On her third birthday, I decided it was time to share the story of my daughter’s birth—how the moment my water broke felt like a juice box bursting, how the hospital crowd cheered for us, and how she made her entrance with barely a push. As she sat there enjoying her cake, she looked up at me, puzzled. “What, Mom?”
I realized I hadn’t explained it all before. I’m attempting to raise my children in a balance between the euphemism-filled environment of my own upbringing and the hyper-informed parenting style prevalent in our Brooklyn neighborhood. Growing up, I learned to speak around the topic of bodies; the childhood term I remember for “penis” is so absurd (was it really “tippy-tap”?) that I recently had to check with my sister to confirm it was true. At my daughter’s three-year checkup, I asked the pediatrician if I had gone too far in enlightening her. “Not at all,” he reassured me. “Kids need the right words. No silly code names like ‘cupboard’ or ‘rose.’ You’ve given her knowledge. As she matures, provide more.”
My daughter has embraced Dr. Lee’s wisdom. Just a year ago, during a carpool ride home after a tough day at school, she declared she wanted to have girls. “That’s not how it works,” I explained. “The dad determines if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Why?” she asked, clearly confused. Here’s my simplified version of chromosomes: “If you have two oranges and I ask for some fruit, what can you give me?”
“Oranges give me hiccups, remember?”
“Okay, lemons. What can you give me?”
“A lemon, Mom.”
“And if Sam (our carpool buddy) has a lemon and an orange, what can he give me?”
“A lemon or an orange. But Sam, give her the lemon.”
“Exactly! Sam can give me either a lemon or an orange. You can only give me lemons. It’s the same with babies. Do you get it?”
Maybe I went too deep. “The mom has one special piece to give. The dad’s body can choose between two different pieces. If he gives the same piece as the mom, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other piece, it’ll be a boy.” I could tell I was losing her. “You know you’re a little part of Mommy and a little part of Dad, right?”
She pondered for a moment and then said, “Fine, I’ll just adopt girls.”
Sam, who had been quiet until then, chimed in, “But how does the dad give the mommy his little piece?”
“That, my friend,” I replied as we reached his house, “is a question for your own parents.” I hopped out and locked the car door. “Get ready,” I warned his mom. “Sam is about to ask about how babies are made.”
“Oh?” she replied skeptically.
“I was just explaining chromosomes and gender, and he wants to know how the sperm reaches the egg.”
She squinted at me.
“I didn’t say sperm or egg, just lemons and oranges. Two lemons, girl. Lemon and orange, boy.”
We both burst out laughing, while my daughter knocked on the car window to stop our chatter, and Sam shouted to be let out. Fast forward a year, and my now five-year-old son asked from the back seat, “So what? The mommy and daddy just rub their bellies together to make a baby?”
Had I outdone “the elves” with some age-appropriate biology? Did I do better than the silly words from my childhood? Sometimes my inner West Indian modesty clashes with my attempts at a more open Brooklyn approach.
“Rudolph!” I exclaimed, nearly honking the car horn in excitement at the timing of the holiday music on the radio. We had been waiting to hear that song for days.
My son doesn’t follow the pediatrician’s advice; he demands immediate answers. While my daughter casually continued her birthday cake when I mentioned babies being born through the vagina, my son’s first question was, “Does that hurt?” Before I knew it, I was explaining scheduled C-sections, epidurals, and natural birth options.
When I was eight, a kind neighbor introduced me to the facts of life through a small, brown book that had no cover picture. For years, I held images of a naked mom and dad almost crushing each other, and of a tiny, blind baby navigating a tight birth canal, which I pictured like the mossy drainpipe next to our house. The only conversation I had about reproduction with my now 70-year-old mother occurred shortly after my daughter was born when she vaguely warned about unintended pregnancies while nursing—something she knew all too well from having four children in six years.
I feel unprepared for my son’s next question. Despite his curiosity, I’d rather eat an earthworm than use any spatial prepositions to explain how the mommy and daddy fit together—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve relied on simple verbs like “have.” Girls have, you have, I have. I need to come up with something better soon. Meanwhile, my daughter remains determined about adoption.
In conclusion, explaining reproduction to children can be a daunting task, but it doesn’t have to be filled with euphemisms. By providing them with age-appropriate information, we can help them understand the basics of how life begins, while also encouraging their curiosity. If you’re looking for more resources on pregnancy and home insemination, consider checking out this excellent guide on infertility or explore reputable online retailers for at-home insemination kits.
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