That Time Again

“We need to talk.”

It was that heart-racing age where I had to confront my eleven-year-old daughter about her genitals and tell her I’m not raising any grandkids. I knew she knew what was about to happen by the wide-eyed silence I was met with. My face was already flushed with shame. I looked at her comforter then looked back at her. She was staring at us in her mirror across the room.

“I know you don’t-- well, you haven’t started to, ya know, bleed.” I was looking at her carpet and lamenting the color. We should’ve picked baby blue over this hideous pink that aged terribly. Her scratching her knee brought me back to the conversation at hand.

“You will bleed someday,” I assured her. “But it’s fine. It’s supposed to happen.”

It was like I could hear her heartbeat in the ensuing awkward pause, but I couldn’t just leave on that note.

“Do you understand what I mean?”

She nodded. Liar. I couldn’t call her out on it though. Knowing her, she’d say a word like vagina and I’d know her innocence was lost forever and have to walk around in shame in my own house. It wasn’t happening.

“Do you have any questions so far?”

She was picking her nails, not looking at me. “Why will I bleed?”

I wondered why I always insist on saving the trees in the summer and refuse to turn on the A/C. It was really hot. I looked at my daughter to keep Nelly from singing the rest of the chorus for “Hot in Here”. I cleared my throat and looked back at my toes.

“Well, it means you’re a woman.”

“Why?”

Jesus, this kid and her inquiries. This was the same child who would question me relentlessly when she first learned to talk. I had gotten lucky that my second kid annoyed her into submission, but that inquisitiveness had kicked back in at the worst time imaginable.

“Well, because, God.” God. My moral trump card has come out at the best time.

“Oh.”

God helped me get my footing to get this spiraling conversation to a plateau where I could leave her to get the rest of her knowledge from a high school gym teacher that wears shorts that are three sizes too small. “Now because you’re a woman, you have to be careful about boys.” I paused. We were progressing as a people. Everyone was after that one thing now. “And some girls. They only want one thing.”

“What is it?” We made eye contact for the first time in this conversation.

Her big, innocent brown eyes were glazed in doubt and fear, and I was about to drop the rock of pain on her as my mother did me. For a split second, I started not to. I started to pull her into my arms, stroke her hair like I did when she had a nightmare, and tell her that this was all a prank, and nothing was bad. But, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t assuage her fears any more than I could answer her question without thinking of some pimple-faced jock or quiet cheerleader all over my baby. I sat there in stunned silence while she stared at me.

“Well... uh... you know...” Her eyes assured me that she didn’t know, so I couldn’t drop that rock of puzzling vagueness on her. I took a deep breath, focused on the troll doll on the shelf behind her, and spouted, “Your hormones are like a magnet. It’s like people begin to get easier to stare at and think about. You just want to... hug... them and be around them and talk to them all the time.”

“Like you and Daddy?” She sounded so innocent, and yet my mind went back to the sweaty fourth date we spent humping in a Taco Bell that led to the conception of a quickly aborted baby.

“Kinda, yeah. You like being around them, and you want to make mashed potatoes together.” That sounded like a euphemism for something. My ears were hot. “And it’s fine to feel that way. And other people will feel that way about you. It’s a really confusing time.”

My daughter paused and looked at the poster of JoJo Siwa on her wall. I could see the gears turning in her mind. She was piecing together all the fucked up things she’d learned throughout the years, and quickly coming to a conclusion. Finally, she turned to me with a pensive look on her face.

“Is it like when teachers say boys hit you because they like you?”

I was stunned for a second. I had heard that crock of shit too as a kid. Eddy Gravinsky was pulling my hair because he liked me. Daniel Smith kept pinching me because they liked me. It wasn’t until my sister got a bruise from her first boyfriend in college that I realized teaching kids that stuff in school is harmful.

“No,” I said quickly, shaking away my thoughts. “If someone likes you, they will never hurt you. Ever. And if everyone ever tries that shit, you hit them back.”

She made a face. I guess I had thwarted that learned notion. I mentally patted myself on the back. I’m a good mom. After about a minute though, the awkward silence had reached a fever pitch and I began to worry. What was she thinking of? Was some prepubescent punk smacking my kid around and teaching her that it’s love? Was she going to confide in me that one of her friends gets hit a lot? Was she going to call bullshit and argue with me about what this is really about? The suspense for what she would ask me was killing me. I had to get out of there.

“Well,” I said, trying not to sound too excited to escape, “do you understand now?”

My daughter smiled weakly and nodded.

“Good. I’ve got to go make us something to eat. You know you can always talk to me about these things, right?”

She nodded again. I kissed her head, said a little prayer that she stays innocent forever, and walked out of the room. I was greeted by my boyfriend, who was watching one of those countdowns of the best highlights ESPN has saved up to play during summer. He moved his leg a little so I could cozy up next to him and wrapped his arm around me as soon as I was in place.

“So did you talk to her,” he asked once it went to commercial.

“Yep.” I felt so unsure of that answer though it came out so confidently.

“What did you say?”

“Well, I told her that she’ll get a period and not to let boys hit her and that we’re always here if she needs to talk.”

It was so much when I was in her room talking to her, but now it seemed like so little. Part of me wanted to go back upstairs, kick her door down, and give her a whole Wikipedia page of information so I knew she’d be okay when she was out there with all those little sex demons, but I had no desire to go back into that warzone and see my baby growing up before my eyes. To reassure me and my boyfriend, I added, “I think it’s enough.”

My boyfriend nodded slowly. “That’s basically what I told Junior. We don’t have any grandkids yet, so I think we’re doing pretty good with this whole sex talk thing.”

He had a point, though my son wouldn’t even be on the list if we were betting on which of our kids were getting laid in the next decade. It was enough reassurance to make me smirk, though something was making me worry. I couldn’t tell him that. He always said I was too paranoid. She would be okay. We’d never let anything hurt her. I looked back at my boyfriend who smiled at me. He wasn’t worried, so I forced myself to calm down enough to reply.

“Yep. Two down, one more to go.”