If you drive around without the radio on, kids will eventually subject you to a crippling cross-examination. They’ll ask you every question you never wanted to answer, such as “What happens if you drink pee?” “When dogs die, do you bury them in a suitcase?” and, the big one, “How do babies get born?” For this one, you’ll dodge and deflect, while the children break you down, denying you water and sleep and basic human rights, until you collapse on the steering wheel sobbing and say: “Okay okay okay!! Fine. FINE!! Sometimes they do a special operation and remove a baby from a woman’s stomach and sometimes the baby comes out of a special hole on the mommy’s body!!”

If you’re thinking, you’ll look in the rearview mirror while you’re saying this. Because your children will never have this expression on their faces again. It’s a mixture of delight and disgust. As if they’ve just bitten into a jelly doughnut filled with canned cat food. “A BABY HOLE?!” they’ll scream in unison. “WHERE IS THIS BABY HOLE?” 

One child will guess that it’s in your ribcage. Another will guess that it’s near your navel. Neither of them would ever think it’s near those OTHER holes. That will not cross their minds until you give approximate coordinates on the body map. “You mean, it’s basically inside your buttcrack?” The oldest will gasp. “The baby comes out of your buttcrack?” 

You’ll try to soften this reality and science it up, all while reminding the kids that “buttcrack” is an inappropriate word, but there will be no reversing what they’ve now imagined. “DOES DAD KNOW ABOUT THIS HOLE?” they’ll ask. “Because Dad needs to know about this.” 

You’ll tell them that he may have forgotten, so they’d better remind him when he gets home. 

As you continue to drive while doing your best not to lose consciousness, you’ll explain that ALL female mammals have this special baby hole. That kittens and puppies and calves and baby hedgehogs are all born into the world this way. “All women have this body part,” you’ll say. “All ladies. All mommies.” 

The oldest will roll down the window as if he’s going to be sick. “ALL OF THEM?” he’ll say, devastated that this world is so cruel. “Even Granny Smith apples?”

It’s then that you’ll think to turn the radio on. Loudly. Because now that they’ve asked how the baby gets out, it’s only a matter of time before they ask how it gets in.

AuthorWhitney Collins