From the time my children could talk, I thought it necessary to call a body part what it was. None of the cutesy little names like oo-ahs and tetes for my children. This was all in preparation for the questions they would have later. I was determined to answer those inquiries better than my parents.
While I loved my mom, when it came to “the talk,” she simply said, “That’s none of your business, Becky. You talk too much.” I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. Yes, my parents were raised in a different time, where having the talk meant giving your children brochures and telling them to see the school nurse with any questions – but there had to be a better way.
My decision to be open with my children was derailed for a short time when I was pregnant with my youngest, and my oldest asked me how the baby was going to get out. I knew this was a pivotal moment for my little boy. He was almost 5. I gave him an answer, and he was satisfied. No more questions. He was brilliant. The next day, I picked him up from preschool.
After the teacher buckled his seatbelt, she looked at me and said with an enthusiastic tone, “He was so excited today. He let everyone in the class know that his new brother was going to come out of his mama’s bagina.” That should have been my first clue that maybe it’s better if the stork visits instead of honesty.
When I hear people fret about how they are dreading the talk, I don’t understand. I say the more uncomfortable the better. In other words, bring it. This probably has a lot to do with me being so cool. Granted my children were 10 and 5 at the time I was too dumb to realize that when you say something like, “bring it,” you better be prepared for something uncomfortable to get brought.
It turns out, I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was back then. Or now, for that matter. Although, I do have a pretty woke playlist. My children hate when I use slang, for reelz.
Anywho, at the same time I chastised my friends for not talking openly with their daughters about that inevitable step of womanhood, I was secretly thanking God that I didn’t have to worry about that talk. You know…since I have boys – insert sarcasm.
Then one morning while my boys and I were getting ready for school, my oldest said, “Mom, what’s a period?” Before answering, I thought about how this could be yet another pivotal moment in his life. “It’s what comes after a sentence. You talk too much, Jackson.”
Comments? You can email Becky Andrews at firstname.lastname@example.org. Andrews and Angel Kane are the brains behind Telling Tales, a weekly column in The Democrat.