“Grandma, where do babies come from?”
The question was one I had been expecting, but not just yet. Mini-Brit was then only in kindergarten. Always an observant little fellow, he noticed that a classmate’s mother’s tummy was growing quite large. When he asked his schoolmate about it, she announced that her mommy was going to have a baby, and that the baby was growing in her mommy’s tummy.
We have always told our grandson (and son by adoption) that he could ask or tell us anything and we would listen. I just wish he hadn’t shouted that question from the back seat while I was driving home on Highway 101 in busy traffic. I can still see the look of terror on that poor guy’s face in the Corvette as I inadvertently swerved toward his lane.
The Grand Inquisitor of the back seat then expounded on his query: “How do babies grow in their mommies’ tummies and how do they get out?” Then came the question I was hoping would wait for another 20 years or so. “How does the baby get into the mommy’s tummy to begin with?”
Being the calm, cool, and collected grandmother/parent I am, as well as a former Girl Scout, I had long been prepared for this moment. I knew exactly what to do when it came to educating our youngster about the facts of life. I smiled sweetly and deftly played my ace, saying, “Your grandfather is very wise in these matters, so you should ask him.”
Mr. Stiff-Upper-Lip, Pip, Pip, Cheerio and All That fired off a return salvo by telling our small inquisitor that his question involved “lady parts, of which I have none and your Grandma has many, so she is the really the person who can explain it best.” Then, as punishment for throwing him under the bus—and to ensure I followed through—he brightly suggested, “Let’s ask her together!”
Cornered, I turned to my only remaining recourse, picked up the phone, and dialed my mother: “Mom, he’s asking questions. What do I do?”
“Answer him,” she firmly advised. “Since when could you not talk frankly with your husband?”
“No, Mom! The little guy is asking questions. THOSE kinds of questions,” I squealed at her. Mom’s exasperation was tangible through the phone: “Oh, for the love of Pete! Just answer his questions, but don’t lay on too much information. Tell him only what he wants to know and then wait for follow-up questions later.”
“There’s follow-up questions?” I sweated.
“There’s always follow-up questions, Sweetheart,” she soothed, “and will be for some time. Good luck!” This final comment was followed by what I swear was a Cruella DeVille laugh as she hung up the phone. There’s nothing worse than when a parent finally gets even for all the agita you dished out when you were a kid.
At this point, I turned on my husband like a cornered honey badger, and told our little boy that his question involved “men parts, of which I have none and your Grandpa has such old ones, that he is the really the more experienced person to explain things. Right, Dear?”
The Brit gave me a look that, could it have been used as a weapon, would have ended the Second World War five years sooner. He then proceeded to give an explanation that rivaled the British tactical briefing scene in his favorite film, Zulu.
“Right, then. First you have a man and a woman who love each other. They get together in bed, maneuver into position, and the man fires off a few volleys down the women’s tunnel into her belly. These become a baby that, when big enough, makes it way back out of her tunnel into the world with a bellow.”
Mini-Brit reacted as any small boy of 5 would. “That sounds exciting! Do you use real cannons, GrandDad?” Husband glared at me while replying, “No, but I’d like to now.” The Brit left me howling with laughter while he took our little chap for a walk to the park and a quiet, man-to-boy discussion.
Five years later, our older and wiser boy is now a Britween who delights in using Brit-speak with his GrandDad to describe certain masculine anatomical structures around me. Terms like naughty bits, meat and two veg, twig and berries, and Wee Willie Winkie are bandied about with gleeful abandon, in hopes of rattling me. It’s like living with Monty Python’s Flying Circus. But what really astounded me wasn’t our Britween, but my husband.
One evening, while watching a favorite comedy show on television, the term “booty call” (unfamiliar slang in England) was used. The Brit looked over at me and said, “You know, I’ve heard that term so often but never really understood what it meant and I’ve never thought to ask. What exactly is a booty call?”
I replied that I would explain later, after our youngster had gone to bed, when the Britween spoke up. “Don’t worry, Grandma, I’ve got this.” He then turned to my husband with a patient, knowing look and said, “GrandDad, you know all those talks we’ve had about sex? Well, a booty call is when someone calls you up to come over and have it with them.”
Once he stopped choking on his tea, the Brit resounded with, “Oy! Where have you heard this?” Britween was just as calm, cool, and collected as his proud Grandmother and quietly replied, “GrandDad, I’m 10 now, and I’m educated.” Based on my husband’s reaction, I wasn’t sure whether to pour him a stiff drink, call 911, or just laugh my arse off. I finally opted for the latter.
Ariel Waterman is still laughing her arse off. Send her husband a stiff drink via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in May 3-10, 2012.