“Mommy, how do you make love?”
The question was honest, and innocent. I absolutely believe in talking about such matters frankly, so I did what any self-respecting parent would do. I stalled.
“What do you mean, like a drawing?” I thought maybe she meant a heart. When Everett was her age he used to always (adorably) call hearts “kisses”.
“No. No. Not a drawing. I said ‘how do you make love?” She repeated it as if I were hard of hearing, and followed it up with “Like, with your body.”
“Uh…. your body?” Stalling, stalling. I’m cool, I’m calm. I can handle this.
“Yes,” She paused, and much to my relief, rephrased. “Well, no. With your hand.”
“Oh….” I wasn’t sure that was better. And then I realized. “OH! You mean this?”:
“Yes!” And I helped her make the sign with her own fingers, and she was happy. “I love you Mommy,” she told me, with both her hand and her words.
I love you too, baby. More than you’ll ever know.