Where Babies Come From
“Dad? I have a question.”
Our eyes meet over the top of Henry’s head, where he sits propped up by pillows between us on the bed. You bite your lip to hide your smile. My plan to bore my son to sleep has been a failure, it seems, since you are the only one who appears to be even slightly drowsy. As always, Henry’s thirst for knowledge - and wish to delay bedtime for as long as possible - has overruled all else.
I fight the urge to vent my frustration with a sigh. For all that his constant need to bombard me with questions can be rather tiresome, any negative feeling is vastly overruled by the gratitude I feel that we are all here together. “Yes, Henry?”
On this occasion, his question is actually related to the topic at hand. “Where’s Legolas? They’re in Mirkwood, right? So Legolas should be there. Where was the part where he chases after them and jumps on all the barrels? That was so awesome!”
This time, I allow myself a small sigh of displeasure. “Henry, what have I told you?”
“The book and the movies are very different,” he parrots, obediently.
“And?” I prompt, not quite as gently as I could, because he has somehow managed to omit the main point.
Henry scrunches up his face, trying to remember. “The book is better?” he offers, with more reluctance than I would like.
“The book is much better,” I affirm, with a satisfied nod. “And certainly didn’t necessitate three feature-length movies.”
“I just think Legolas is really cool …” he mutters under his breath, always keen to have the last word. Today I will allow it. He is young, and doesn’t know any better.
From the other side of the bed, I hear a small cough. You are undoubtedly concealing a laugh, because you do not understand how important this is. I honestly cannot comprehend how you, whose entire career is focused around literature, have somehow managed to never read a single word of Tolkien up until this point. But we are remedying this sad state of affairs week by week, as I introduce you and Henry - and Little b as well, if they are listening - to the prequel of one of my favorite series of books.
I set the book down on the bookshelf beside the bed, and ruffle Henry’s hair. “Time to go to sleep, honey.”
Now, another popular stalling tactic comes into play. Henry clutches at his throat like he is about to go into anaphylactic shock. “I’m so thirsty,” he croaks. “May I have a glass of water, please?”
“I’ll get it,” you offer, before I can query if he is actually as parched as he states. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand up, almost immediately grabbing onto the top of the wooden headboard, and squeezing your eyes shut as you do so.
I spring to my feet immediately. “Are you all right, my love?”
After a few seconds, you open your eyes, and offer a bright smile that is probably more for Henry’s benefit than mine, since he is also staring at you in concern. “I’m fine. I just stood up a little too quickly, that’s all.”
As soon as you leave the room, Henry turns to me, his brow furrowed with worry. “Is Britt okay, Dad?”
“Of course,” I assure him, injecting a level of cheer and confidence into my voice that I do not particularly feel. You probably are fine, but … what if you are not? I very much feel that I should have offered to go in your stead, but given that you have refused my help multiple times this week on the grounds that I am fussing over you too much, I thought that perhaps it was best not to push the issue again. Especially not in front of Henry, who has seen quite enough of the adults in his life bickering with each other ...
Henry doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”
“Britt is fine, honey. Being pregnant is extremely hard work, so she has been experiencing a few unpleasant side-effects. But she is absolutely fine, I promise.”
Henry nods thoughtfully, lapsing into silence for a rare few seconds to fidget with his dinosaur-bedecked duvet cover. Then, as usual, there is something else. “I actually had a question about that,” he says ominously.
Over the course of the day, he has already queried what size Little b is at the present time, when we will know if they are a boy or a girl, and if I think they will like dinosaurs as much as he does. I do not know what else there is to ask. “Go on …”
“Well, I bought a book about babies on Amazon, and -”
I can’t help but interrupt him, to question him on this point. “Do you mean your mother bought you a book?” That would be a pleasant development indeed, though it seems unlikely, since she has barely said two words to me since our dinner at Sandra’s house.
Henry stares at me like I am being very dense. “Mom left one-touch ordering on. I can buy whatever I want. But anyway, I bought a book about babies. It’s called “Where Babies Come From” and it cost ten dollars, and I’ve read it three times, but Dad … the title is a lie! The book doesn’t actually tell you where babies come from-”
Mercifully, this alarming thread of conversation is interrupted by you returning with Henry’s water. You pass the glass to him, and he takes the tiniest sip imaginable before handing it back to you to place it on the nightstand for him. “Thanks, Britt,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re having unpleasant side-effects because of the pregnancy.”
You give me a slightly strange look, but smile fondly at Henry. “That’s very sweet of you.”
It is time, I think, for us to make a quick exit, while he is distracted ...
“Well, goodnight,” I say, beginning to stand up.
Unfortunately, as is often the case, luck is not on my side. Henry grabs my arm, preventing me from making my escape.
“I’m not done asking my question, Dad. I think there might be pages missing from the book. On page five, it says that the man and the woman have a very special cuddle. And then on the next page, it says that the sperm fertilizes the egg. But that doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the egg inside the woman? How does the sperm get in there?”
Oh lord ...
On the one hand, I am greatly impressed by my son’s curiosity and attention to detail. On the other hand, I want to crawl under the bed and hide.
Looking around the room for inspiration or assistance, my gaze falls on you. But it seems there will be no help to be found there. You are fighting so hard not to laugh that there are tears in your eyes. “Excuse me,” you splutter. “I’m going to go get a glass of water for myself. I’m having some side-effects, you know.”
I glare at your retreating back. How dare you abandon me so callously in my time of need? From the doorway, you turn and glance over your shoulder, giving me a small smile, before disappearing from sight. I will remember this, I think.
“Did you ask your mother?” I suggest, after a long pause in which Henry stares at me without blinking, waiting for me to impart my wisdom on this topic. If only I had some ... but my mind has gone alarmingly blank!
He nods vigorously. “Yeah. She said she couldn’t remember because “it happened so fast”. Then she said that you’re the one with the sperm, so I should ask you.”
Well, that is simply marvelous. It seems I have been thrown under the bus by my current wife, and my treacherous ex. Of course, I knew this question would come eventually, since Henry has been so interested in the topic. But I was not anticipating it for quite some time, and certainly not out of the blue like this. What am I supposed to tell him? What on earth is appropriate knowledge for an eight year-old? I try to mine my own childhood learning for inspiration, but save for Biology lessons in high school in which everyone sniggered at the diagrams in the textbook, I do not remember much of anything being said about reproduction during my time in the education system. Certainly not in elementary school.
“Dad?”
This is ridiculous. I am being ridiculous. I will simply do what I have always done, and tell him the facts as best I can.
“There are no pages missing from your book, Henry” I assure him. “It is quite correct that the man and woman have ‘a special cuddle.’” The wording of that euphemistic phrase is so vile that I almost gag on the words. “And at the end of that cuddle, the man ... puts his sperm inside the woman.”
My little scholar is unsatisfied by my very slight elaboration on what this cursed book has taught him. “Yes, but how? I don’t understand …”
God have mercy on me ...
“Well, he puts a part of himself inside the woman for the duration of the, ah, ‘cuddle’.”
As Henry opens his mouth once more to ask for clarification, I think I actually feel a part of my soul leave my body. “What part? One time I saw a kissing scene in a movie Mom told me not to watch, and the boy put his tongue in the girl’s mouth. Is that what you mean?”
Making a mental note to question Nicole on how closely she is supervising our son, I take a deep breath and answer his question, trying to ignore how ridiculously warm my face feels. “Not quite. Actually, the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina.”
It was much less embarrassing to say it out loud than I had imagined it would be. I feel a sense of relief - then amusement - wash over me as I take in Henry’s reaction to my words. His eyes have gone as wide as saucers, and both of his hands are now covering his mouth. “Oh my god!” he mumbles, through his fingers. “That’s so gross!”
“I can assure you it isn’t gross at all,” I tell him. That I am quite confident about, at least.
Henry peels his hands away from his face, not looking convinced at all, in spite of my certainty on the matter. “I am never putting my penis in a vagina,” he declares. I will undoubtedly remind him of this when he is older. “I think I’m ready to go to sleep now,” he tells me, avoiding my gaze, and burrowing right under the lightweight duvet.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I run through the rest of his familiar bedtime routine. The most important point is that I must check under the bed for monsters. As usual, I find none, though there is rather a lot of Lego which he will be required to clean up in the morning. The pillows are arranged just right for him, the covers are pulled down slightly so that he can breathe, and I kiss his forehead and stroke his hair just as I used to when he was a baby.
I bid him goodnight, and close his bedroom door gently behind me. Although he still has a tendency to wander in and join us in the night, I have a strong suspicion that he will stay put tonight. I can only hope that he will be feeling a little less awkward in the morning.
When I turn around, I find you standing right behind me, grinning from ear to ear. “I enjoyed that better than the book,” you inform me. It seems you have been standing here listening the entire time ...
“Do you think I’ve traumatized him?” I ask. It is an extreme question, but a genuine one. “What if he never has a relationship with another human being because of the dreadful way in which I handled that conversation?”
You grab my hand and squeeze it, still smiling. “You did very well,” you reassure me. “I’m sure he’s fine. If he’s still interested, perhaps you could ask him to bring the book with him next week, and we can read it together?”
I cannot think of anything worse than reading the book together, but as always, you have managed to placate me with ease. I raise your hand to my lips, and kiss the back of it in a silent thank you. “This isn’t just a ploy to get out of reading the next chapter of The Hobbit, is it?” I ask, already quite sure of the answer.
When I glance up at your face, your eyes are sparkling with mischief. “It’s getting late,” you say, the corners of your lips twitching as you evade my question entirely. “Why don’t we go to bed? I was hoping you could teach me all about those ‘special cuddles’ you seem to be such an expert on.”
I glare at you for your teasing, then snake one of my arms around your waist, pulling you towards me. My hand settles on the swell of your stomach, the exact source of your unpleasant side-effects, and all of Henry’s awkward questions. “Hmm. It seems I already have.”
But I will be more than happy to remind you. As many times as you require it.
I am an expert on the subject, after all.