I’ve been stewing on this question as of late, while simmering in pre-election magma like the proverbial frog in the pot. And I don’t know about you, but at this point, I feel like I’m ready to blow. And going through every moment of every day fully cognizant of exactly how existentially panicked I am about this existential election that no one believes they have permission to call existential while simultaneously trying to present a relatively chill face to my son is — well, it’s a lot. To say the least.
The problem is, I believe in radical honesty when it comes to him. Admittedly, this policy has not always served me well. When, a couple of years ago and after an otherwise unremarkable bedtime routine, he said, “I still don’t know how the babies get in the moms’ tummies!” I took a deep breath, gathered my proverbial balls together and offered a disclaimer: “Okay, you’ve seemed curious about this a couple of times lately, so I am going to tell you. But first I need to tell you a couple of things: One, what I’m telling you is true but it is going to sound really weird and you might not believe me, but I swear it’s true. And two, most parents probably want to explain this to their own kids, so this is not something for you to tell your friends about; they should ask their own parents, okay?” “Okay,” he nodded.
And then, I proceeded to explain, in age-appropriate yet accurate detail, the forensic reality of sex of the sort that might generate a baby, being mindful of minefields, even leaving love and marriage out of the story, replaced only with “grown-ups with these parts who really, really like each other.” And as I reveled in my impressive and brave parental performance, he lay in his bed, mouth agape, for a moment.
And then he looked at me and said, “But how do the babies get there?”
It occurred to me, then, that I might have overthought the question.
And now, I can feel that he knows I’m holding back about this election. He knows our family supports Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, and he knows the basics of why. But I’ve muted debates and switched the station, and while I’m not exactly known for holding back when it comes to any of my opinions about pretty much anything, I have yet to let it fly. I mean, he’s 8. Can I get a drop on this one? Do I really need to put the fears that keep me up at night — and yeah, they do keep me up at night — into his head?
The other day, I was driving him to school, and we passed a Harris/Walz sign in our neighborhood. And as we got closer, I saw that it was smeared in something that looked exactly like … dog shit.
“Oh my god!” I said without thinking, the fear and dread and everything else automatic and obvious.
“What?” he said.
Shit, I thought.
“Well,” I said. “Someone did something to that sign. It kind of looks like dog poo.”
“Who would do that?” he asked.
Indeed, I thought.
“Well, I don’t know. But it wasn’t very kind,” I said. He looked at me, and it was as though we made a silent pact: That’s as much as he wanted to hear, and that was as much as I wanted to say.
And I prayed we might both believe it was as simple as that.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Shannon Kelley’s work has appeared in Elle, The Washington Post, Vogue, Aeon, and others. When not busy momming or working her day job at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival, she can be found cooking, reading, or putting the finishing touches on her debut novel. She writes about books very irregularly at shannonkelley.substack.com.