By Joy Nicholas
@justyouraveragejoy

I wish I could blame my third daughter for the most embarrassing moment of my life. Sure, she was only six weeks old, tiny and adorable, and all she did that night was eat, poop, and sleep. But it all started because of her.

Well, more or less. 

We’d had the kind of night that left smiles on all our faces. I fed my two older daughters, then eight and five years old, popcorn and junk food, and we watched a movie. But it was the end of a long week, and I was the extremely exhausted mother of a newborn, raising three kids alone while my husband was on an aircraft carrier thousands of miles away. Using my last reserves of energy, I hurried them to their beds, raced through prayers, and kissed their cheeks. 

“Goodnight, you monkeys. Wow, I’m tired! Stay in bed tonight, okay? Please? I’m just so tired. I love you.”

“Maybe you’re pregnant again,” Jayna, my oldest, said in a teasing tone. She’d learned over the past year that “tired” went hand-in-hand with “pregnant”.

I laughed and shook my head. “No, honey. I am definitely not pregnant!”

“How do you know?” she asked.

Acceptable answers included, “I just know my body.” Or, “It’s too soon.” She didn’t know better. But what I actually said was the kind of tongue-in-cheek reply I’d give a friend: “Because your daddy’s not here!” 

Instantly, something told me I shouldn't have said that. My husband deployed days after I gave birth, when I was still bleeding and far too tender, hormonal, and sleep-deprived for anything that might result in a baby. I tried to look casual as I walked across the room toward the door. One foot in front of the other. Avoid eye contact. I prayed silently that the words would just pass over her head into oblivion so I could crawl into my bed and fall sound asleep until the baby woke up. 

“What?!” Oh. No. “What do you mean? Why did you say that? What does Daddy have to do with it?” Her tone sounded sharp now, and the blue eyes that looked sleepy just moments before were now wide open. How could I be so stupid?! 

“Honey … we’ve talked about this.” And it was true for the most part; I’d answered the questions. But I also learned early on from an older friend’s cautionary tale to answer only the questions being asked. One day as this friend changed clothes, her daughter walked in and asked, “Mommy, am I going to look like you when I grow up?” She thought this was a question about her body that needed to be answered thoroughly and launched into an explanation of puberty, intercourse, the works. When she finished her speech, her daughter said, in a tiny, horrified voice, “I just meant, will my hair be brown like yours?”

I’d known where babies come from since I was much younger than Jayna. My big sister commissioned me as emissary to ask Mom some particular questions she was too shy to ask herself, and so the facts of life were just that to me, like the sky being blue. To be honest, I was pretty amazed and definitely grateful I’d made it as long as I had with Jayna knowing so little.

But now, as inevitability loomed before me, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster, inching up to the top, seeing the track before me, and thinking with a sick feeling in my stomach, What did I just get myself into?

“No, I mean it,” Jayna persisted, propping herself up on her elbows. “I want to know. Why does Daddy need to be here for you to get pregnant?” And there it was, the question I’d tiptoed around for as long as I could. I took a slow, deep breath. 

“I’ve told you this, remember? The egg and the sperm meet, and it makes a baby?”

“Yeah, but… Where’s the sperm?”

I sighed and told her only that, trying not to visibly wince or squirm as I held onto a tiny thread of hope that she wouldn’t want to know any more. 

Nope.

“And … where’s the egg?” Again, I answered just that.

But then she simply had to know. “So … how does the sperm get to the egg?”

Everything I read said that you should just be matter-of-fact, straightfoward, no jokes when you talk to your kids about sex. But at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking how utterly bizarre and highly improbable it would sound to an innocent eight-year-old. Every cell in my body cringed as I said, “You’re not going to believe this, but…”

What followed was a beautiful moment as my daughter processed the information with maturity and grace, full of wonder at the miracle of life. 

I’m kidding. 

Jayna threw back the covers and ran out of the room, gagging. The lid of the toilet flipped up, and I heard the thump of her knees hitting the floor beside it. I rubbed my temples. “Jayna… ”

“Whyyyyy?!?!?!” she cried from the bathroom when the gagging finally stopped. “Why are you guys SO WEIRD?!?! Why couldn’t you just hug and kiss the way normal people do?!” 

Wait, what?! 

“No, Jayna, you don’t understand. It’s not just us!” I said, walking into the bathroom. “This is how every single human you’ve ever seen was made.” A patent lie, yes, given that I knew what modern science could do to help women conceive. But her mind was already blown. “Nana and Granddad made me and Aunt Jenny like that, Aunt Jenny and Uncle Eric made your cousins, Grandma and—” 

“STOOOOP!” She dry heaved into the toilet bowl. Finally, tearfully, she asked, “But whyyyyyy?! Why would anyone want to do that?!?!” 

Part of me wanted to scratch my head and reply, “Huh. I don’t remember.” Another part was so completely done and defensive, I wanted to shout, “BECAUSE IT’S FUN, OKAY?!” then stomp to my room and slam the door. Instead I calmly answered with something about God giving married people a beautiful way to express their love that was separate from what they did with anyone else. I threw in a metaphor about a lock and key that I thought was really good until more dry heaves followed.

It was way too late when I finally turned off the light in my daughters’ bedroom. I dragged myself to the computer and typed an email to my husband. “You owe me big time… ” it began. “The only good thing I can say,” I said at the end, “is that we got a two-fer because Skyler heard everything and laughed about all of it. So at least we don’t have to go through this again with her.”

Jayna couldn’t make eye contact with me for a few days. I saw her shoulders lurch and shudder when she came down to breakfast the next morning. 

But the truth was that something much bigger—something really, truly wonderful—happened that night. My daughter asked a question that made my very soul cringe, but by answering honestly and completely, even if we both died a little, I set a foundation for conversations that lasted beyond her childhood and teen years.

A few years later, I gave birth to my son, my husband deployed, and my dad had a heart attack, all within two weeks. One day the stress of everything caught up with me. I was on my bed, crying as I nursed my newborn, when Jayna walked in. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I didn’t want to tell her that I wasn’t sure I could cope, that life was maybe entirely too much for me right then. It’s not like she could do anything about it, and the burdens that felt heavy to me were completely unfair for a twelve-year-old to bear. But my heartache spilled out to her in a mess of tears, despite my best intentions. She sat next to me, took my hand in hers and quietly said, “I’m sorry.” And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t just raising children that I loved; I was raising adults that I would genuinely like to be around. 

No conversation since then has ended with dry heaves into a toilet (knock on wood!) though plenty have been seasoned with the salt of tears and the bitterness of anger. But more often than not, we laugh until our sides hurt, ask opinions, share truth, and I can honestly say my daughters have grown into some of my closest friends.

Now my phone rings on a Saturday morning, three minutes after my “Do Not Disturb” has switched off. Through sleep-bleared eyes, I see it’s Jayna, and I answer a groggy “Hello?” Early morning in South Korea, where I live now, is evening on the East Coast where she is. She launches into a million caffeinated thoughts about her PhD program, her roommate, her boyfriend, and what she’s having for dinner. When she finally stops for a breath, she says, “Oh sorry, you sound sleepy. Did I just wake you up?” 

And I answer honestly. “Yeah, but it’s okay. I’m glad you called. Keep talking.”

Guest essay written by Joy Nicholas. Joy is the mother of five kids aged 7 to 23 and is writing her first book, a memoir. Less awkward conversation topics she enjoys are travel, books, and food. But if you have an embarrassing story… well, those are her favorite. Connect with her on Instagram and Substack.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.