Let’s be honest, for most of us in this world it’s a difficult subject to discuss, especially when you’re approached by a curious five-year-old looking for more solid information beyond a baby tucked snuggly in a nap sack hanging from a stork’s long beak.  Plenty of people have come up with their own code name for it, trying to avoid the awkwardness of blurting out that one word that makes the modest blush and causes heads to turn if it’s said too loud in a crowded restaurant.

That’s right…you know what I’m talking about…code word, “The Birds and the Bees”, a euphemism that’s been used for hundreds of years possibly dating back to the Civil War. If you still don’t know what I’m writing about then carry on. You’ll get it.

There are two types of children in this world. The first type never really think about where babies come from but just happily float along in life not giving a second thought about how tiny humans are created or where they come from.  The second type… they’re born asking about the cozy cave where they sat for nine months before they were so rudely interrupted.  From the time they can talk, conversations drift in and out of this topic for years until their questions are answered satisfactorily.  Then, just when you think you’re done explaining the miraculous phenomenon of the beginning of life, well, those explanations lead to other questions. Little minds are never satisfied, just ask anyone who has a four-year-old.

For my second son it was always about sharks, “Mom, where do baby sharks come from? How does the baby shark get into the mom’s tummy? Do baby sharks have a dad? Does the daddy shark eat the baby shark because he’s hungry? Can daddy sharks have babies just like a daddy seahorse?”. In real life he says this in one sentence, but I added the punctuation for your reading enjoyment (and clarity).

I have one of each of these types of children who sat at our dinner table doing their school work one very windy day at the beginning of March.  I sat across from them quietly grading papers while thinking about dinner plans. The boys were quickly finishing up their last subject and I was sure that they would both beg to go outside into the crazy Texas Panhandle hurricane blowing in the backyard.

I heard one book slam shut, a sure sign that the work for the day was done. I looked up just as the younger one blurted out, “Momma, how are babies made?”

Yup. I’ve heard this one before…at least a hundred times…from the same child. How did this child go from doing simple addition to asking this question? Regular math is 1+1=2, but family math is 1+1= an infinite amount of people that trickles down through the generations (Just ask Adam and Eve about that second math equation and how it worked out for them).  How was he already asking about the family math equation and HOW it happens?

Somehow my husband was NEVER around when one of our boys inquired about this age-old question that I’ve always been a little bashful to discuss with anyone other than him. I always imagined that Dad would have The Talk with our sons and I would have The Discussion with our daughters. I was sure I lucked out when we had three sons…or so I thought.

I sat across the table from him, staring into his beautifully pensive green eyes. This child has my same eye color and my same inquisitiveness, which, at this moment the later caught me off-guard. For a quick second, I wondered if my eyes looked as innocent and curious as a child when dishing out the kazillion questions I would ask my parents.

I would answer almost any question for those sparkling eyes gazing back at me, just, please, not this one!

I looked around at the quiet dining room. The last twenty times I evaded the question by bringing up other subjects. Several times I answered with a typical, “God put them there” response, which was the perfect answer when he asked how did Jesus get into Mary’s tummy, the Christmas-version of this time and again question. My analytical son knew there was more and he wasn’t letting me off the hook.  It was gonna happen and daddy was conveniently never there when the questions were cast.

I finally decided that no time was better than the present. The room was quiet without interruptions and it seemed better to stay inside and discuss the creation of life rather than blow away in the wind outside. I took a quick look out the large window over the kitchen sink that looked out North toward the edge of town. I could see an ominous wall of dirt, hundreds of feet tall, coming from miles away. Our area had been in a devastating drought for years and a mini-dust bowl had been recreated in the Texas Panhandle that year. It would be roughly ten minutes and the billowing dust would engulf our town for the third time that week.

Anatomy and babies or dirt in the face and teeth? The blowing gales made the decision easy.

I took a deep breath knowing that my sentences would be fast and combined into one long drawn out explanation.  Maybe it wouldn’t be that awkward if I just spit it out, literally. I opened my mouth to begin the expulsion of words when my oldest matter-of-factly interrupted me.

“Moms eat dirt”, he said, not looking up from his paper that he was finishing.

I paused, still holding the enormous breath that I had inhaled, my mouth still open.

“Moms eat dirt?”, the little one’s attention turned from me to his older brother.

I shut my mouth and exhaled. Where was this going?

“Yeah! You know that the Bible says that God made Adam from dirt and Eve was made from Adam’s rib. We’re all dirt.”, the older one still didn’t look up as he finished another math problem.

“We’re all dirt?”, astonishment flashed from those innocent green eyes.

Immediately, my oldest son looked up at his brother and with the most surety I’ve ever seen in an eight year olds eyes he said, “A Momma eats dirt when she wants a baby. That’s how a baby gets into her tummy. There has to be a daddy, too. I guess he eats dirt with her.”

I looked out the window at the dust storm looming a few miles past the edge of the city.  If his speculation was right the Texas Panhandle was about to have a major baby boom in nine months. My eyes turned back to my two boys. The younger one was putting his books away. He was happy with that answer as he galavanted toward the back door. My oldest smiled at me then put his books away and followed his brother.

I followed them and watched out the window. They romped and rolled in the grass as the wind blew their hair and clothes every which way. They had five minutes until I would call them in before the dust began to rain down, but as I stood watching them there were two thoughts that entered my mind. First, it was ok to let the innocence and naivety last a little longer. Let them play and laugh in the wind without a care in the world. The questions will return tomorrow, I’m sure of it. The time was coming, more quickly that I want, that we will have to sit our boys down for many talks about an array of things in life. The weight of understanding responsibility and graduating into adulthood would rain down like the cloud of dirt that was creeping into our backyard. Today, mommas could eat dirt for all my boys cared.

Second, the classic treat of dirt pudding would be on the table that night. Maybe I could even stick a couple of fake flowers in the dish for full effect. The delectable dessert would be sure to start some interesting conversations…and my husband would finally be present to answer any questions anyone might have!