The Facts

I was elbow deep in cookie dough in a cramped kitchen in a rental house in Vermont owned by Lily Munster from The Munsters. A photo of Fred Gwynne grinned down from a framed photo in full Herman Munster makeup when it came.

The Question.

"Mom, where did I come from?" my young son asked.

"Well," I said, wiping my be-floured hands on my jeans, let's talk about it." I swallowed hard. I had avoided any such topic with my elder daughter, and following the advice of her pediatrician, had purchased Our Bodies Our Selves and had left it lying on her bed when she was roughly eleven. The theory was that she would use it as a sort of reference book, and if she had any questions, we could talk. What I didn't know was that the book had changed some since my college days, and some of the information was completely over the head of an eleven-year-old, if not TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE. Like the section on bestiality. But, at the time, I was distracted and cowardly. There had been no conversations with my own mother, whose explanation of approaching menstruation had started with, "You may find a little blood." I had been trapped in the car going to the orthodontist and was frozen into silence, anxiety filling the car like carbon monoxide. A little blood where?

I was determined to be frank and open, loose, loving and relaxed this time around. We would have a conversation. So, I launched into a loving tale of sperm meeting egg.

"Mom?"

"Just hear me out, sweetie," I said. "Then, you might want to ask questions."

"But, Mom - "

"Just a sec." I described the process of gestation, and finally the moment of birth itself, pointing joyfully to the area from which his rather large head had emerged.

I beamed at him tearfully. Then I noticed the expression on his face. It was one of complete and utter horror. He backed away, arms stretched before him in a don't-come-any-closer gesture.

"I DID NOT!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you did."

"Mom! I MEANT did I come from Long Island like Katherine, or was I born here in Vermont?"

Oh.