Decades ago, my little sister, the mom, learned that this topic — where babies come from — is of periodic interest for pre-school minds. She also learned that discussions concerning this topic were a time for speaking slowly, pausing frequently, and sometimes subtly attempting to divert attention. Her two sons are now parents with kids approaching the age they were when their uncle, now a great-uncle, was an observer of one such discussion.
Oh sure, when the time comes, or more accurately, when the times come, parents think they’ll be cool. Mature. Measured. Sensitive. Parents think they’ll be able to keep the explanations objective, factual and framed in the context of a husband and wife who love each other very much and are fulfilling one aspect of God’s wonderful design. The way it really happens is more like this…
The setting. 7:30am. The morning routine is underway. Dad is upstairs getting ready for work. Colin, almost four, and Cameron, two and a half, are at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Mom is pouring milk on the first of two small bowls of cereal. Uncle is observing from a front row seat at the table.
MomColin, almost 4Cameron, 2½
“Cameron, please do not put your fingers in your cereal bowl after I’ve poured milk in it.”
“I helping Cheerios swimming.”
“They don’t need help swimming. Please use your spoon.”
Colin, ignoring his younger brother’s juvenile behaviour, has a question of his own.
“Mom, how does a boy baby get inside his mommy’s tummy?”
The Cheerios swimming lesson abruptly ended and there were now two pairs of beady little eyes focused intently on Mom, eagerly awaiting illumination. It’s a straightforward question really, with a simple answer that had suddenly, strangely disappeared from Mom’s memory bank. Subtle diversion number one is instinctively initiated by Mom as she pours milk into the second cereal bowl.
“Thank you Cameron for using your spoon like a big boy.”
“Mom, if all mommies are girls, how do boy babies get in their tummies?”
Apparently he already had a working theory for the female-female combo.
Milk is now overflowing from Colin’s bowl of cereal, having been continually poured thereinto (by Mom) since the original question was posed (to Mom), exposing the empty brain-sector (of Mom). Luckily, subtle but inadvertent diversion number two came from across the table.
“Mommy made a mess!”
Mom quickly grabbed a dishrag to sop up the stream of milk and floating O’s cascading down from the table top to the wood floor below. An ever-present large black lab was alertly sitting up, inexplicably ignoring the spilling milk and cereal — a usual favourite — apparently also awaiting an answer to Colin’s questions. Now there were three pairs of beady little eyes fixed on Mom.
Mom’s adrenalin rush and subsequent mental blackout were subsiding, and certain sketchy facts were recalled: eighth grade health class…wedding…honeymoon.
I surmised that momentary panic had given way to an apprehension that if she continued to spaz while responding to the young lad, she would make something tense and awkward out of something normal and natural. Didn’t want to warp the boys’ perspective. She took a pressured stab at a sufficient answer.
“Well son, a baby is made from part of a daddy and part of a mommy.”
She paused, frantically wondering which explanatory path to wander down next if more information was requested. A quick glance toward Cameron revealed that his spoon was now being used to feed Cheerios to a grateful dog. A glance back toward Colin found him pushing his chair back and leaving the table.
“Can I go watch dad shave?”
For the first time in a long time, Mom thanked God for short attention spans.
Uncle Todd