Somehow on the drive to school this morning, the girls got me talking about what their names would have been had they been boys. With M and C, we found out they were girls, so we quickly tabled any male names that had been under consideration. With V, we didn’t find out who she really was until she made her debut, so I was able to share the top three choices that ultimately ended up being knocked with that XY punch.
We dropped M off at the middle school and continued onto the lower school. V — who for the record, is 4 years old — asks me if “any more babies are coming out of your tummy” because she wants “a bunch of sisters”.
I heartily assured her that was definitely not happening. She goes quiet for a minute before piping up from the back seat again. This time, she wants to know how she “got out of there, anyway”. Now, you all know, this isn’t my first rodeo when it comes to the birthing story, but it was 7:49 in the morning and I hadn’t even had my coffee.
Putting on my “just the facts, ma’am” voice, I said how the doctor gave me some medicine so I wouldn’t feel anything in my belly, made an incisions, parted it, and pulled her out. After a beat, she wanted to know what an incision was.
“A cut,” I said, navigating the traffic while keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror.
“Oh. My. Gosh!” V exclaimed (four going on forty, seriously). Her eyes were wide in disbelief. She fell silent for a minute as C chattered on about what she recalled from her own birth story.
“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupts V. “How did the baby get in there in the first place?
Of course. Of course she wants to know this. And again, I’ve been down this road, so I was ready. C pipes up from the back seat, saying “I got this, Mom!”
C takes a deep breath and says, “So, what happens is, a husband and wife pray to God for a baby and when they’re ready, God gives them one.”
Sweet relief, she went with the basic version. I was a little nervous, after all, I’d had the more technical talk with M a few months ago and I’m pretty sure C was pressed up against the door like this. . .
We’re still a few minutes from dropping C off at school when V lobs another question at me.
V: But how, Mom? How does the baby get in there when they talk to God.”
Me: Well, they say ‘Dear God, my husband and I. . .”
V: (hands folded) Dear God, my husband and I. . .
Me and C: No! V, no! Stop!
The brains on that one! She wants a bunch of sisters and she was going to find a way to get them. Straight had me walk her through how babies (in the G rated version) are made. C piped in quickly, too, saving me from having to untangle this particular thread of convo.
“That prayer only works for grown-ups who are married!” C explained. “You can’t say it. It won’t work.”
God bless, that child. She gets two desserts tonight.
My eyes flitted to the rearview mirror and V was fixing me with one of these looks:
Someone come get her (and her praying hands).