I knew this moment was coming. I could feel it in my bones for weeks, just waiting for “The Talk” about body changes. DUN-DUN-DUUUUN! I instantly recalled my own childhood experiences, sitting anxiously among classmates, trying to keep my cool while secretly plotting my escape to the farthest corner of the world. Just hearing the word “PENIS” could send half the class into stunned silence while the other half erupted into nervous giggles. And when diagrams were introduced, time felt like it stood still. Tick tock, tick tock—there it was, glaring at us with its single beady eye, along with its sidekick, the scrotum, both emblazoned on the chalkboard as if we needed to memorize them for later.
What a gross word, scrotum. Anyway, as an adult, I’m free from these cringe-worthy educational sessions, but my kids are not so fortunate. It’s an uncomfortable yet essential part of growing up. My aim as a parent is to make this process as painless as possible. I’m open to discussing these topics with them. We don’t have family meetings about human anatomy, but if they ask, I provide straightforward, age-appropriate explanations. I talk about body parts like the penis or the elbow, maintaining eye contact and minimizing awkwardness.
Above all, I want to foster open communication. I prefer guiding their understanding rather than letting them stumble upon this information online or from some know-it-all kid at school. So, in preparation for this milestone, I purchased “the book” for my child a few weeks ago and encouraged her to read it at her own pace. I promised we would discuss it together when she was ready.
One hour later, she tossed the book onto my lap. “Finished, Mom,” she said. I had braced myself for a barrage of questions, but I didn’t anticipate this list:
- “So, you know those pictures of how breasts grow? What stage are you in, Mom?”
“The final stage.”
“Um, yours don’t look like that.”
What I wanted to say: “Ah, yes, dear child. This is the result of four decades of life and three kids. It’s not great. Thank you for the reminder to avoid being naked at home.”
What I said: “It’s just a cartoon illustration—nobody looks exactly like that. It’s a general idea.” - “Do you even need to wear a bra?”
What I wanted to say: “Seriously?!”
What I said: “Probably not, but it’s socially acceptable and makes me feel better.” - “What do you call that stuff that gets in your underwear again?”
What I wanted to say: “Vaginal discharge.”
What I said: “Vagina juice.” I was caught off guard. - “What is Virginia juice, Mom?”
What I wanted to say: “It’s pronounced Vagina, sweetheart.”
What I said: “It’s pronounced Vagina, honey.” - My middle child chimes in from afar: “Do I have a Virginia, Mommy?”
What I wanted to say: “It’s VAGINA! And yes, all girls have one.”
What I said: “Go play.” - The middle child, who never listens: “What’s a Virginia, Mommy?”
What I wanted to say: “Stop saying Virginia! It’s VAGINA!”
What I said: “It’s a state, sweetie.” - “Why is it called the ‘Public Area’ Mommy? Because—” (with a disgusted face) “it shouldn’t be public at all!”
What I wanted to say: “It’s actually called the ‘Pubic Area,’ named after the bone in that region.”
What I said: “Exactly!” - “What does menstruate mean?”
What I wanted to say: “It means once a month a swarm of flying ninjas in your belly will wake up and wreak havoc.”
What I said: “Every woman experiences it. It’s a gift that allows us to have children.” - “Does Daddy do it?”
What I wanted to say: “Nope, lucky him!”
What I said: “Nope, only girls get to do it. We’re special that way.” - “What does Daddy get to do?”
What I wanted to say: “He gets to smile and have a penis.”
What I said: “He takes out the garbage.”
I was ready to explain where babies come from and how to use sanitary products properly. I was even prepared to discuss societal shaving trends. Yet, here I am, debating the merits of wearing a bra while explaining why objects that seem weightless in space are still affected by gravity. Not to mention my own body’s quirks, like how I sometimes laugh too hard and need to cross my legs. I want to convince my sweet daughters that this journey is something to look forward to, as if it’s a party filled with unicorns and rainbows.
Honestly, I need a change of topic—and maybe a boob job. Not necessarily in that order.
This article was originally published on June 20, 2014.
For more on navigating these conversations, check out this resource for helpful tips on home insemination. Also, Make a Mom offers great insights on the topic. Looking for more about pregnancy? Hopkins Medicine provides excellent information on fertility and pregnancy.
Summary
Discussing body changes with kids can be awkward but essential. It’s important to foster open communication and address their questions with honesty while keeping the conversation age-appropriate and light-hearted.