A Good Babysitter is Hard to Find

On the last day Katherine was with us, she was putting Sophia down for a nap as I was on my way out the door for a run. I paused at the bottom of the staircase, caught by Katherine’s voice drifting down from the landing. She was singing a sweet, unfamiliar lullaby as she closed the door to Sophie’s room. Her voice was filled with affection and reassurance. I stood, transfixed, suddenly struck by the fact that she was singing to her for last time. That’s how Katherine found me, in spandex, rooted to the floor, wiping tears from my eyes.

It saddens me to know that Sophia will not remember Katherine. I am sure she left an impression on Sophia, the invisible imprint that all significant people leave on our lives. Impressions that live on as lessons, values, beliefs, schemas and ways of perceiving. Imprints that persist long after the memory of a face fades. But one day, should she run into her on the street, she will not know Katherine. Once so close, they will be strangers.

(Sighing) A good babysitter is difficult to find.

It is a leap of faith, putting your child into someone else’s hands. We do it regularly in our culture…babysitters, nursery schools, day care. But as evidenced by school web cams, nanny cams, and I-caught-your-nanny websites, we do it cautiously. We know that no one will ever care for our children exactly like we do…

…though perhaps that’s a good thing. Kids need exposure to a variety of different styles. They need to learn adaptability. And let’s face it…as parents, we get tired. We don’t always want to pull out the paints, play outside in the blaring sun, listen to the Elmo song 32 times in a row. Still, we hold the expectation that the babysitter will intuit our child’s needs; be loving but firm; engage them and protect them. It’s a tall order for barely a living wage (e.g. Philadelphia is $9.05 an hour).

(Matter-of-factly) A good babysitter is hard to find.

We had a string of loving, highly competent graduate students who worked for us for a summer or a semester, but wanting more stability I decided to look for a longer-term option on Craigslist. The first babysitter came for a time and was fine, but one day she didn’t show up. And then the next day she didn’t show up. No notice. No explanation. Didn’t return my calls. So I hired a replacement, perhaps a bit too quickly. She often came late or cancelled at the last minute. She asked a million questions, but never retained what I told her. I tried to be flexible and understanding, but the final straw came when I checked my facebook newsfeed and saw that she had just posted, “I’m SO bored,” WHILE SHE WAS WITH MY CHILD, ONE ROOM AWAY. Intolerable.

(Frustrated) A good babysitter is hard to find.

They say that the litmus test for goodness-of-babysitter is whether or not your child is happy to see them. But since Sophia is happy to see just about anyone who walks in the door, including the guy who checks the electric/gas meter, I had to rely on other evidence. Thus I put up with behavior I shouldn’t have, for longer than I should have.

When Katherine walked into our lives, I couldn’t believe our good fortune. She was playful, caring, and bright. She aspired to start schools in developing countries. She spoke fluent Spanish (and Chinese). She read with inflection and voices. She pulled out the paints. Played the Elmo song 32 times in a row. Went to the park in the blazing sun. And she loved Sophia like family. She let Sophie wear her jewelry. Built her lego thrones. Read her Jorge el Curioso en el hospital. Cooked her quinoa. Katherine was loving but firm, intuited Sophie’s needs, actively engaged her. Sophia was not simply safe in her care, she was loved and happy.

(Appreciatively) A babysitter like her is a rare find.

But, of course, someone of her caliber cannot remain a babysitter for long. She has more children to impact. More joy to spread. A greater calling in the world. And, similarly, Sophie is ready to be with her peers, exchange the quiet intimacy of her one-on-one relationship with Katherine for the boisterous, bustling energy of nursery school.

We had a farewell get together at the zoo. It was a bittersweet goodbye. After visiting the big cats, Sophia spontaneously turned to me and said, “I’m having a great day!” Though I felt weighted down by the sadness behind our excursion, she did not. Despite our attempts to prepare Sophie for this moment, she didn’t seem to grasp the finality of it. As we parted at the trolley, Sophia casually tossed off a “good-bye! See you soon.” I had to turn away: I was crying again.

I am grateful for the time we had with her. There will be other babysitters, good ones I hope, but there will never be another Katherine.

Ode to Dad

I could not do what my husband does.

Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.

She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.

Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.

And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.

But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.

And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.

Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.

After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”

She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”

“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)

“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.

“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.

She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.

It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.

He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.

“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.

“How was your day, Daddy?”

“Hard. How was yours?”

“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”

“Are you all healed?”

“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”

They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.

He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.

“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.

“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.

When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.

“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.

After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.

“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”

Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.

We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”

I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.

The Work of Parents is Play

Sophia and I have fallen into a relaxed routine in the morning. I make breakfast and she plays beside me. It allows me to have subtle input into her play, without actively directing it. I can help her sustain the play activity, adding voices, suggesting ideas, while taking care of some necessary tasks.

I never thought this day would come.

I have long been Sophia’s playmate. I’ve sat through countless (and endless) pretend meals served by the surly waitress at Sophie’s café. I’ve received questionable health care (and been charged outrageous co-pays) by Dr. Sophia at the hospital. I’ve been turned into a cat, a cow, and a car, under the spell of The Great Sophini and her magic wand. Sophia didn’t come up with these activities on her own (though she was always an enthusiastic participant). I taught her how to engage in these possibilities, to inhabit these fantasies, to pretend. And then she ran with it.

One might think that play comes naturally to children. And it absolutely does. Children imitate in play the activities they observe in the world around them. It was no surprise that Sophia’s first attempts at make believe involved talking on a cell phone and food preparation, two things I do on a daily basis, multiple times a day. Play is how children begin to make sense of the world and their place in it.

But there is so much in our society that serves to inhibit play, that squashes and replaces innate play impulses: two of the biggest offenders, I believe, are toys and television.

Here is my beef with modern toys: they have become so sophisticated that they have essentially put children out of a job, rendering imagination obsolete. A kitchen that sizzles, a ball that giggles and rolls on its own, frogs that have several pre-recorded rote responses in English and in Spanish—the very toys that appear to inspire play, in reality, wind up subverting it. They play FOR the children. Kids merely have to push a button to get a response. Parents may notice that these toys are not played with for any length of time. They are picked up, admired momentarily, and discarded. They fill basements, playrooms and garbage dumps. They do nothing to inspire creativity, wonder, and discovery (except perhaps in a few future engineers who disassemble them to see how they work). At best, they are boring. At worst, they’re annoying as hell.

I find TV particularly insidious because, at first glance, it appears that it inspires ideas for play. In reality, television is a thief of imagination. Kids become the characters they see. They act out scenes from their favorite shows. They indulge fantasies of other worlds, other ways of being. But if you listen carefully to this kind of play, you come to realize that the children are working off of scripts. They have no imagination outside of the images they have been fed. They don’t know how to develop a unique character, a novel world. This phenomenon, in turn, feeds the toy industry that produces all the figurines, props, and costumes that allow children to recreate what they’ve observed on TV.

This is not to say that all toys (or even all television) is bad. In fact, many low tech toys that are facsimiles of real objects—or better yet the REAL OBJECTS themselves—are great props for the imagination.

Case in point: Sophia is obsessed with all things medical. Perhaps she’s trying to master her fear of needle shots. Perhaps she is trying to emulate her grandfather, who is a doctor. Or maybe it’s simply inspired by her great love for Curious George, who often finds himself in the hospital with a broken limb or an ingested puzzle piece. Regardless, as medicine is her current interest, I decided to try to find her a doctor’s kit. I quickly became frustrated with the expensive packs of molded plastic I found even in the best toy stores. Nothing looked “real” or remotely worth the money. I decided to look online and found a blog written by a mom who shared my frustration. She said that real stethoscopes and blood pressure machines could be purchased for less than what some toy companies charged for the fake stuff. Turns out, she was right. I quickly assembled a doctor’s kit that consisted of a light pen, a real eye chart, a stethoscope, a blood pressure machine, an old ace bandage, a pin that read Dr. Sophia Moore, a medicine syringe that looked satisfyingly like a needle shot, a child-sized lab coat, and a tendonitis elbow brace—all for under $30. I haven’t brought out all of the pieces yet, but already, the ace bandage is the number one utilized “toy” in our house.

That ace bandage was sitting in my dresser drawer for years. It only became a toy when it was introduced as such.

Play is a life skill; it brings joy into relationships, transforms work into passion, makes life worth living. Those who know how to play have the ability to think and act creatively. They are fun to be around. When I watch Sophia initiate a play activity with a peer, I can see the foundation of leadership skills taking hold.

But like most life skills, play needs to be taught. There is nothing simple about being a teacher of play. It requires a certain lack of self-consciousness and a lot of silliness, a willingness to get down on the ground and become everything you’re not, an ability to transform the everyday into the extraordinary. But of all the responsibilities I have as a parent, it is the one in which I take the greatest pleasure and reap the greatest rewards.

Pop Goes the Weasel

Despite the fact that Sophia averages three tantrums per day, I maintain the belief that most tantrums are due to exhaustion. Like today, during the opening of the ABC Games at the Please Touch Museum, in front of every other mommy blogger in the Philadelphia region, Sophia threw a hairy one. This instance was particularly embarrassing as I feel like I’ve got a rep to live up to.

We head over to the cafeteria after two and a half solid hours of play (working out at the new health and wellness exhibit, shopping in the grocery store, caring for sick babies in the hospital …) Sophia is visibly tired…shoulders rounded, eyes glassy…but hungry. It’s one hour to nap time. I should be leaving, but we still have carousel tickets. We venture into the café in search of something non-processed to eat. I successfully steer her away from the chemicals posing as food, and we select a lunch of tuna salad and a hard-boiled egg. Sophia sits down in a big-girl chair and compliantly eats the tuna fish, silently staring at the murals on the walls.

Suddenly, she asks to sit in a high chair. This is where I should have said no. But, not wanting a fight, I lug the high chair over and bend to lift her into it. “NO NO NO, I do it myself!” she chastises me. Then she explains her complicated scheme of how she intends to do it herself. “I’m going to pull this chair over, “she begins, gesturing towards the big person chair, “climb onto it. Stand up, and then get into that chair,” she indicates the high chair. “Sophie. That’s dangerous. I will either lift you into the chair or you can sit in the big girl chair.” “NO!” she yells back, beginning to scale the high chair. Again, I probably should have intervened, but I allow her to climb, and, as predicted, she bangs her knee. She begins to wail.

I can feel the eyes of the other mothers (Judging my parenting skills? Relieved it wasn’t them? Curious to see how it plays out?) studying me as Sophia works it. “Sophia. That is why you can’t climb into the chair yourself.” She wails louder. “If you can’t calm down, we’re going to have to leave.” Sophie continues to sob, shrieking “POP GOES THE WEASEL!” as she does when she’s very upset. (Likely an odd association to the anticipatory dread she feels as she cranks the handle of her Jack in the Box.) “I can put you in the high chair or you can sit in the big girl chair.” “No no NO!” “Then we are going to have to leave.” Not wanting to waste any of the lunch, I shovel the tuna fish into my mouth with one hand, holding my struggling toddler with the other. “It’s such a shame,” I go on, “that a day this nice day had to end so badly.” I’m feeling sorry for myself, that I am not going to get that ride on the carousel. “No it’s NOT A SHAME!” Sophie counters, just for the sake of being contrary. Still holding Sophie, I clean the table, gather up our things, and carry her, squirming and screaming out into the hallway.

“Look,” I say in a last-dash attempt to salvage the carousel ride. “I’m going to take you to the bathroom and change your diaper. If you calm down, we can go on the carousel. But if not, I’m taking you home.” I was planning on riding the cat. The one with the fish in its mouth. I stare at her and wait.

“Boop!” says Sophie. And then she laughs like a madwoman.

Clearly, the kid is overtired.

“Boop!” I say, and she laughs again. Tension is diffused. We manage through the diaper change. Then, at last, we have a really nice ride on the carousel…side by side, each on our own fish-eating cat.

Afterwards, I carry her out of the Please Touch Museum in my arms, like a little baby.

“Toddler down?” outside, a fellow mommy blogger asks me, eyes full of empathy. She’s on break from an interview in front of the museum.

“Nap time started half an hour ago,” I explain, “without us.”

“Been there,” she nodded knowingly.

Playing Favorites

The whole family is in my bed…Sophia, Kevin and I...spending a few intimate moments before we deposit Sophie in her crib for her requisite 12 hours of sleep.

It’s five minutes past her bedtime, Sophie is giddy in an over-tired, second-wind kind of way. She’s rolling between us, taking turns asking us for a specific number of hugs. “Daddy give me five hugs,” and Daddy obliges. “Mommy give me seven,” and I give her seven staccato squeezes, counting them off. Sophie, less than an inch in my face, so close I have to squint to focus on her, says, suddenly serious, “You are my favorite and Daddy is YOUR favorite.”

Fascinating. Kevin attributes this statement to a healthy resolution of the Oedipal Conflict. I’ll try to translate this psycho-analytic jargon into plain English: According to Freud, the Oedipal Conflict arises from unconscious desires to possess the parent of the opposite sex (Kevin) and eliminate the parent of the same sex (me), manifested in declarations such as, “I want to marry daddy.” (Sophie actually said this, while fingering his wedding ring on more than one occasion.) Resolution of the complex takes place when the child beings to identify with the parent of the same sex and rejects the parent of the opposite sex, which (according to classical analytic theory) is the key to the development of gender roles and identity. It’s a theory, which, like any theory, is an attempt to explain a process based on observation. Though it fits nicely with the storyline of Sophocles’ tragedy, Oedipus Rex, and, it does seem to be a dynamic that is occurring in my household, I don’t wholly embrace it. For one, unsuccessful resolution becomes a disease model of homosexuality, which I reject wholesale. And two, it’s only part of the picture.

I think Sophie’s fantasy was/is more along the lines of fundamental Mormonism—that somehow we could become sister-wives, both married to the man we love, living polygamously ever after. I don’t think she ever wanted me out of the picture. This isn’t hubris. I have evidence. There has not been an evening where she hasn’t wanted me to carry her to bed, a boo boo where she hasn’t looked to me for comfort. I think she has always seen Kevin and me as fulfilling two very distinct and necessary roles in her life. It is rare that I can evoke a belly laugh from her like Daddy can. But there are times when only Mommy will do. Her preferences seem to have more to do with personality than they do with sex.

So how do I read her complex interpretation of our familial relationship to one another? “Favorite” is a new and delicious concept for Sophie. It comes with the understanding that she has agency and choice. These days, she is constantly asserting her own “favorites” and expressing curiosity about mine: While reading Curious George takes a Job, “Mommy this is my favorite page; what’s your favorite page?” Holding up the round duplo pieces she has deemed “her lollipops,” “Mommy this is my favorite lollipop; which one is yours?” Interestingly, she doesn’t want us to have the same favorite. She wants us to have shared interests, but separate likes. She is looking to define herself as other than me, while still maintaining a deep and abiding connection. And, perhaps the most moving aspect of all of this is that she is AS interested in my interests as I am in hers. She understands that I have unique thoughts and preferences different from own. She cares about what I think. She cares about what I like. These are the building blocks of empathy. Her statement, “You’re MY favorite and Daddy is YOUR favorite,” is not globally true. It is true in this moment. She might as well have been saying, “I love you, and you love daddy.” We both love, and we love differently.

One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

Sophie’s regression started with a simple request: “Mama, carry me like a little baby.” I obliged because, quite frankly, this is a fantasy I like to indulge in myself. Further evidence of our folie a deux.

“My tired little baby,” I whispered into her sweaty mop of hair, “do you need a kiss?”

“Yes, ma-ma,” she answered. I took all 28 pounds of her into my arms, planted a kiss on the crown of her head, and carried her off to bed.

We both felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The perfect ending to a day of eternal struggle. A mother-toddler battle-of-the-wills smackdown, which goes a little like this.

After a gentle request to climb into her carseat: “If you don’t climb into that carseat by the time I count to three, I’m putting you in. 1…2…. Good listening!”

After an invitation to sit down to breakfast: “If you don’t climb into that highchair by the count of three, I’m putting you in…1…2…3. That was pushing it, Missy.”

After notification that it is time to leave the park: “If you don’t climb back into your stroller by the count of three, I’ll put you in, myself…1…2…2 ½…3. (Sounds of a struggle…”NO! I’ll do it myself!” “I gave you the opportunity to do it yourself, now I have to do it for you.” “Daddy said I can do it myself!” “Daddy is at work and said no such thing.” “Waaaahhhhhhh!!!!”)

We are both wrung out.

The next day, I am fixing breakfast and Sophie is playing on the floor beside me. “Look, ma-ma. I’m a little baby crawling to you.” She crawls over to me and puts her arms up in the air, “uppy!” (NB: Even as a baby, Sophie never said “uppy.” This babytalk is based on her observation of other children, a modeling of iconic baby behavior, rather than a true reversion to her younger self.) I lift her up; she rests her head on my shoulder and places her thumb in her mouth.

She needs me less and less.

The awareness of her independence triggers an existential crisis that makes her want me more, “I want to be separate…oh no, I am alone in the world…I want to merge.” And then the cycle repeats. I do a careful dance of trying to foster her sense of self-efficacy and offering the reassurance that I am there to take care of her. It requires a great deal of attunement, empathy, and memory. At times, more than I can manage (e.g., I must retain the knowledge that she likes for me to begin to peel her banana, but not remove the peel entirely so that she can then peel the rest of it herself and hand it off to me for disposal. NOT following this sequence, i.e., peeling the banana entirely and then handing it to her runs the risk of triggering a tantrum.)

One could make the case that I should not give in to toddler whims. I am the parent. The control should rest with me. But I believe in giving her control within the limits of behavior that is acceptable to me. Letting her have a sense of autonomy, of agency, of importance. It is no skin off my nose to let her peel the rest of the banana. Saving a few seconds is not worth a battle. Safety issues, such as holding my hand when she crosses the street, are non-negotiables. I save my strength for these fights. I have no desire to lord over her, bend her will, break her spirit. Somehow, I believe, she understands the fairness of this, the inherent respect. She listens when it counts.
By the same token, I have to reel in the impulse to baby her, not just to do things for her, but to coddle her and hover over her like the helicopter parent I am. I try, really try, to make sure that babying takes place on her terms, when she is feeling frightened of the chasm forming between us her new, more competent self, when she wants assurance that she’ll always be my baby. (“Carry me like a little baby.” “Uppy.”) This is not to say that I don’t constantly reach for her, kiss her and tell her I love her. I do. But if rejected in the moment, “No Mommy! Don’t kiss me,” I back off, knowing the less I push, the less she’ll resist.

None of this is easy because it’s not about what I want or need. But I find that if I follow her rhythms…the ebb and flow of her desire to be connected and separate, the rise and fall of her longing for agency and care…I get exactly what I want and just what I need.

Private Parts

This blog has been re-titled, due to the crazy number of hits I've been getting, having previously used "vagina" in the title.

Quite possibly a new regular feature of Life with Sophia, this post is inspired by the SVMoms book club choice for this month, The Body Scoop for Girls: A Straight Talk Guide to a Healthy, Beautiful You by Jennifer Ashton, M.D., OB-GYN. The book is promoted by its publisher as “girlfriend-friendly health book for teen and tween girls.” I would add that it’s a girlfriend-friendly health book for privileged teen and tween girls who not only recognize “Tory Burch boots” but care that the author wears them as she serves “lattes” (caffeine-free, I hope!) to her adolescent patients in her spa-like Englewood office. Despite its uncomfortable efforts to sound “cool,” the book did inspire me to think about how I, as a parent of a toddler, am already trying to foster a healthy attitude towards body image and sex through straight talk.

Please note: The identity of my friend has been disguised/fictionalized to ensure her anonymity.

Sophia and I in the living room of a friend who has a five-year-old boy. Sophie is happily playing with a remote-control train along-side Josh, when my friend wrinkles her nose and announces, “Someone doesn’t smell so fresh.”

I have been blessed with the inability to smell poop. I simply lack the receptors. This weakness of mine has several consequences—1) Sophia, who is not disturbed by the presence of a poop in her diaper, nay, DESPISES diaper changes, does not admit to her elimination and remains in it probably longer than God and Pampers intended; 2) every other parent around me who CAN smell it secretly thinks I’m being negligent; 3) other children eventually begin to disburse, often shouting, “EWWWW, SOMEONE POOPED!” Thus, my friend, who knows about my poop-smelling disability, has aimed this observation at me, which I translate into, “Melissa, it’s time to change your daughter’s diaper.”

Yes, this is embarrassing.

So, much to Sophia’s chagrin, I lay her out on a changing pad, wrestle her pants off and begin my meticulous 4-wipe cleansing ritual. My friend, who is simply unable to let any sort of a teachable moment pass, tells her son, “Come look at Sophie’s vagina. This is her VA-GI-NA.”

“Actually,” I correct her, “It’s Sophie’s vulva. Vulva on the outside; vagina on the inside.” I DID know about the vagina/vulva distinction before reading The Body Scoop for Girls, but as the book was fresh in my mind and we were using Sophia’s nether region for an impromptu lesson in anatomy, I figured it was important to use the correct terminology. Josh can be the first boy on the block with this little tidbit of information.

After rolling her eyes, my friend repeated, “Vulva…Your Grandpa Bob drives a vulva. Can you say vulva?”

“Vulva,” her son repeated obediently, and then went off to play with his cars. Sigh. I just love those teachable moments.

I wholeheartedly believe in a matter-of-fact, shame-free approach to sex education. Granted, it’s pretty basic at this stage of the game, but I think the comfort with which I talk about my body and Sophia’s body is delivering an important message: There is no question you can’t ask me. I will not be embarrassed. You will get answers: Those are my breasts. That’s my vulva. Yes, I have hair down there, and you will too one day. I credit my parents with this, who were pretty matter-of-fact and shame-free about my sex education. Nothing was off limits. And so I came to them when I had a concern or a problem.

It helps that Kevin, my husband, is right there with me on this, even honoring my request to please change the terminology in Once Upon a Potty to the proper words for the protagonist’s body parts. (But that’s all I’ll say about Kevin with regard to this subject, as I do not want to embarrass HIM.)

I realize that this could backfire…and Sophia might wind up being the prude, blushing and acting appalled whenever I say clitoris or orgasm or something she deems equally embarrassing. But I’m willing to take my chances on this one. Because I want her to come to me for candid conversations about sex, not the gynecological correspondent for CBS news. Oh, I’m all for her reading comprehensive guides about sexual health and having access to as much information as possible…but I don’t want her to have to be told by said guide that it’s okay to talk to your parents about sex. I want her to know it.