“Tatiana told me how babies are made.” My 10 year old daughter Emily proclaims one day as I am preparing dinner. My stomach lurches, but I try to remain casual.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, “what did she say?”

Emily scrunches up here nose in distaste, and the gesture reminds of her as a small toddler, refusing to eat the green beans on her plate. Her face relaxes again and the moment is gone. I marvel at how quickly she has grown. The soft roundness of her cheeks gone, replaced by a tall, lanky young girl on the cusp of the tween years. Sometimes I can catch glimpses of her as a 16/17 year old and it fills me with both excitement and trepidation.

“She said a boy has to pee on your butt” she responds, with equal parts embarrassment and disgust.

I laugh out loud at the absurdity of her answer, I can’t help it. Then I sigh. I knew this day was coming, and knew I had to address the topic with her sooner than later. I just hadn’t realized that “sooner” meant right now.

“No,” I begin, “that’s not how babies are made.” I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel and walk over to the dining room table to sit. I pat on the chair next to me, “why don’t you sit and I’ll tell you the real way babies are made.”

Emily bounces over to me, obvious relief on her face, and sits down. I clear my throat, wondering how to begin. I should have prepared for this, I admonish myself.

My parents never gave me the ‘birds and the bees’ talk as a child. I had to find out from my neighbor Kenny. Kenny was a few years older than me, our moms were best friends so he was ALWAYS over. He was the bane of my existence, always teasing and pestering me. To find out about sex at the innocent age of 8 via a demonstration by him using my stuffed animals to mimic thrusting motions was traumatizing, to say the least. I had thrown my stuffed bunny and Minnie Mouse in the back of the closet, scandalized, unable to look at them again for months without feeling mortified.

I didn’t want to make Emily feel uncomfortable, or scare her.

I look at her curious face, smile, and begin.

“You see, it starts with an egg. All women make eggs inside them, and that egg needs something called a sperm to fertilize it in order for a baby to grow.” I had quickly decided to remain as scientific as I could. Emily’s eyes widen. “We lay eggs like a chicken?”

Great start, I think to myself sarcastically. “Well, no. Not quite like a chicken.” I reassure her. I quickly explain how ovaries release eggs, and about periods and ovulation.

“So does the sperm come from a dad?” Emily continues. She seems to be taking this rather well, and I internally pat myself on the back.

“Yes” I reply, and steel myself for the next part.

“How does it get to the egg?” She asks the million dollar question.

I begin to explain, trying to keep the conversation as honest and factual but age appropriate as I can, and I watch the wrinkle in her nose reappear as she starts scrunching up her face in disgust again.

“So…what do you think?” I conclude.

“That’s disgusting!” Emily exclaims loudly as I laugh again.

“Do you have any questions?” I tentatively ask, and Emily considers for a moment.

“Can I have a snack?” she asks brightly, and I sigh a breath of relief.

“Sure.” I answer, grateful for the change in topic and turn to the pantry to grab the Goldfish crackers.