Tough Discussions

We had a rendezvous-vous at the discussion bench at 3:00, Short-pants and I. This is a designated space in what she refers to as her forest. It was built by her uncle, an artist whose work involves constructing objects as much as painting them. He visited us at the country house a few years ago and cleared some winding paths in the woods behind the house. At the end of one of these trails, he built a bench out of wooden planks he found in our barn. Short-pants decided she wanted to name it the discussion bench.

Her forest is her escape zone at the country house. She will invite Buddy-roo there to play and they have all sorts of stories that take place in those trees, but it’s mostly a place for Short-pants to find the solace and privacy she requires. And each summer, it seems, there are several moments when the two of us retire to the discussion bench to have a little talk. Sometimes it’s a discussion about how to handle her sister. Sometimes it’s just about reflecting on the events of the summer or anticipating the events we have ahead. This is my father coming through me; he had a strong connection to the seasonal rhythms and the passing of time and often summarized for us what we’d had the privilege of experiencing and what was still in store. “It’s always important,” he’d say, “to have something to look forward to.”

De-facto and many other friends agreed it was time for the talk. Short-pants is going into 6eme at the collège next year – that’d be middle school in North America – she shouldn’t be caught unaware and subject to the teasing of her school mates. We needed to tell her the truth, and the discussion bench was the place to do so.

~ ~ ~

Sometime in mid January, last winter, Short-pants came to me and told me she was ready to learn how babies were made. A few months earlier I’d given her a book – that is the most comfortable way for her to learn – called The Care and Keeping of You, and after she read it we sat down to talk about it and I asked her if she had any questions, which I answered, all of them about how a girl’s body will change and why.

“Do you want to learn how babies are made?” I asked, “Or do you want to wait a while and digest all this first?” I didn’t want to overload her with too much data at once.

“I’ll wait,” she said, looking almost relieved. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

But after Christmas she must have changed her mind, so we made a date one afternoon to meet upstairs in her bedroom while her sister was away at a friend’s house. I had another book, First Comes Love, given to us by a friend who understands Short-pants’ penchant for reading, and we read it together with my color commentary on every page.

We talked about what we’d read. Then I added a few last words about how sex is for grown-ups, there’s no reason to rush into it because with it comes responsibility and consequences. And how when she gets older and feels ready to try it, I hope she’ll always feel like she can talk to me about it. It was a pretty good spiel, an even blend of don’t-even-think-of-going-there-yet with when-you-do-let-me-help-you-do-it-smart. I had to restrain myself, though, from blurting out a closing phrase: “Oh and by the way, there’s no Santa Claus.”

~ ~ ~

The pathway to the discussion bench is a bit leafy these days, we had to hack our way through the some overgrown brush to get there. Once we were seated, we exchanged a few pleasantries, talked about how the summer was going, the weather, how the bench was holding up. I danced toward the subject at hand, reminding Short-pants of a conversation we’d had a couple of months ago about the true identity of the Tooth Fairy. The seed of doubt had been planted by an episode of the TV show Jane and the Dragon, giving me the opportunity to come clean and wipe this maternal responsibility off of my plate. Coins may still make their way under pillows in exchange for lost teeth, but the fairy ruse is over.

She’d taken it well. I thought this left the door nicely ajar for the next big conversation: about Santa Claus. Buddy-roo had extracted the truth from me last Christmas and I’d made her promise not to tell Short-pants until after the holiday. Remarkably, seven months later, she still hadn’t spilled the beans, though she frequently asked me when I planned to tell her sister.

“Now that you know there’s no Tooth Fairy, what do you think about Santa Claus?”

She contemplated this for a while – maybe 20 seconds. I waited, focusing on my breathing.

“Is it you?” she asked.

I nodded. “And Papa.”

She stretched her mouth into a wide smile, a forced smile, a smile with tears backed up against it like a dam about to burst. She wouldn’t stop grinning at me, every piece of metal on her teeth entirely visible, while I explained how Santa Claus is a beautiful myth, a metaphor for the generosity that we’re all capable of, how Santa exists in each one of us, he is the Christmas spirit, where we give gifts to the people we love, without thinking about getting anything in return.

“Except cookies and milk,” she said. And then, after some consideration, “Do you eat the cookie, too?”

“Sometimes I let Papa have a bite.”

She held her smile firmly in place. I asked if she’d been wondering about Santa, maybe she’d already guessed. Her yes wasn’t very convincing. We sat side-by-side on the discussion bench, quietly, letting it all sink in.

“I think I’d like some time on my own now,” she said, on the edge of tears.

I kissed her forehead, squeezed her hand and stood up and walked away, silently cursing at myself as I made my way out her forest. By the time I crossed the road and went to my equivalent of the discussion bench, a shady spot in a grove of trees beside three rogue grapevines, I was crying, too. I felt like I had stolen something magical and marvelous from her, that in my attempt to protect her from the presumed cruelty of her comrades at school, I’d injured her innocence. Why shouldn’t she believe in Santa Claus as long as possible? Why did I ruin her Christmas reverie? I could have at least waited for her school mates to ruin it, and been there to pick up the pieces. Except somehow, with Short-pants, I felt like that would be too hurtful; it’d be better to hear it from me. But was it?

Later, I found her in the kitchen. She was composed, though her eyes were still a little red.

“Did I do the wrong thing, by telling you?” I asked.

“I wish you hadn’t told me,” she said, “but I am glad to know.”

Little by little, the truth trickles in and myths of childhood fall by the wayside. My young girls keep growing, soon enough they’ll be little women with far more complicated preoccupations than Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Certainly there are more tough discussions to come, much tougher than this one. I suspect there are also some very interesting discussions ahead. All this, I guess, is what I have to look forward to.

10 Responses to “Tough Discussions”

  • Lourdes Says:

    I would have thought it was impossible for a girl Short-pant’s age not to have been disabused of these ideas already by other kids. Congratulations on your impossibly sweet lovely daughters. They are little miracles.

  • Oceanaddict Says:

    Every mother needs a Discussion Bench…and come to think of it, that would be a very handy tool for teachers, too! Your gift is in your ability to follow your motherhood instincts. They’re truly incredible girls–wise beyond their years at times and yet innocent and naïve in all the right ways. You need not doubt yourself. You do wonderfully and you are a role model to me.

  • Susan Thoren Says:

    Wiping away a few tears here….tell Short-pants that her friend Susan is 53…and she still believes – a lovely little secret I keep tucked in my heart — until now.

  • marinera76 Says:

    “Little by little, the truth trickles in and myths of childhood fall by the wayside.” … lovely!
    ps: IMHO, mucho mejor que lo haya sabido de vos que en la escuela! los chicos ya son terribles asi como son, sin darles mas motivos…

  • magpie Says:

    i love this post. i love how you’re so wise with your girls.

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  • Andy Parker Says:

    I love this post. How it escaped comment, I have no idea! 🙂

    I came back to it this morning. Another friend mused separately that this year might be the last her precocious nine year old believed in Santa. Said nine year old had just written the tooth fairy a note about his/her work, which I thought was precious. My friend’s email reminded me that we all have these stories. We wonder where and when and whether to cross the threshold between myth and fact with our children.

    Her forest. Her bench. “The pathway to the discussion bench is a bit leafy these days.” I thought that was a perfect detail. My daughter has a bench, too. It’s our walk to school in the morning. I forget the way they are precious to her, until a morning comes where she wants a sacred walk, to talk about things. That walk across city sidewalks can also become overgrown as the space between pilgrimages increases. As you made your way on the leafy path, I pictured you with a machete, hacking your way through the jungle. That’s me of course, joining my daughter–as Indiana Jones–on her latest life adventure.

    At ten, this may Sweets last Santa Christmas as well. She’s broached the topic lightly, talking about which classmates believe, and which do not. I don’t remember when my son discovered the truth, nor how. Their belief was aided by the practice Santa has had for years of leaving only one present, in a special “Santa bag.” How did that practice evolve? It may have been that because the bulk of family has always lived elsewhere, it was a way of keeping track of which gifts were from family and which were from Santa. Fortunately the question of why Santa only left “one” present, not more, never surfaced.

    When the time comes for Sweets to know, I think it will be more like Buddy-roo’s Revelation. She will tell me that she knows. Sweets is like that. If I’m lucky, I’ll have my own version of your eloquence about the Spirit of Christmas, and the way Santa teaches us the importance of bringing that spirit to life.

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