On my daughter’s third birthday, I decided to share the tale of her arrival into the world: how my water breaking sounded like a burst juice box, how people in the hospital cheered for Dad and me, and how she practically slid out with no effort from me.
She paused from her birthday cake, looking puzzled. “What, Mom?”
Oh no, I thought I had already mentioned that! As a parent, I’m navigating between my own West Indian upbringing, which was filled with euphemisms, and the more open style of parenting I see in Brooklyn. Growing up, I remember the ridiculous terms for body parts; the childhood name for penis was so absurd that I even contacted my sister to confirm (it was indeed “kilily”). At my daughter’s three-year checkup, I asked our pediatrician if I had been too blunt. He reassured me, saying, “Not at all. Kids need the right vocabulary. No silly code words like ‘flower’ or ‘cabinet.’ Just give her the facts. Gradually, you can share more.”
My daughter took this advice to heart. A year ago, during a carpool ride home from school, she announced her desire for girls. “That’s not how it works,” I explained. “Dads decide if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Why?” she asked, looking bewildered.
Here’s where I attempted to explain chromosomes: “If you have two apples and I ask for some fruit, what do you have to offer?”
“Apples give you gas, remember?” she retorted.
“Okay, mangoes. What can you give me?”
“A mango, Mom.”
“And if our carpool buddy, Sam, has a mango and an apple, what can he give me?”
“A mango or an apple. But Sam should give you the mango.”
“Exactly! Sam can give me either a mango or an apple. You can only give me mangoes. It’s the same with babies. Got it?”
That might have been too detailed. “The mom has one type of piece to offer. The dad has two options. If he gives the same piece as the mom, the baby will be a girl. If he gives the other one, it’s a boy.” I could feel myself getting lost in the explanation. “You know you’re a little bit of Mommy and a little bit of Daddy, right?”
She took a moment, then declared, “Fine! I’ll just adopt girls.”
At this point, Sam chimed in, “But how does the daddy give the mommy his little piece?”
“Oops,” I said as we pulled up to his house. “That’s a great question for your parents.” I quickly locked the car door. “Get ready,” I told his mom, “I think Sam is going to have some questions about reproduction tonight.”
“Oh?” she replied, sounding a bit anxious.
“I just explained chromosomes and gender, and he wants to know how the sperm reaches the egg.”
She squinted.
“I didn’t use those words, just mangoes and apples. Two mangoes mean girl, one apple and one mango mean boy.”
“Oh boy,” she laughed, “the other day he asked where babies come from.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him the elves bring them!”
We both burst into laughter as my daughter pounded on the window, wanting to get back to her birthday cake, while Sam howled to get out. Fast forward a year, and my five-year-old son asked from the back seat, “So, do the mommy and daddy just rub their tummies together to make a baby?”
Did I manage to outdo “the elves” with some straightforward biology? I wondered if I was doing better than the confusing terms from my own childhood. Suddenly, my inner West Indian modesty clashed with my desire to be open. “Rudolph!” I exclaimed as the perfect Christmas song came on the radio, which we’d been waiting to hear.
My son, unlike his sister, was not content with a little information. When he got a piece of the puzzle, he wanted more. My daughter had simply kept eating her cake when I told her that babies are born through the vagina. But my son’s first question was, “Does that hurt?” Suddenly, I found myself explaining scheduled C-sections, epidurals, and natural childbirth.
When I was younger, a kind neighbor named Betty introduced me to the facts of life using a small, plain book. The images she painted stayed with me, like a tiny baby making its way through a narrow birth canal. My own mother, now in her seventies, offered little advice on reproduction, just a vague warning about unintended pregnancies after nursing, wise words from someone who had four children in six years.
I feel prepared but still uneasy about my son’s next inquiry. I’m determined to avoid using any awkward prepositions to describe how the mommy and daddy come together—no “in,” “into,” “by,” or “between.” So far, I’ve stuck to simple phrases like “have.” Girls have, you have, I have. I really need to come up with something better soon.
As for my daughter, she remains keen on adoption.
In summary, navigating conversations about reproduction with children can be a blend of humor, honesty, and sometimes confusion. It’s important to provide age-appropriate information without resorting to euphemisms, ensuring our kids have a clear understanding as they grow.