There I was, trying to decide if the two-for-one Ben & Jerry’s counted as a grocery necessity or a “treat-yourself” moment, when Nico casually lobbed a grenade into my shopping cart. “Mom,” he says, as if he’s asking where the Frosted Flakes are, “is it true babies come from vaginas? Ryan at school told me.”
I froze. My hand was literally hovering over Cherry Garcia like I’d been caught shoplifting. Do I crouch down in aisle seven and launch into a TED Talk on reproductive biology? Do I pretend I didn’t hear him and suddenly become fascinated by the nutritional facts on a box of frozen waffles? Do I pass the baton to Rex, who, at that exact moment, was blissfully in the deli line asking for “extra thin” turkey like his life depended on it?
Let me just say, if you think you’ve got parenting figured out—oh, you sweet summer child—you’re one Publix away from being humbled.
I stammered something like, “Well… uh… babies do come from… um… their mom’s body, yes,” which in mom code means, please let this conversation end here before the lady comparing yogurt prices calls CPS. But no. Nico is relentless, like a tiny lawyer who has smelled weakness. “So… from the vagina, right?” And now the lady comparing yogurt is definitely listening, probably calculating how long until her kid asks the same thing.
Meanwhile, Anthony is in the cart seat shaking a box of Cocoa Puffs like he’s auditioning for a percussion section, totally oblivious that his brother is out here asking me to summarize eighth grade health class in front of the frozen peas.
What made it worse is that Nico wasn’t embarrassed at all. He was just… curious. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to ask between “can we get Oreos?” and “do we have any paper towels left?” And I know it is normal, but do I look like I was emotionally prepared to have that talk in my beachy mom ponytail with sweat running down my back and a cart full of buy-one-get-one Pop-Tarts? No, no I was not.
I tried my best: “Yes, babies come out of their mom’s vagina. That’s true. But, hey, want to pick out a flavor of ice cream for tonight?” I said it in the same voice I use to convince him that socks are not optional footwear for school. Distraction parenting at its finest. Nico just shrugged like, “Cool, makes sense,” and then ran off to grab mint chocolate chip.
And that was it. The conversation ended as suddenly as it began. I stood there sweating, replaying the entire thing in my head while Anthony sang the Cocoa Puffs theme song on loop, and Nico hummed to himself like he hadn’t just casually detonated my composure.
Later, when we got home, Rex asked how shopping went. I stared at him, dead-eyed, clutching my Cherry Garcia. “Your son asked me where babies come from. In Publix. By the frozen peas.” He laughed. He laughed. The man who once hyperventilated because Nico had a loose tooth laughed at my trauma.
But here’s the thing—I survived. And Nico’s little bombshell question? It wasn’t scary once it passed. It was just honest curiosity. Kids have a way of ripping off the band-aid for you, asking the questions you think you’re going to carefully schedule for a candlelit dinner with a PowerPoint presentation. Instead, they ask in Publix, with strangers pretending not to eavesdrop, while you debate yogurt prices.
So yeah, I’ll be keeping that Cherry Garcia in the freezer for emergencies. Because if motherhood has taught me anything, it’s that ice cream is the only appropriate response to unexpected questions about vaginas at the grocery store.