When my daughter, Lily, was in 1st grade, her marvelous teacher brought an incubator and a dozen freshly laid chicken eggs to class so that her students could watch them hatch.
The kids were thrilled when the chicks began pipping and popping out, and then turning fluffy under the light of the incubator. But my tender-hearted daughter began to cry when she realized that not all the eggs had hatched. She thought that the babies had died.
Her teacher quickly explained that none of the chicks had died, but a few of the eggs had not been fertilized—so a baby chick never grew inside.
You guessed it.
As soon as Lily got home, she began asking me what “fertilized” meant. So I began the careful choreography of age appropriate honesty about the chicks and the bees.
I explained that all creatures had both a mommy and a daddy who worked together to create a baby. Mommies usually carried the baby and daddies provided the fertilizer.
Never satisfied with one answer, Lily then asked,
“So did Daddy have to fertilize you to get me?”
“He sure did.”
“So how did he do that?”
“Well, honey, mommies and daddies snuggle together, and the daddy can send the fertilizer into the mommy through his penis.”
Lily frowned. “Gross!”
“Not at all, honey. It’s part of being a family. You know how sometimes we all end up in the bed together and we wake up with Charlie’s feet in Daddy’s face, and Mommy has morning breath, and everyone has crazy hair? But it’s kinda wonderful? It’s like that.”
Silence. Wheels turning. Next question.
“So did you have to do it again to get Charlie?”
“Yes, honey, yes we did.”
More silence as Lily considered how she might leverage this new information to satisfy her desire to have a sister. She raised her eyebrows hopefully and said,
“Are you gonna do it again?”
Thanks, Kari. It's lovely to hear from readers like you.
Annie, Your stories are so real! And relatable. Keep writing and we’ll keep reading! kari Breen