“Mummy? Where do babies come from?”
Honestly, the first time Princess asked me this question, I lost the plot. I have always had an open and honest approach to parenting, and always vowed that I would answer questions with accuracy and the correct terms. Don’t get me wrong – I, of course, would keep it age-appropriate and divulge information on a very much need-to-know basis.
And so, when I was asked, “Mummy? Where do babies come from?”, I disappointed myself by losing the plot in a fit of giggles. Literally.
The conversation went like this:
Mummy? Where do babies come from?
He he he he he. *chortle* well you see there is a man and he *giggle* and the lady *tee hee hee* and then *snigger* and *blush*.
I know. I’m shaking my head at myself. Honestly, Mrs T.
Anyway, I think we got there, and I think Princess has enough information to satisfy her curiosity. Which, by the way, is very little information indeed. A man has sperm, a lady has eggs (but not the kind you have for tea)(and much smaller) and the sperm mixes with the egg to make a baby that grows in Mummy’s tummy. Boom. Baby.
BoyChild has never asked and, to be honest, I don’t know if he ever will. He has his “diddle” and his sisters have “bagymas” and that’s about as far as his fascination/curiosity goes. He’s far more interested with Minecraft.
When I was a child (precocious second child of four), I don’t remember there ever being a time when I didn’t know about The Birds and the Bees. My mum has no clue how I ever found out, and was horrified to hear 4-year-old me explaining to my 6-year-old sister how “men park their limos into ladies garages” and “men put their snakes into ladies bushes”.
I can’t even. My poor mother.
And that brings us to a pleasant Wintery evening a few nights back. The older two kids were in bed and Mr T was away on business. I was pottering around the kitchen while BabyGirl played happily in the living room.
“Mumma!” she called to me. “Mumma! Come see Anna (from Frozen) give da man a ’tiss”
I just. I can’t even.
Now, I don’t know about you, but that looks like more than a ’tiss to me. A front bottom ’tiss, perhaps.
I won’t lie. I laughed. I left the room and laughed and laughed and cried and wiped my eyes and took the photo and sent it to my husband and a friend and then my sister and I laughed and I cried and I laughed some more. Then I took a breather and started all over again.
Smooth parenting there, Mrs T. Top notch.
And then, holy heck, the commentary.
“Oh hello Anna, you are my best fwend”
“I know that but I bery, bery tired”
I am 99.8% confident that BabyGirl has not witnessed this occuring in real life. And I am certain that it was completely innocent play. And I am 600% glad that her older sister was not around when it happened. And I am 1,000,000% sure that I probably shouldn’t have laughed so hard.
But, kids. They have this awesome innocence about them – she was playing a game and, I like to think, happened upon a scenario that mimicked adult behaviour, not deliberately but rather by accident. And, I like to think, by not telling her it was naughty or yukky, she left that game thinking of it no differently than if she were sitting the dolls in the toy car, hooning around the kitchen with two My Little Ponys in the back.
I can chalk this up on my list of Parenting: Expectation v. Reality. Not how I thought I would react, but not entirely, completely terrible. I hope.
And now, I brace myself for the day BabyGirl starts explaining to her big sister about men and their limousines …