When I turned 16 my mother re-enacted the day I was born. Talking me through the entire episode from first contraction to delivery, she gave me an elaborate picture of how freaky and speedy delivering a child can be. Odd to me as I got older, she would re-enact my birth story every year on my birthday until I left home...or until she told my husband the entire thing after I was married.
It wasn't until I had children of my own that I realized just how important that birth story is to a parent. The day you bring another person into the world is an amazing one. For me, both times were scary and full of uncertainty. The experiences didn't go exactly as I planned, but they were miraculous nonetheless. And when we finally had our babes in arms, we were captivated by new life and completely bewildered by the fact that we had created them.
I've been musing about birth stories because my oldest daughter turned nine last week. It's been somewhat awkward for me. Nine is the age where I remember my body changing, my relationships becoming more complicated. I'd just found out I was moving from Hawaii to the Mainland. There was a lot of transition and change in my physical environment, my family life and my body. Though it looks like Emma's life will remain relatively the same during this year, much for her will change and I'm reticent about how to handle it myself, let alone guide her along.
One issue for certain is how to talk about sex. A good friend recommended the
book, "It's So Amazing!: A Book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families" by Robie H. Harris. I borrowed it from the library and sat with Emma to read it. She wanted to read it silently to herself while I read my own book, which frankly, was preferable to me. She would stop from time to time and go to a second book, then return to it again. At one point she even turned to me and asked, "Has Dad ever had what you would call..." (here she turned back to the book for reference), then said to me, "...a 'wet dream'?" Oh. My. God.
When we were expecting Phoebe we had a sort of mini "birds and bees" discussion with Emma. She has always been very pragmatic, very literal. When she asked how babies were made we kept it strictly to eggs and sperm: Women make an egg and men make sperm. They put their sperm together with the egg and that's how a baby grows. At age six, this was sufficient for her. As she read, "It's So Amazing!" at age eight, the only question she asked was if her Dad had ever had a wet dream. I told her he probably did have wet dreams, but that it was more common for young men to have them as their bodies grew. If she wanted to know for sure, she had to double check with Dad. And then I warned Doug immediately that he may have to make some pubescent confessions to his eight-year-old daughter.
We kept the book about a month, with me renewing it as long as I could, asking Emma repeatedly if she wanted to talk more about the book. Nothing. So the book went back to the library and I could breathe a bit more. That is, until my mother's gift came in the mail.
For gifts, Emma usually just asks for books. My mom called and Emma even had a few titles for her. Unable to find the exact titles Emma requested, my mother, (the birth story re-enacter from earlier in this post), improvised. All the way to the puberty section of the bookstore.
Along with a few chapter books came
"The Care & Keeping of You: The Body Book for Girls," and
"The Girl's Body Book: Everything You Need to Know for Growing Up You." My mom had also sent stickers, a 'Girls' Feelings' journal and an electronic Rubik's Cube game.
If "It's So Amazing!" made me uneasy, these books took me straight to freaked out. Like my library book, there were illustrations accompanying the featured copy. There were matter-of-fact guidelines for the importance of hand washing, bodily cleanliness and dental care. But there were also illustrations showing a girl shaving her underarms, examining a pimple and...inserting a tampon. Red flag my uneasiness and there's a bull butting its horns at me.
As you may have guessed by now, my mother is very open. I don't really remember a time when I wasn't aware. Of sex or my body or the changes happening to me physically and emotionally. I remember being horribly embarrassed when my mother put me on the phone to tell my older brothers that I had gotten my period for the first time. But we all knew it would happen eventually and to their merit, they never let on if they were as mortified as I was that we were sharing this information.
I never thought I would be one of those parents who couldn't talk about sex with their kids. I'd like to think that from Emma's perspective, I've been perfectly frank with answers to the few questions she's had. I don't want to push too much information on her but I don't want her to get her information from the playground, either. As the weekend of her ninth birthday draws to a close, I've had to face my fears about this stage of her life--and mine. It was easy for me to see myself as a new mother. To have a baby whose hardest lessons were to learn how to eat, crawl, walk. To have a toddler who learns to wait their turn, to use their words, to use the toilet or brush their teeth. To have a child who learns to decipher letters in order to read and write, numbers in order to add and subtract. But I never saw this stage, or any thereafter, coming for me.
I no longer have a small child. I have a big kid now. She is sweet, naive, articulate, active, sulky, sensitive, shy, caring, loyal, intellectual, headstrong, individualistic. She is perfect. As she matures physically, emotionally, intellectually and yes, sexually, I want to do everything within my power to keep her that way. She deserves to be exactly who she is, without alteration from the outside world, especially from me.
I think I'm beginning to realize why my mother continued to re-enact my birth story each year on my birthday. She wanted to remember the tiny person that was born that day-and remind me that essentially, that is who I will always be. And for my dear Emma, I wish the same. Her birth was uncomplicated and steady. I didn't labor long. When she pushed forth into the world I felt surprised, but a kind of inevitable continuity despite her leaving my body. She is a steady rhythm, a faithful heart. And I wish that for her. Always.
