping on the car window to stop our conversation, and Max howling to get out. A year later, my now 5-year-old son asked from the back seat, “So what? The mommy and daddy just rub their tummies together to make a baby?”
Had I done better than the stork story? Sometimes, my West Indian upbringing clashes with my current, more open approach. “Rudolph!” I exclaimed, almost honking the horn in delight at the timing of the Christmas carols playing on the radio.
Seeking Clarity
My son is not sticking to the pediatrician’s rules; he craves more information. While my daughter munched on cake after learning that babies are born through the vagina, my son’s immediate question was, “Does that hurt?” Next thing I knew, I was explaining scheduled C-sections, epidurals, and natural childbirth.
At eight, a neighbor once read the “facts of life” to my friends and me from a small, unillustrated book. For years, I visualized a naked couple in a bizarre, painful embrace and a tiny, blind baby navigating down a birth canal resembling a mossy drainpipe. The only serious talk I’ve had about reproduction with my now-70-year-old mother came after my daughter was born, where she vaguely warned about unintended pregnancies while nursing—wisdom from a woman who had four children in six years.
I’m bracing for my son’s next question. Regardless of his curiosity, I’d prefer to avoid any awkward references to where the daddy and mommy connect—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve kept it simple with forms of the verb “have.” Girls have, you have. I need to come up with a better approach soon. Meanwhile, my daughter remains committed to the idea of adoption.
Resources for Family Planning
For those interested in exploring fertility options, check out this article on boosting fertility supplements or this resource on IVF, which can provide valuable insights. If you’re considering family planning, Make a Mom has helped many achieve their dreams.
Conclusion
In summary, navigating conversations about reproduction with children can be challenging but rewarding. It’s essential to provide accurate information while considering their level of understanding. Striking the right balance between openness and simplicity can help foster healthy discussions around these topics.