I told my kids as soon as they were old enough to access the internet that I would answer any questions they have.
“Don’t Google,” I begged.
So, when my young daughter disrupted me during one of my work-from-home days, I maintained my cool. I swiveled in my office chair and faced her at the bedroom door.
“Mom?” she began. “What does ‘virgin’ mean?” After taking a deep breath, I told her, “It’s a person who has not had sexual intercourse.” She turned my words around in her mind before adding, “So, what is ‘extra virgin?’” I saw the olive oil spray in her hand, and we smiled at the same time. I told myself I’d get her back, then hugged my adorable brat and sent her out.
During springtime in Georgia, about three weeks into the “two weeks to slow the spread” of the novel coronavirus lockdown, I made my move.
“We need to talk,” I told our then 10-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son. “Kids, come out to the living room.”
They looked at each other without moving their heads as they moved quietly into the living room. The boy sat in the armchair by the window and the girl took the couch. We parents sat on the loveseat, side by side and hand in hand.
“You know how mommy had surgery so she couldn’t get pregnant?” I said to my son’s big, brown eyes. “Well, sometimes those surgeries don’t work and, well, we don’t know for sure, but there is a chance I’m pregnant.”
He stared as his sister called out, “I am not having another sister! I’m not sharing my room!”
You are if it’s a girl,” I snapped back, smirking. “And if it’s a girl, we plan to name her April.”
April Fools.