Birds & Bees Lesson #4: Anatomy of a Womb

The other night we were lying in bed talking (I have been trying to do this more with Lu, because I think she might have a lot on her mind, and it's about to get very hard to listen). She was yelling at my belly (to Lemon) and was insistent that she heard a response. I explained that Lemon can't make noise in there, because there's no air, only water, and that Lemon doesn't breathe, comparing it to an amphibian, which may have further confused things. Ultimately, I left at it the umbilical cord, more or less.

I said, "Everybody has a place on their body that shows where their umbilical cord was attached to their mommy. Can you guess what it is?"

"Their VAGINA!"

"No, babe, their belly button."

Understanding, let alone explaining, the miraculous science project of pregnancy is a little beyond my pay grade, but I try.

Developing Social Conscience

On our way home Saturday evening, we saw a homeless guy panhandling at an intersection near the house. It's a regular spot for panhandlers, and they often sleep under the bridge there at 2222 and Mopac, unless the police are rounding them up and taking them to jail, which they must have been doing lately because until tonight, we hadn't seen any this summer.

Lucy and I have talked about panhandlers as "people who need help," and we have given these guys everything from bottled water to restaurant leftovers to popsicles. But Saturday was a new level of concern on her part. We were a lane away from him, with a big truck in between, so I couldn't safely get over to give him anything. I told her I'd go back after we put her to bed, and she insisted, "No, Mom, what if he's not there? It will be dark, go back right now."

She suggested I give him chocolate cake, which I did, along with a sandwich, some chips, a juice box, cold water, and some wet-naps. I drove back to the spot and handed him the plastic bag. The light was long enough for us to visit a little: I found out that he'd been on the street for two and a half years, he mostly lived under the bridge at 183 and Burnet, he had a bike, he'd been to jail a few times for being on the street, but they never kept him more than 3 or 4 hours. He had on a fake Gucci fedora and very dirty clothes, and he had a pretty bad facial tic.

I asked him if he was okay. He said, "Yeah, y'all take good care of me." He shook my hand and I drove away.

When I got home, Lucy wanted to know everything. Did he have a house? Where would he sleep? Where was his family? Were his mom and dad dead? Would we ever not have a house? Could he sleep on our soft grass? Was there soft grass under the bridge? Did he ride his bike on Mopac? What was his name?

I couldn't answer all of her questions, even the simple ones, but I did my best. I felt bad that I didn't know his name. Next time, I'll ask.

I Am So Hot

And not in the good way. I have been out of the Cute Phase for at least a month, and am now into the Sweaty Beast Phase. Parts of my body touch other parts of my body that aren't meant to touch. Making me sweaty and uncomfortable and unpleasant. I pretty much look like the Venus of Willendorf now, except that she's made of limestone and in a climate-controlled museum somewhere and therefore is not sweaty.

R.I.P. M.J.


When I was 10 years old and already obsessed with Thriller, the top item on my Christmas list was any tape by Michael Jackson. A few days before Christmas at my dad and stepmom's house, a gift-wrapped cassette taunted me from under the tree. I broke down and decided to sneak a peek: it was "Off the Wall," with a handsome, sly Michael Jackson smiling at me (the peak of his unmarred beauty). I swooned. I was so thrilled and nervous that when I went to rewrap the present, I couldn't find the Scotch tape and had to rewrap it with masking tape. This did not go unnoticed. As punishment, my receipt of "Off the Wall" was delayed for a few agonizing weeks.

As I wrote a while back, I played both "Thriller" and "Off the Wall" until the tapes died back then, and the music moves me still. He was long gone to many of us, but the loss of Michael Jackson's genius is sad nonetheless.

Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant

Pregnancy starts out as a pretty abstract construct. You spend several months worrying about it, concealing it, searching for reassurance of it. Soon enough, you have some nice, round proof, sweet reminders every once in while, but it's just an idea.

And suddenly, it's for real. For real, for real. That reality struck me when Lucy and I measured one of her babies — an infant-sized, healthy-looking thing — and determined that Lemon is a little bigger than that baby. Every so often, I hold that doll up to my abdomen to get a sense of where Lemon is and what's going on in there. Totally weird.