Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Hell, I’m the one who had to have the sex discussion with Bowie Jane because Sandra was too nervous. That was this past summer and we agreed it was time because my next-door neighbor’s dog had gone into heat and it prompted all kinds of questions from my kid. I found an age-appropriate book and we read it together. Granted, there was the one part where it explained how the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina that Bowie Jane had a moment where she wanted to check out.
“Stop,” she had exclaimed, bolting off the couch where we’d been sitting side by side. She turned to face me, cheeks red. “I don’t want to learn anymore.”
“That’s fine,” I assured her, struggling hard not to crack a smile. I could tell she was embarrassed but I knew she’d get over it once she processed.
The very next day, she approached me. “Dad… can we finish that book? I’ve got some more questions.”
It truly only taught the basics of reproduction. Sperm, egg, penis, vagina. It didn’t go into much else, but it also led to a discussion about periods and what she’ll be facing in possibly as little as two years. Christ, she’s growing up fast.
Yeah… those were easy times.
“How come you’re not eating?” Bowie Jane asks, eyeballing my plate.
I cooked her favorite pancakes, hoping that the right frame of mind would be beneficial for this discussion. I pick up a piece of crispy bacon and bite it, though I have to force it down with a sip of coffee.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I say as I drop the rest of the bacon on my plate. Bowie Jane freezes in mid-chew, her fork hovering. The fear on her face squeezes my heart and I quickly reassure her, “It’s not about your mom.”
She blows out a sigh of relief. “I thought you were going to say I have to go stay with her.”
All thoughts of talking to her about Mazzy evaporate and my brow knits with concern. “Baby… no. You don’t have to do that but why would you think that?”
Shrugging, she pokes at her pancakes, refusing to look me in the eye. I wait her out and eventually her head lifts. “It’s just… I’m happy here. Things are great and I know things won’t be great with Mom and Chet. I just don’t want to have to move again and start all over.”
“I don’t blame you.” I reach across the table, grab her free hand. “You deserve stability and to be happy. I don’t understand what’s going on with your mom, but if you tell me that you want to stay here and she tries to change that, just know I will fight with all my resources to keep you.”
Even though I know that is exactly the reassurance my daughter needs, I can also see the guilt swimming in her eyes. “But you know I still love Mom, right? And I was happy there with her… until Chet came along. Like, if Chet weren’t around, I’m not sure what I’d want to do.”
“Honey… Bowie Jane.” I squeeze her hand and wait for her to focus on me. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now about anything. I know exactly how much you love your mom and there’s nothing I’d love more than for her to get back to the way you want her. I truly hope that’s what happens. But until then, you’re with me and you’re safe and nothing’s going to upset that, okay?”
Bowie Jane relaxes so much with those words, she melts a little in her chair. She smiles at me gratefully. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat and pick up the discarded bacon to take another bite. I watch her carefully to see if she still wants to hash out her concerns about her mom, but she cuts back into her stack of hotcakes and takes another bite.
Mouth full, she asks, “What did you want to talk about?”
Anxiety hits me hard, and once again, I drop the bacon. I grab the paper towel I’d pulled off the roll to serve as our napkins and wipe my hands. Next, I sip my coffee, suddenly ill-equipped in all ways to start this conversation. I’m not even sure what to say when ten minutes ago, I was ready.
Bowie Jane’s insecurities regarding her mom have left me feeling unsure if this is the right time.
“You know what… it’s not important,” I say breezily, taking my knife and fork in hand to cut into my stack of pancakes.
Bowie Jane—in all her ten-year-old glory—stares at me with skepticism. My gaze drops to my plate and I ignore her, but I’m acutely aware that she doesn’t move a muscle. She doesn’t resume eating and she doesn’t say a word.
I lift my head to find the same expression on her face. We engage in a staring contest.