It was one of those rare nights where everything seemed to fall into place—no food fights over the dinner I prepared, no bickering over who got to share their day first, and bedtime didn’t stretch into a marathon of negotiations. I felt a mix of relief and a dash of, “I’ve got this.”
With Emma and Lily snuggled in their beds, already drifting into dreamland, I found Sophie waiting for me in her room. I crawled under the covers and gave her a gentle nose rub. We chatted for a few moments before she hit me with the big question. This time, it wasn’t just casual curiosity.
“How do babies get made? Who does what? What does it feel like?”
The questions came at me in rapid succession, leaving me no time to think twice, just a fleeting moment of realization: “Here we go, we’re really doing this.” For about fifteen minutes, we volleyed questions and answers until Sophie pivoted the conversation with a sudden, “I think I found my library book.”
I kissed her goodnight and ran my fingers through her hair, feeling a bit dazed as I left the room. It’s funny how you can watch sitcoms or hear stories from others and think that you’ll somehow have more time to prepare. As I walked downstairs, I felt a mix of pride and nerves. I shared the experience with my husband, joking that it would be his turn with the next girl. He chuckled and replied, “Oh no, we had daughters; this is your territory.” I knew he was teasing, but I figured the girls would likely come to me for those answers.
Last night, another chat with Sophie unfolded. This time, I felt more ready, so when the questions didn’t come, I took the lead. Her eyes widened at times.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
She blushed but smiled, nodding.
“I know it’s a little awkward, right? I’m a bit nervous too, but it’s important.” She nodded again, blankets pulled up to her chin, her bright blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“So here’s the deal: you can talk to me about anything related to your body and health.”
She sat up, gesturing dramatically, “Like my all-of-this,” she said, her movements so exaggerated that I couldn’t help but laugh. She continued, now in a faux French accent, “All of zis is what I need to tell you about, non?” We both burst into giggles, then sighed in unison.
“Not quite. You don’t have to share every detail about your body with me. Just anything important for your health or safety, okay?” She looked at me, her expression serious, and nodded.
“You’ve got a lot going on, just like all the kids do. I remember checking under my arms every time I took a bath. I’d look and think, ‘Is it there? Do I have hair yet?’” I raised my arm and pretended to inspect. She leaned forward, grinning, but looking slightly puzzled.
“And?” she asked.
“And I kept checking until I just… stopped. I can’t even remember when it happened. Can you believe that? All that anticipation, and I missed it! Your body just keeps doing its thing, even when you’re worried or excited. What matters most is that you feel comfortable talking to me.”
She met my gaze and nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes.
“I’ll be nervous too,” I admitted, my voice quivering, “but we’ll get through the awkward bits together. I promise I’ll answer any question you have. And remember, you don’t have to share everything with your friends. If there’s something you want to keep to yourself, that’s totally okay.”
She interrupted, “So I can lie?”
I leaned in, “It’s not lying if you keep things private. You can hold onto secrets about your body. Just promise me you’ll be honest with me if something feels wrong. Deal?”
“Yeah, I get it. I promise.” Her cheeks were still slightly pink, but her eyes sparkled with happiness. “Thanks, Mom, for everything. For you, for me, for this moment.” She wiggled a bit, a mix of nervousness and excitement.
My voice cracked with emotion, “I’m so proud of you, Sophie.” I leaned in for a hug, and she hugged me back tightly.
“I love you too, Mom. So much.”
I squeezed her and left the room before she could see the tears welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t believe how far we had come together, hesitant but unwavering. As I crept downstairs, I replayed the conversation in my mind, reflecting on the words I had shared, which I kept private out of respect for Sophie and the significance of that moment. I felt both out of my depth and ready for the challenge.
Scrolling through photos and videos of her from the past nine and a half years, I reminisced about her quirky childhood moments, like when she used to translate her sister Lily’s babbling for me. “She said da, da, da, da. Lily likes to say da. You heard that, Mom, she said da to you.” I found myself tearing up as I came across a sweet photo of her trying to grasp a shadow shaped like an umbrella.
“Pretend to hold it, Sophie. Hold it right over your head.” Her little body wiggled as she squatted, “I can’t, Mom. I cannot pick up duh, duh, un-uh-rellla.”
She has come so far, from walking to the bus stop alone to singing the national anthem in front of thousands.
My first daughter, the one who made me a mom, is growing up. All those clichés about time flying are annoyingly true. As we stand on the brink of puberty, I still feel the presence of both the newborn and the new mom. I’m sure not every conversation will flow this smoothly, but last night’s exchange and the beautiful dawn that followed gave me a sense of peace.
“You did well, Emily. You did right by her,” I told myself, finally believing it.
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Summary
Emily reflects on her unexpected yet enlightening conversation with her daughter, Sophie, about growing up and body awareness. With humor and vulnerability, Emily navigates the challenges of parenting, emphasizing the importance of open communication and trust. The experience strengthens their bond and leaves Emily feeling proud and fulfilled.