As you may or may not know, Elder Miss is fascinated by all things physiological. It started about a year ago this time with 6 billion questions about, "What would happen if we didn't have bones?" And it's progressed all the way to her most recent obsession, "What's it called when your intestines get blocked and you have pain and you have to go to the surgery place?"
She wants to be a doctor. She's asked several times, "What are all the schools I have to go to before I can be a doctor?" She's not even a little bit daunted when I tell her she'll be at least as old as I am before she'll be a fully documented MD.
Given all that enthusiasm, I must admit, I'm a little surprised that she hasn't gotten to the, "Where do babies come from?" bomb-shell yet.
Not to worry though. I've been practicing. What with The Vibrant Ms. M being knocked up and starting to show it, I figure EM can't be too far away from the realization that such a thing as a baby must have some point of origin. And I plan to be better prepared than Michelle who fed her poor deluded son some bullshit line about God and angels and true love, or whatever.....pfft!
So here's my speech:
"Well EM, inside the mommy's bodies there are tiny little eggs. And inside the daddy's bodies there are tiny little things called sperm. And when the daddy puts the sperm inside the mommy's body, the egg and the sperm join together to make a baby."
I suppose it's too much to hope that she will be content with that answer and not progress to the next logical question, "How?" Or worse, "Why?" Getting into the mechanics of genital engagement with a 6 year old seems somehow...gratuitous. But I fear I may have to. So here's what I was thinking:
"Well EM, the egg lives in the mommy's vagina. And the sperm lives in the daddy's penis. And when the mommy and daddy love each other very much they can put these things together to make a baby. Now run along, dear. Mommy has to make dinner."
I realize that answer may be a little misleading, but keep in mind, the aim here is to get her to shut up and go back to the TV and Sponge Bob where she belongs. "These things" is both redundant and ambiguous. It will force her to go away, mull it over, and hopefully come to her own, wildly misguided conclusions. That's okay, right? I mean she's in the public school system. Surely the punks she socializes with will fill in all the gaps. That's what they're there for, right?
Actually, now that I think about it, after all this stressing and worrying over exactly the right tone and wording, she probably really will learn everything she needs to know about reproduction from her friend who grew up on the horse farm up the neighboring valley.
And I won't be able to use my carefully prepared speech on Boy either. He'll remain blissfully ignorant until 13 or so when his biology teacher will do my job for me. He'll come home jittery and pale, refusing to eat the milk and homemade cookies I've lovingly set out for him. And I, being the thoughtful, tuned-in mother that I am, will ask, "Honey, you look troubled, what's wrong?" In a frantic rush he'll confess to me the graphic horrors with which his teacher has filled his pure, modest little mind, and in the end he'll ask, "Is it true, Mom? Do I really have to...to t-t-t-touch them?" And I, in my gentlest, most reassuring of voices will answer, "Well dear, the breasts are optional, but I highly recommend it."
No. It will be Missy--ever fiesty, ever contrary--Little Miss who will confide to me over her Cheerios one morning, "So-and-so's big brother showed me his penis the other day. I didn't know what to do, so I slapped it twice and hocked a logie on it. What should I have done?"
That will be the day I swallow my unprepared, unrehearsed tongue and die.