On my daughter’s third birthday, I decided to share the story of her arrival. I described how my water broke with a sound reminiscent of a juice box bursting, how onlookers cheered for us outside the hospital, and how she came into the world with barely any effort on my part.
She paused mid-bite into her birthday cake and looked at me quizzically. “What, Mom?”
I realized I might have missed explaining some details. Striking a balance between my own West Indian upbringing and the more open parenting style of Brooklyn has been a challenge. My childhood was filled with euphemisms; I can hardly recall the word we used for penis—surely it wasn’t “kilily”? In fact, I called my older sister recently to confirm it was true. At my daughter’s three-year checkup, I asked her pediatrician if I had compromised her innocence by using straightforward language. “Not at all,” he reassured me. “Children need the right vocabulary. Avoid silly terms like ‘cabinet’ or ‘flower.’ You’ve provided her with knowledge, and as she grows, you can offer more.”
My daughter took this advice to heart. A year later, during a carpool ride home after a tough school day, she announced that 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?” She seemed confused. “How come?”
I attempted to simplify the concept of chromosomes. “If you have two oranges and I ask for some fruit, what can you give me?”
“Oranges give you gas, remember?”
“Alright, let’s say mangoes. What can you give me?”
“A mango, Mom.”
“And if our friend, Alex, has a mango and an orange, what can he give me?”
“A mango or an orange. But Alex, give her the mango.”
“Exactly! Alex can give either a mango or an orange, while you can only give me mangoes. It’s similar with babies. Do you understand?”
I may have gone into too much detail. “The mom has one type of piece to contribute, while the dad has two options. If he gives the piece like the mom’s, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other piece, it will be a boy.” I could tell I was losing her. “You know that you are a little blend of Mommy and a little blend of Dad, right?”
She considered this for a moment before saying, “Fine, then. I’ll just adopt girls.”
Alex, who had been quiet until now, chimed in, “But how does the daddy give the mommy his little piece?”
“That,” I said as I pulled up to his house, “is a great question for your own parents.” I quickly exited the car and locked the door. “Get ready,” I told his mother. “I think Alex will be asking about reproduction tonight.”
“Oh?” she replied, sounding apprehensive.
“I was discussing sex chromosomes and gender determination, and he wants to know how the sperm gets to the egg.”
She squinted at me.
“I didn’t mention sex, sperm, or egg—just mangoes and oranges. Two mangoes mean a girl, and a mango and an orange mean a boy.”
“Oh boy,” she laughed. “Just the other day, he asked where babies come from.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him elves bring them.”
We both burst out laughing, while my daughter pounded on the car window to stop our conversation and Alex cried to be let out.
Fast forward a year, and my now five-year-old son asks from the back seat, “So what? The mommy and daddy just rub their tummies together to make the baby?”
Did I surpass the “elves” explanation with age-appropriate biology? Was I doing better than the nonsensical terms from my own upbringing? Sometimes, I find myself torn between my West Indian roots and the more modern Brooklyn approach.
Suddenly, I shouted in delight as my favorite Christmas song came on the radio, almost honking the horn in excitement.
My son, however, is not following the pediatrician’s advice. He seems to crave more information immediately after receiving just a bit. My daughter continued eating her birthday cake when I explained 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 options.
At eight, I had a kind neighbor who presented the facts of life through a small, unadorned book. For years, I envisioned a naked mommy and daddy almost crushing each other and a tiny baby navigating a birth canal that I likened to the wide drainpipe near our home. The only conversation I’ve had with my 70-year-old mother regarding reproduction occurred shortly after my daughter’s birth when she vaguely warned about unwanted pregnancies while nursing—a piece of advice from a woman whose first four children were born within six years.
I find myself preparing for my son’s next question. Regardless of his curiosity, I’d rather face anything than use any suggestive prepositions to describe how the daddy and mommy pieces fit together—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve used simple forms of the verb “have.” Girls have, you have. I need to devise a better explanation soon. Meanwhile, my daughter remains focused on her plan to adopt.
For more information on home insemination, you can explore resources like this one that provide authority on the subject. Furthermore, if you’re looking for clarity on intrauterine insemination, this excellent resource can help. And don’t forget to review our privacy policy to understand how we protect your information here.
Summary
In navigating the complex discussions of reproduction with children, the author reflects on personal experiences and cultural differences. While attempting to provide straightforward information about how babies are made, the author balances curiosity and clarity, recognizing the importance of appropriate vocabulary. Through humorous interactions with her children and friends, she contemplates the challenges of discussing these topics in a direct manner, striving to ensure her kids feel informed and supported.