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Parenting
By Jamie Lee
Updated: Aug. 20, 2015
Originally Published: June 13, 2015
On her third birthday, I recounted the story of how my daughter came into the world: the moment my water broke sounded like a squished juice box, the thumbs-up gestures from strangers outside the hospital, and how she practically slid right out without much effort.
She paused, looking up from her celebratory birthday cake. “What, Mom?”
Oh no! I thought I had already shared that story. Here I am, trying to navigate between the carefree innocence of my own West Indian upbringing and the overly cautious parenting style popular in Brooklyn. Growing up, my household was full of euphemisms; I can barely recall the silly childhood term for penis (was it really “willy-wonker”?). I even called my older sister to confirm—turns out it was.
At my daughter’s recent checkup, I asked her pediatrician if I had been too blunt. “Not at all,” he said. “Kids need the right words. Forget the silly code names like ‘cabbage’ or ‘peach.’ You’ve done well. Just add more detail as she grows.”
A year later, while driving home from school, my daughter declared she wanted to have girls. “It doesn’t exactly work like that,” I explained. “The daddy gets to choose whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“What?” She sounded puzzled. “Why?”
Here’s my attempt at explaining chromosomes: “If you have two oranges and I ask for a piece of fruit, what can you hand me?”
“Oranges give me a tummy ache, remember?”
“Okay, how about bananas. What can you give me?”
“A banana, Mom.”
“And if Liam (our carpool friend) has a banana and an orange, what can he give me?”
“A banana or an orange. But Liam, give her the banana!”
“Exactly! Liam can give me either fruit, but you can only give me bananas. It’s similar with babies. Do you get it?”
Maybe that was a bit too detailed. “The mommy has one kind of piece to share. The daddy has two options. If he contributes the piece that matches the mommy’s, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other piece, it’ll be a boy.” My explanation was getting complicated. “You know that you’re made up of parts from both Mommy and Daddy, right?”
She pondered this for a moment. “Fine! Then I’ll just adopt girls.”
Liam, who had been quiet until now, chimed in, “Yeah, but how does the daddy give the mommy his little piece?”
“That, my friend,” I said as we pulled up to his house, “is a great question for your own parents.” I locked the door behind me. “Get ready,” I told his mother, “I think Liam is about to ask about reproduction tonight.”
“Oh really?” she replied, a hint of nervousness in her voice.
“I was explaining chromosomes and gender, and he wants to know how the sperm reaches the egg.”
She looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t use those words! Just mangoes and oranges. Two bananas, girl. One banana and one orange, boy.”
“Oh wow,” she laughed, “the other day he asked me where babies come from.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him the stork brings them.”
We both burst into laughter, while my daughter knocked on the car window, impatient for us to stop chatting and get moving. A year later, during the same season, my 5-year-old son suddenly asked from the back seat, “So what? The mommy and daddy just rub their bellies together to make a baby?”
Did I really outdo “the stork” with some basic biology? Have I done better than the silly terms from my childhood? Sometimes I think my inner West Indian upbringing clashes with my attempts to embrace a more open approach.
“Rudolph!” I called out, nearly honking the horn with excitement as we tuned into the 106.7 Lite FM Christmas music. We had been waiting to hear that song for a week!
My son wasn’t playing by the pediatrician’s guidelines. When he gets a little info, he demands more right away. My daughter was unfazed when she learned that babies are born through the vagina; she just kept munching on her birthday cake. My son’s first question was, “Does that hurt?” Next thing I knew, I was explaining Cesareans, epidurals, and natural childbirth.
When I was 8, a friendly neighbor named Janet decided to enlighten us village kids by reading from a small, brown book about the birds and bees. I held onto some wild images of a naked mommy and daddy nearly squishing each other, and of a tiny, blind baby navigating a birth canal that I imagined was as wide as the big drainpipe next to our house.
The only conversation I’ve had with my now-70-year-old mother about reproduction happened shortly after my daughter was born. She vaguely warned me about the risks of unintended pregnancies while nursing—sage advice from a woman who had her first four children within six years.
I’m ready but not quite prepared for my son’s next question. No matter how curious he is, I’d rather eat a worm than use any physical terms to explain the daddy and mommy pieces coming together—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve kept it simple with “have.” Girls have, you have. I need to figure out a better way soon.
Meanwhile, my daughter remains steadfast about adoption.
In case you’re looking for more information on the topic, check out this resource on pregnancy and home insemination, or if you’re interested in boosting fertility, visit Make a Mom’s guide on fertility supplements. For those curious about home insemination methods, explore this detailed guide.
Summary
Navigating the conversation about reproduction with kids can be a tricky balancing act between being informative and age-appropriate. As I share the basics of how babies are made with my children, I find myself drawing on both my upbringing and modern parenting approaches. Each child has their own questions and curiosities, leading to enlightening—and sometimes hilarious—conversations.