“Mom… how did God create me?”
Michaelina and I are getting ready for the day. I’ve freshly emerged from the shower and she’s come up to the bathroom to deal with the after effects of her oatmeal breakfast.
“What do you mean?” I ask, detangling my long, wet hair with quick, uneven strokes.
She grunts, frustrated… or it could be the bulk of fiber she’s struggling with.
“Don’t get mad at me, okay?” she begins. “’Cause I don’t really know what I’m trying to say here.”
I stifle a laugh, because I think I know exactly what she is trying to say. Creationism can be an evasive subject to even the purest of minds. I place my toothbrush in my mouth, pretending not to be amused by her seven-year old brain churning.
“Okay,” she starts again. “Like… did God make me… or did you and daddy make me?”
I spit out my toothpaste, choking.
“Are you okay, mom?”
I sputter and gurgle, then wipe my mouth on the hand towel.
“I’m okay, honey.” I say, my eyes bulging. “Wrong pipe.”
I clear my throat and give my head a quick shake.
“So?” she asks, wiping and standing up from the toilet.
“So, what?” I ask back, with impressively smooth ignorance.
She steps up onto the stepstool and turns on the faucet to wash her hands. “Did you and daddy ever get naked and rub your bodies all around on top of each other?”
I wince as I pretend to be more interested in the enlarged pores surrounding my nose. This close, I can see the sweat beading.
“Where did you hear that, sweetie?” I ask her casually, a silent panic rapidly washing over me.
“Jordan told me she hears her mom and dad doing it in the shower.”
I cough. Wow! I’m SO not ready for this.
“Did you and daddy ever do that?” she asks, peering at me via our reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Uhhh,” I say.
I need more time to think about how to handle this. If the tables were turned and she were to be as evasive as I am about a particular topic, I’d surely chastise her for ignoring me. I’d probably even insist she look me straight in the eye and answer me. Now.
She finishes with her hasty trip to the bathroom and is clearly ready to run back to the TV to finish watching Annie or some other such benign program that lends itself to her perfect innocence.
“Well?” she asks, one hand on her hip.
“Well what?” I answer, ignorance my best defense.
“Did you and daddy ever get naked and make me?”
I look for a long moment into her sweet, beautiful, perfect eyes, not knowing how to lie to her and never wanting to start.
“Yes,” I say at last, hoping it’s the right answer. “We did.”
“Okay,” she says, opening the door and skipping down the hall.
“Lina?” I call after her, thinking too little too late of realities that are often born of the truth.
She skips back and stops in front of me, sighing. “Yes. Mother.”
I attempt to figure out how to express the myriad of emotions that are suddenly swimming in my head. I settle for easing myself down on the stepstool and bringing her onto my lap.
“You’re getting to be such a big girl now, honey,” I say with a kiss and a squeeze. “And I’m very proud of you for being brave enough to ask me those questions, but can I ask you for one little favor?”
She wriggles around in my arms like a worm on a hot sidewalk. “What?”
“Try and forget what I just said.”
