Nanowrimo…You Shall Not Pass!
any way…I digress.
So, around 8 or 9, I started to get a bit curious. As the youngest of a large brood, I didn’t have much baby action. I loved them, cute, tiny, unpredictable. I never wondered where they came from. That bugs me. I don’t know why – it is such a common question. My best friend at the time, Hippo (you’ll get it in another chapter) had a gazillion babies at her house, adopted babies, babies with red hair, babies with freckles. It was a baby extravaganza! She knew where they came from, but she wouldn’t tell me.
I had to think on this. Who could tell me where they come from? How do people come from anywhere? I was quite confused. “I come from Philadelphia” sure, you took the high-speed line, but babies don’t do that. They just appear. Weird. Of course I knew that they were in a woman’s tummy. Are they growing in there? Just bizarre.
Ah-ha. My parents had seven babies, I bet they knew how they got them. So into THE STUDY again. Ugh how I love/hate THE STUDY. My father’s sanctuary. He was a very busy, very stressed man. I never remember him with anything but gray hair. I blame my older sister.
Entering THE STUDY meant you had to be quiet until commercial. (Reminds me of my marriage) It meant that if I commented on something or leaned over to tell my mom something, a harsh “Shhhh LISTEN” was thrown over me like a cloak of shame. Damn, that cloak is sticky.
So, I waited until commercial. I stood before my dad, my mom was sitting behind me. I took a deep breath and began to do the side step, rocking back and forth. “So, Dad, (rock), I was (rock) thinking (rock rock) and I wanted to know (roooock) where babies (rock rock rock) come from.” The room froze. My mother lowered the newspaper and looked at me over her glasses. Her face was blushing fiercely. My father looked at me over his glasses. I couldn’t believe it. Babies make my father speechless. Boy, where they come from must be really complicated and slightly embarrassing.
He cleared his throat, uncrossed his legs and nudged his foot into my crotch and said, “They come from there”
Oh My fucking God. Babies get peed out. That’s why it’s called a wee wee!
I could have one tonight! Yay!
But wait. My dad just put his foot in my crotch. Suddenly I was mortified. I turned around and ran upstairs. I heard my mother sigh and tsk.
I laid on my bed bewildered. That answer didn’t seem to give me what I was looking for.
My mother came in my room and sat on the bed next to me. She was much gentler that I had ever remembered.
“Honey, sometimes your father does things he shouldn’t. Are you okay? Do you have any questions?”
“Yes I’m fine” Questions…well, that seems a bit dangerous. I know who to go to for a kick in the crotch, now. “No, no questions.” I get it. The origins of babies is not something to be discussed. My mom has stated proudly over the years that she taught her daughters about babies and their bodies. Jeez, I hope that thought process isn’t hereditary.
I finally got the logistics of baby creating in health class, 5 years later. I was excited, but really, sometimes riding the high-speed line can be just as much fun.