When my boys were young, I agonized about how to explain the 'facts of life,' and my ex-husband told me at the time that he would "take care of it." I was relieved, in a cowardly and non-me-like way. When the time came, however, my ex-husband was nowhere near close enough to save me from this gaping, giant, black hole that swallowed my integrity in silence.
I was driving to pick up my middle son from his tutor with my oldest and youngest already in the car. It was a McDonald's night, oh, how I remember it well. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times... "Mom, how did you and Dad have me?" This question, seemingly our of no-where, was asked by none other than my precocious 8 year old.
"Um, do you mean how you did you get out of my tummy?" I asked him with a boat-load of hope in my voice. His youngest brother was three, and he probably vaguely remembered me pregnant... Yeah, that had to be it.
"No, how did you and Dad put me into your tummy?" Ok, evidently that wasn't 'it.' What do I do, what do I say? kept repeating itself in my head. Say something, stupid! My subconscious sometimes doesn't know when to shut up. Or do something.
I froze. "Um... Well.... Um..." and I had about 30 seconds to figure out where I wanted this to go. I was eight when I learned about the birds and bees. I guess it's only natural that he would ask. What are the important parts? "Well, first we got married..." Shit, I didn't mean to start with a lie! Fuck!Too late now, just go with it, you moron! I think to myself. Stupid subconscious!
"Then what?" he asked.
Another minute went by while I tried to make other words come out. I sounded like I'd recently been hit in the head with a hammer. Or with an epiphany. In a bad way. A very bad way. And I suddenly realized something: I couldn't do it. My brain would not allow my mouth to work.
"Then what, Mom?" I am so screwed!
I chickened out, I caved, I cracked under pressure. Whatever you want to call it, I just couldn't do it. This was my oldest, my first baby. He was everything that was right in my life, innocent and sweet. I just... couldn't. "You need to talk to your dad, honey. He's a boy, and you're a boy... Sometimes it's just best if you ask your dad this question, okay?"
"Okay." and he sounded fine with it. But later, I spoke with my (soon-to-be ex) husband to prepare him, and he never asked his dad. A stupid fucking missed opportunity! That was my first ulcer. (From my firstborn, so I guess it's fitting.) I had cravenly dodged the procreation question, and lied to my son to boot. I guess I could start World War Three as an encore, but first I had to get my son to open up to me again.
A year or so later, he learned about 'it' in health class, and we had the condom talk, etc. I kinda thought maybe he forgot about that earlier disaster of a "cabbage patch-slash-stork-slash-marriage" talk. Nope, I was not to be that lucky.
When my oldest son was twelve I had my fourth child, a girl, with my boyfriend of three years. And no, we have never married. There has never been a need - we know we'll be together until 'death do us part,' but one shit-storm a life is all I allow myself. My daughter was (and is) my late-in-life joy, the daughter I had always wanted (but never gotten) and after three previous "tries" with my ex, I had actually given up hope that I could bear a "girl-child" from my loins. (And yes, this is probably why she's spoiled rotten. Deal with it. Or don't. Whatever.)
When she was about a year old, the boys and I were sitting at the kitchen table waiting on their father to pick them up. My youngest son (8 at the time) asked, "When is Dad going to get to take the baby to his house?"
"What?!" I gasped, after choking on my coffee and getting slapped on the back to recover. "Um, how about 'never.' Why would she go to your dad's house?" I asked him, frantically trying to figure out what might have transpired to put that idea in his head. That's it! No one from here on out is allowed to turn eight! It's a fucked up year, and nine is better anyway!
He became defensive. On his dad's behalf! "Well, he's her dad too! Doesn't he get to see her?" he said, in a tone only the righteous indignant can pull off. Too bad he was way off base!
Wait, WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?! How in the hell did they get that fucking idea? I wondered if their dad was making waves again. I'm ashamed to say that while I didn't actually verbalize the horrible things that were running through my mind, the look on my face probably scarred them for life. "No, he's not her dad. The baby is your half-sister, which means in this case you guys and her have the same mom, but different dads."
"But who's her dad, then?" my littlest son asked, evidently very, very confounded by this turn of events. Seriously?
I looked at my honey, who was covering his face with the baby. I suspected that he was laughing, because his shoulders were shaking and he was making wheezing sounds... I'm glad he found this funny, because I sure-as-shit didn't! I pointed right at my honey, like I was identifying the defendant in a TV crime drama. "There's Diana's father!" That's him, your honor! He knocked me up! Off with his head! Too 'Queen of Hearts?' Yeah, you're probably right.
"But how can he be her dad when you guys aren't married?" my youngest son asked. And he actually sounded confused. I suspected that their dad had his hand in this somewhere, all right. Prick!
"Yeah, Mom, you said you had to be married to have kids," my oldest said, while trying to hide a smile. Et tu, Brute? He's twelve, and way past his first procreation talk. You little shit-stirrer, you! I brought you into this world, child, maybe I should be the one to take you out .... It would serve him right if I go into the 'discussion' right now!
"Um... Well... Um," I stuttered. And suddenly, I've flashed back to the car, when my oldest first cornered my with this innocent-sounded question, but now I'm searching for the right words that would be appropriate for an eight-year-old, an eleven-year-old, and a twelve-year old. Putting off an answer only compounded the problem! Maybe I can redeem myself and not blurt out a lie, or some outrageous... "Well, you only have to get married once, then you can have babies with anyone." Yes, that actually came out of my mouth. Well, there goes that whole redeeming thing down the crapper!
"Oh, okay," my trusting little child told me. "Dad's here, we gotta go. Love you Mom!" and they kissed me and ran out the door. Yeah, I'm sure this one will bite me in the ass, too, but for now, I consider it another bullet dodged.
And then my honey looked at me, smirked, and asked, "Anything I should know, darling?"
"Yeah, you're a collosal ass for laughing, dear," I told him.
"Is that the story you'll tell our daughter?" he asked.
Well, shit! I thought to myself, I'm going to bave to do this again in a few years with my daughter! That was my second ulcer...
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