I Have Eggs Inside of Me?!
I would say, for the most part, I try to be truthful with my kids. I mean obviously I lie to them about things they need to be lied to about like "Of course we planned to have Eli exactly 14 months after Wyatt." But I don't lie to them about most other things. Probably the main reason being, I'm not a great liar and hate to get caught. Just kidding, sort of.
So when I was pregnant with my second child, my daughter was four and old enough to be more than curious about the baby in my belly. The questions began…"What's in your belly mom? Why is it getting bigger (and bigger and bigger and bigger I might add)? How do you know when it's ready to come out? How does it come out? Is it a boy or a girl? What color is the baby going to be? Can I name it? How…Why…What…on and on and on. She really never shuts up in general, so this line of questioning was daily and endless for my little Curious Georgette. Most of the questions I could handle, but when it came to the "How did the baby get in your belly?" part of the interrogation, I choked. I thought I would be able to handle it, but I looked at this little inquisitive angel face and knew I had to lie to her. My mature answer…"Magic Peyton, that’s how the baby got in mommy's belly…MAGIC!" Really? Magic? That's as good as I could come up with? Regardless, she bought it and that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. I had a good run, until this summer.
Some of my friends had told me that they had had the "talk" with their kids. WHAT? WHY? Shouldn't our kids find out about it like I did from the After School Special "My Mom's Having A Baby?" Apparently not. Things are done differently now and while 99% of the time I’d probably agree with the validity of that, this topic just might fall into that other 1%. These pioneer moms argument was "Would you rather tell her your way or let her find out a version from some kid at school?" I had to pause on that for a minute. Not sure. Not that I'm afraid to talk to my daughter about sex, but there's something about her learning about this that chips away a tiny bit of her little girl innocence. And if I tell her before she even asks about it…well, I just didn't see the upside. I was willing to roll the dice that it wasn’t going to be the kind of thing any other eight-year-old was going to spring on the group during recess to spring.
As I said…until this summer. She went to day camp, as she has every year of her life, but the difference for me this year was, they taught them magic tricks. That's right, magic tricks. She came home and showed me some of the tricks and how they were really an illusion. Then she says "There's no such thing as magic." Innocently, I walk right into the fire and I agree with her, "Right Peyton, there's no such thing as magic." A few more days go by and we are in the car. I hear her voice from the back seat ask "Mommy, if there is no such thing as magic, then how do babies get in your belly?" Damn that camp! I wanted to call them right then and there and demand my money back. So as any mature, rational thinking mom would do, I turned the radio up and acted like I didn't hear her.
A few more weeks passed and as I'm brushing her hair out one night, "Mom, where do babies come from? It can't be magic." There it is, I'm cornered. Looking at me for the answers, I was completely caught off guard and equally unprepared. I figured I could stall her one more time, but I'd have to get my act together and figure out my "speech." I started the ball rolling by saying "No, it's not magic. I'll explain it to you when we have some quiet time without your brothers running around like maniacs. OK?" It seemed to buy me some time and to satisfy her for now.
I immediately began going through the conversation in my head. No matter how many versions I practiced, they all stank. But unfortunately this burden was falling squarely on my shoulders and I figured I was as ready as I’d ever be. I decided to do it when we were on vacation a couple of weeks later. I wanted to make it conversational, easy, breezy, not a come-sit-down-here-I-need-to-talk-to-you talk. I wouldn't call it a "sex" talk in any way. That's how I began by stumbling along asking her "Er, um, Peyton, have you heard the word sex?" She looked at me with a crooked face and said "Huh? No." I was relieved and that answer somehow gave me the power to continue, "OK, that's good, um, never mind." And I began by telling her the mechanics of it.
When a mommy and a daddy love each other and want to have a baby…the daddy puts his…in the mommy's…and he leaves…and it finds the mommy's egg. She was listening intently up until the part about the egg. "What? I have eggs inside of me? What? Like you make me for breakfast? Scrambled eggs?!?" And she looks down at her stomach in horror. Didn't see that coming. "No Peyton, not like the eggs I cook for breakfast, little, bitty eggs you can't even see and there are a zillion of them they're so tiny. Think about it, how many chicken eggs from the fridge do you think you could fit in your belly?" I continue…"then the egg is fertilized…then it turns into a tiny baby…" She can't take it, "Eggs? Really? Where are they? How big are they again? Are they in me now or just when you get older?" Oh boy, at this point I wasn't sure if I was happy or sad because ironically she could have cared less about the daddy puts his penis in the mommy part but she was way more concerned that she was going to be producing breakfast food soon.
We finished the conversation and her huge egg fears seemed to be satisfied when I told her that I'd show her the sonogram pictures of her when she was a tiny speck through the last one right before she was born to see how she how it all progressed. Thank God for modern technology. There, I survived. She survived. She didn't look any older or any more fragile or less innocent. She somehow looked a little more empowered (I know, that part is in my head). I asked her if she had any questions and she mercifully had none about doing the deed. Her only questions were about how two women or two men who are in love have babies. At that moment, I was quietly proud of myself and my little girl. I guess the not lying about things part is working out here and there after all. I comfortably answered all of her questions.
