“Mommy, I know a baby is made from a seed and an egg but how does the seed
get to the egg?”
Gulp. The question came at bedtime from my seven-year-old and I was woefully unprepared for it. On my bedside table the book Everything You Never Wanted Your Kids to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid They’d Ask) sat unread in favor of a similarly themed but very different book: Fifty Shades of Grey (guilty pleasure of New York moms everywhere).
Book or no book, I should have been well prepared for this question. One summer in college, I volunteered for a group of disabled teens and was responsible for the sex education lecture, including suggestions about positions for wheelchair-bound partners. I was also part of a group of graduate students who went to local high schools to teach safe sex. Apparently, I can put a condom on a banana in front of a room full of sniggering teenagers, but when face-to-face with my own child, my mouth went dry and my heart was pounding.
I told her that I needed a few minutes to think about my answer and I ran to the book on my bedside table, hoping for a quick reference guide, an appendix, ANYTHING that would give me the words I could not find. I came up empty (note to the authors for the second edition). My husband was in the kitchen cleaning up dinner.
Me: “She just asked me how the sperm gets to the egg. This is IT. It’s GO time. Get in there with me.”
Husband: “Just don’t expect me to stay anything.”
Me: “Fine. Just be there for moral support.”
My parents were not the first people to teach me about sex. That honor went to a girl named Gillian who was in the same second-grade class as I was. She heard about it from her much older brother and much cooler mother. Then, my 14-year-old babysitter told me the following year and I played dumb. My mother waited until the year after that, and I struggled to feign both surprise and impassivity on my nine-year-old face.
I didn’t want Sloane to be the “Gillian” in her first-grade class. My husband and I returned to her room. I sat on the bed and he stood by the window. I could feel the heat from his burning cheeks on my back.
I told her that I would explain how the seed gets to the egg, but I trusted and expected that she would not impart this information to her younger sister or classmates. I explained that children should learn about this from their parents when they are ready, both the parents and the children. She pinky-swore that this would remain between us.
My daughter lives in a science-oriented household so half the job was done, given that she knew proper names for male and female body parts and the materials needed. I made a game-time decision to focus on mechanics and not the physical or emotions aspects of sex (I really wanted to start that book first).
Me: “You already know that the seed comes from the man and the egg comes from the woman. The man puts his penis inside the woman’s vagina and the seed comes out of the man’s penis and goes inside the woman’s vagina, up to her womb or uterus. That is where they meet and where the baby grows.”
Daughter: “That’s disgusting.”
Me: “You won’t think so when you are older.”
Daughter: “What does the boy’s thingie look like again?”
Me: (pause) “A banana.”
Daughter: “Eeeeeew.”
(Well, she never did like bananas that much anyway.)
Me: “Well, that is what mommies and daddies do when they want to make a baby.”
Daughter: (pause) “You mean you did this twice?”
Husband (sotto voce): “Mmmm…hmmm… Last night.”
(Did I mention I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey? Apparently a father’s desire to be discreet is trumped by a man’s need to brag.)
Me (after quick dirty look at husband): “Yes, we did it twice. Now go to sleep. I love you.”
Daughter: “I love you too, Mommy.”
I know this is not the end of the conversation and we will continue to explore and discuss this topic together. At a certain point, my daughter’s need to know and my embarrassment will switch places and I will be the one asking the probing questions while she squirms.
Thankfully, once my breathing returned to normal, I felt like my foot was in the door and not my mouth. Sort of…
Lani Serota is the mother of two young girls, besotted wife, sleep aficionado (both her own and that of children), and celebrity child name enthusiast who loves a good giggle. When she is not working at one of her three jobs, taking advantage of everything New York City has to offer, or procrastinating, she loves to write.
