I have an inkling that it would be a lot easier to explain the birds and the bees to Ava right now than to do it when she’s 11. Or 13. I’m guessing that when she’s older, there’ll be the danger that she can get up from our talk, walk out the door, and put into practice all the things I’ve just described. I want to give her a textbook, not a manual.
The whole nasty business reared its ugly head this afternoon when Ava, Emmett, and I were at home together. I was busy changing a diaper upstairs while Ava sat munching a snack of peanuts and raisins in the TV room. When I came back downstairs, this is what I found:
That’s right. I know I should be choosing the path of enlightenment in my response to this and saying, “Won’t she be a wonderful mother some day?” Instead, a gnarly ball of gristly tendon tightened up in my stomach as I thought of her coming home from junior high to tell me she has a bun in the oven.