Birds, Bees and Boobies.

“Mom, what are these?”

“These?”

“I know what we call them. But what makes them so…you know…fluffy?”

This is one of those moments during which I mentally curse my husband for abandoning me. We had a deal. I would take the lead on everything elementary and he would be my backup. And then we’d switch off – I’d be his backup when body parts and hormones started to bloom.

I hope he is enjoying his perch at heaven’s bar. Because this is the latest addition to the list of bones I have to pick.  

Since he’s been gone, I’ve navigated penile pain and naming parts. I’ve learned that things “stick” and must be unstuck, and I’ve explained that what goes up eventually must come down. I’ve argued the merits of target shooting and I’ve described—under duress and in detail—whether he looks like Dad “down there.” I’ve negotiated truces and explained why when two lids go up, two lids must come down. And I’ve swallowed laughter when they’ve poked, prodded and pondered my decorations.

Someday my son will tell his wife and friends whether or not his mother faced the birds and the bees head on, or dodged uncomfortably around the angry swarm. And while I’d rather be talking about pucks and sticks, not square pegs and round holes, I have no intention of letting him wander blindly into bad luck and misfortune.  

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Why are girls different when they are Moms?”

Because we dream that you will be more than we ever were. Because every scar and dimple is a moment marked in time. Because our adolescent fear of growing old becomes a woman’s fear of loss and lost time.

And because, sometimes, we need a little fluff to hide what lies beneath.