The Birds and The Bees
Learning from my mother and my three-year-old daughter
My mother always had me read a book to explain things before she would discuss them with me. She gave me a book about getting my period, long before I ever got it. So, when it finally came, on a Sunday morning during the summer, I screamed to my mother, who ran upstairs to see who was killing me! Oh my god, the cramps were terrible and there was blood all around. But, she made a big, positive deal about it, told me how proud she was, and I soon got over my fright (but not the cramps)!
What kind of deal did she make, you ask? Well, because it was Sunday, and my father’s only day off, we always had plans. This particular week we had been invited to their friends’ house for a lobster barbecue. My mother told the couple about my landmark event and they planned a celebration — I was toasted with wine and they bought a cake and had it decorated with a large CONGRATULATIONS! To this day, over sixty years later, I can’t eat lobster without thinking of that day!
So, when it was time to learn about how babies are made, my mother gave me a book. We went to the library to pick it out together, and that evening, she gave it to me to read. It took very little time to read, but it was confusing. Women laid eggs? Men did what with their penises? Women let them? Babies didn’t grow from a tiny baby? I had lots of questions and couldn’t wait to ask my mother.
In my house things didn’t always go as “normally” as they did on Father Knows Best. We didn’t have a den where we could sit in big cushy chairs and discuss such weighty topics. My mother didn’t even sit on my bed to have this very important conversation. Oh no, I was asked to join her in the bathroom, invited to sit on the closed toilet, and talk to her while she took a bath! So, fully naked, my mother answered all my questions. It was a weird way to learn about the birds and the bees, but I did get the mystery explained. I vowed that when I had children, I would also be honest — but dressed!
Fast forward many years. We had adopted our daughter, Sarah, from Bogota, Colombia, picking her up at Detroit Metro Airport when she was only ten weeks old. About three years later, when I was pregnant with David, she would put a doll in her shirt and pretend she was pregnant. Stupidly, never did I think that, at her early age, her adoption would be the basis for all of her understanding. One day we were playing mommy and she started holding her pregnant belly and crying “Ow, ow. I’m ready to have the baby. Let’s hurry and get to the airport!”
But, like I said, we vowed that we were always going to be honest with her and answer her questions whenever and wherever she asked. One day, sitting in the parking lot of Dairy Queen, getting ready to go in for ice cream, Sarah asked, “Where do babies come from?” Larry and I looked at each other with a look of terror in our eyes. I was about thirteen when I learned that, and I’m sure it was difficult for my mother. How do you explain that to a not yet four-year-old? But, we had to live up to our promise and answer her questions whenever and wherever she asked.
So, we started on a very basic, three-year-old’s explanation of planting seeds that grow into babies. After a few minutes, during which time I’m sure she was confused, Sarah looked at us and said, “No, do all babies come from Colombia?”
