Last week, my kids were experiencing travel hungover. I mean, full-on screaming and carrying on about how their sibling took something they were THINKING about using or the other walked in a way that they didn’t like. We’d all gotten up at 4 a.m. so we could catch a flight and our crazy was really showing through at 7 p.m.
Rory had already had a two-hour nap around noon that I had to wake him up from, for fear of not being able to sleep at night. Big mistake. I woke a sleeping bear and he was on a terror since then. He was needy, sensitive, and defensive. Sloane, missing a chunk of sleep, was not much better.
I heard screaming in the bedroom and then Sloane emerged. Her head was hung low as she shuffled over to me.
“I wish Rory was a girl,” she said tearfully while rubbing one eye. Rory had bit her toe while they were in an argument.
“Why do you want Rory to be a girl?,” I asked her as I laughed unabashedly. “Because then he won’t be so mean!”, she retorted.
I explained to Sloane how everyone was just tired and that people can be mean, no matter what gender. I punished Rory, kissed the offending toe and then went back to my business of laying on the couch. I knew the kids needed to be in bed, but was trying hard to muster the energy. Ten minutes later, a teary-eyed Sloane came out from her bedroom again.
This time, “I wish I was a boy,” she barely choked out.
I was armed and ready to reiterate this gender business but I was too intrigued. I wanted to know why.
“Why?”, I asked her knowing that she can be strong enough to whip anyone, even if she is a girl.
“Because when I grow up and get married and I have babies, I don’t want it to hurt!”, she forced out in anguish.
Shawn and I tried hard not to laugh and we were failing miserably.
“Oh baby, you don’t need to worry about that,” I told her.
Sophie had come out of her room, wanting to see what was happening.
“I WANT to be a BOY! They don’t have babies,” a hysterical Sloane cries, hitting a new whole new level of crazy.
Shawn and I were unable to control ourselves. We were howling with laughter.
When I could finally compose myself, I said, “You are right. Boys don’t have babies. But you are a strong girl who can do anything. Boys are kind of useless, Sloane. You get to be the one that is strong and brings babies into the world. I promise when you grow up and decide to have babies, that you won’t even notice the hurt.”
Sophie chimed in, “Sloane, don’t worry. You just poop out babies.”
I had forgotten our 8-year-old was in the room. Did she just say, “poop out babies?” I turned my head real slow, trying to gauge if she was just being silly. Nope. Where in the heck did she get that? We haven’t had ANY talks about how babies come out of a woman’s body.
She knew without my saying anything that I was silently questioning her. She thought she has said the wrong thing, so she changed her tune.
“Oh, well, you just pee the babies out. It’s FINE,” Sophie said.
Shawn and I can not breathe. We are punch drunk and living on little sleep and don’t even know where to go from here. Like an idiot, I try to correct her because I don’t want her going to school and telling people that babies are pooped or peed out.
“That is not how it happens, Soph.”
Sophie is a little embarrassed that she doesn’t know the answer to this question, she demands, “Well, then how does it happen?? Mom???”
And just like that, in record time, I was in the weeds. I looked to Shawn for help, who had stopped laughing and had begun to inspect a spot on the ceiling. He did not come to the rescue.
“Um, well, sometimes the doctor takes the baby out from the belly.” I resorted to C-sections because it was safe.
Apparently my admission is enough for them because no one questions how other babies are born.
“BUT that means they are still going to CUT me open!”, wailed Sloane, as she never misses a beat.
“Sloane, calm down. They give you medicine. The doctor helps it not hurt,” I reason.
Sophie perused this for a second, a quizzical look on her face. “Soooo, the doctor gives medicine? Like in a needle?”
“OH MY GOSH! I hate needles. I don’t want to get a shot! I am NEVER, EVER going to have babies!”, Sloane wails.
I was losing ground. I am pretty sure I want grandkids so I tried a different approach.
“Sloane, Sloane, Sloane, the medicine goes through your hand with a tube. It doesn’t hurt.”
Sophie git the idea and says, “ Yeah, but how do they get the tube in there? A needle, right Mom? It’s called an IV and it’s a needle, Sloane.”
And then I turned around and told Sophie that I am ready to put her up for adoption just by giving her an evil look a well-placed hand on the back of her neck that Mothers are so good at. She quickly shut up.
“The tube goes in my arm with a NEEDLE?” Sloane asked.
I don’t know what to say, so I turned to Shawn, hoping that he had something. Nope. We were all silent, listening to the din of Sloane’s sobs, resolute in the fact we will not get to see her be a Mother.
And then suddenly, Sloane perked up.
“Mom remember when I went to the dentist and had to have my tooth fixed? Remember when he put that mask on my face and let me breathe in the happy medicine? And I was happy and it didn’t hurt, Mom? Can you make sure that the doctor will give me that mask? Can you, Mom? Please, Mom?!”
Holy crap. This kid remembers almost a year ago when she had a small filling fixed and got some laughing gas at the dentist.
And just to exit the conversation and get these delirious kids to bed, I told Sloane that I will, indeed, make sure that Sloane’s doctor gives her laughing gas when she goes to labor and delivery to bring a new baby into the world.
But this kid has my number. She can read me like a book. She knows when I am placating her so I can exit arduous conversations and go to bed. She climbs into my lap, and grabs my ears and brings her face to mine. We are nose to nose, her brown eyes boring into mine and she says, “Mom, make sure you write a note to tell him about the laughing gas, okay, Mom? OKAY, MOM? Don’t forget!”
I looked back at her, willing myself to remember every ounce of this blessed conversation. Every ounce of this memory. And I told her the truth when I said: “Yes, Sloane.”
I am writing the note right now and I can not wait to share it with her when she decides to have a child.
I can only hope that she has one as lovely as herself.