I wrap my arm around Rose. She may hate hugs, but she holds onto my arm this time. Her eyes fight to hold back stronger sentiments as she watches Sulli and her new sister. Rose whispers to me, “That’s me and you.”
We’re about six years apart, like Sullivan and Winona. Two generations of sisters. I rest my chin on Rose’s shoulder, and she places her hand to my head lovingly.
Sullivan stares in awe at the baby and she says, “I love you, Nona.”
Ryke & Daisy Meadows welcome the birth of their baby girl
WINONA BRIAR MEADOWS
March 24th, 2024
{ 38 }
April 2024
The Hale House
Philadelphia
LILY HALE
“You don’t need those, Lil.” Lo tries to pry the diagrams from my hands, but I tug the printouts back.
“What if he asks for pictures,” I whisper, standing a foot from Moffy’s bedroom door. “I need to be prepared.”
Lo straightens out his twisted arrowhead necklace, all casual and at ease while nerves swarm me. “If he asks for pictures, then we’ll tell him we’ll buy a book. It’s better than these.” He suddenly yanks the papers, and the printouts escape my fingertips. He scans them. “Huh.” He flashes the black-outlined, fuzzy diagrams at my face, pointing at the copyright in the corner.
1982.
So I chose the first thing I saw in haste. “Sex organs were the same in the eighties…right?” What if we’re all mutating? What if penises are genetically better in the future? My mind races.
Lo waves his hand in my face. “No spacing out, love.”
Right.
I have to be one-hundred percent cognizant during this talk. I hop like a warm-up, then stop and realize I’m two-seconds from a jumping jack.
I have to give the sex talk to my eight-year-old son. Not run a marathon. Although, this kind of feels like there’s a finish line at the end.
I always knew Moffy would ask one of us about sex. Hell, I thought it’d be sooner than now. I just didn’t think he’d ask me over Lo.
But he did.
This morning before his 6:00 a.m. swim practice, he stood halfway out the door and paused for a moment. I thought he forgot his breakfast, so I brought him his half-eaten peanut butter banana toast. Ryke’s Land Cruiser sat idle on the curb, waiting for Moffy. Ryke and Daisy bring Sullivan and Maximoff to early-morning practices while we do after-school ones.
Moffy took his toast with less interest and eyed my small baby bump. I’m around thirteen-weeks pregnant. Out of seemingly nowhere, he asked, “You have to have sex to have a baby, right?”
It caught me off guard, but I nodded. He’s asked small questions throughout the years like why do girls have vaginas? and Lo did most of the answering while I nodded in agreement. I realize today that I must’ve done a decent job because he didn’t feel like I’m the closed-off, awkward parent. He felt comfortable enough to ask me.
“Do you want to know more?” I wondered and managed to keep my cool.
“Yeah.”
I told him we’d talk about it later tonight because he had swim practice. And I secretly needed time to figure out the right way to go about this.
Well, it’s later tonight.
Lo balls up all my printouts.
I stare at the closed bedroom door. When I tried practicing a speech earlier, Lo cut me off and told me to just be natural. No practice needed. Now I regret not rehearsing a speech, but I also think he has a point. I don’t want sex to seem like this big monster, and the more I make it into a huge deal, the worse it’ll be. I’ve done well so far; I can’t mess it up now.
My other giant worry: I screw this up and Moffy will never ask me questions again.
“You sure you want to do this?” Lo stares at my crinkled eyebrows, all concentration and a little bit anxiety. He’s already offered to talk to Moffy, but our son asked me. I want to be the one to tell him.
“I’m sure.” I nod to myself.
Confidence slowly but surely travels through my veins. I pull back my shoulders and remember that I can think and talk about sex without being overcome with shame. I’ve experienced healthy sex. I have it every day. I can do this.
I’m strong.
Just in my own way.
I don’t look to Lo for any more reassurance. One hand on the knob, I knock with the other. “Moffy?” I call out. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah!”
I slip into his dark room, his five-foot lamp bathing the area in a warm orange glow. Lo stays out in the hall. He told me that he’ll eavesdrop, but he understands that this is something I need to do on my own.
Spider-Man framed posters are hung above his wooden dresser, a Wolverine decal over his closet door. It’s the only art in his room. When he turned seven, he asked if he could paint his walls black, and he wanted a special bed for his birthday.
So when I shut the door and pass his dresser, the Batmobile bed is the focus of the whole space. Lo can barely spend two minutes in Moffy’s room before he walks out. It’s a surprise that he let the Batmobile bed into the house at all, but Lo loves Moffy more than he hates Batman.
In the middle of the floor, Moffy sits on a round orange rug, papers scattered in front of him. He uses a textbook as a writing surface and scribbles his homework on notebook paper.
“Why don’t you work on the desk?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I like it better down here.”
That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose. I sink to the floor.
He lets out a long groan, focused on the scattered papers.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I hate Janie’s math notes,” he complains. “They’re so hard to read.”
I crane my neck and notice all the doodles in the margins of her notes. Hearts. Stars. Stick figure cats sipping milk and prancing on rooftops. Her messy scrawl contrasts Moffy’s neat handwriting. They’ve been trading notes since they started second grade.
Jane makes better grades in math and science, but she dislikes the reading portion. According to Moffy, Jane doesn’t like the books they assign. So he helps her with the reading and writing. I thought it’d been going well.
Yesterday he told us that he can’t wait for third grade. Apparently that’s where all the big kids are. With a summer birthday, we could’ve chosen to start him early instead of late. I don’t regret our decision. He might be the oldest in his class, but he’s also excelling. It’s more than I can say for Lo and me at eight-years-old. Or really…ever.
School was not our thing.
“Maybe you should ask Jane to write more legibly,” I suggest.
He nods. “I’ll try.” He outstretches one of his legs, his textbook slipping off his lap. Moffy doesn’t notice, his green eyes planted on mine. “Did you get the books on the list yet?”
“Soon.”
He just gave me his summer reading list this morning. Instead of choosing the required three books, he wants to read every single one. Ten books. I never thought we’d have a child who likes reading outside of graphic novels and the occasional fantasy book.
Then again, I never thought we’d have a baby that grew up to love Batman.
Moffy has been full of surprises.
Just as he takes out a calculator from his backpack, I say, “Hey, Moffy. Do you remember what you asked me this morning?”
“About sex?” His voice is nonchalant. He starts typing on his calculator.
“Yeah, sex.” I don’t stammer, which boosts my confidence even more. I sit cross-legged and hold onto my knees. “Do you know what it is?”
“I think so…it’s how babies are made.”
“Right.” I go along with this. “And remember how we told you how a baby is made. When a man’s sperm goes inside a woman, it joins with an egg and the baby grows in the woman’s uterus.” I think I may actually buy him a book for visuals. A recent book. Just in case we’ve all evolved.