I’ve always known the question would come, and I’ve suspected the time was getting close. My first clue? Several weeks ago as I was putting Aaron to bed he ambushed me with, “Mommy, where did you get me?” Of course I’ve been storing a cache of carefully-crafted words about surrogacy…all prepared and edited in my mind since the day he was born, but a wave of Jello slapped my brain and I froze.

“What do you mean,” I asked, trying to buy some time for the brain freeze to end.

“Did you get me at the grocery store?”

“Have you ever seen people getting babies at the grocery store?” I asked in my funniest voice.

He started laughing and said, “No, mommy. That would be silly.” He was quiet for 10 seconds and then came back for round two, “So, did you get me at the pet store?”

Mustering a cheerfulness I didn’t quite feel I started to tickle him, “Have you ever seen any babies in the kennels at the pet store?”

By now he was giggling and although I could sense he wanted a more complete answer, he decided not to come back for round three. “No, Mommy. That would be really, really silly.” He gave me a hug, rolled over and fell asleep.

I thought I’d be ready for this conversation. I was wrong. I wanted this moment to be special, for Aaron to understand that even though I didn’t carry him inside of me physically, he’s been living inside my heart since the moment he was conceived. I wanted him to know how wanted and loved he is and what an amazing journey Amy and I had, but how do you convey all of that? Maybe I hoped this first conversation would go something like…, “Mommy, several of my friends have baby brothers and sisters and many of my preschool chum’s moms are pregnant, which has lead me to contemplate the whole idea of where babies come from. Can we schedule an appointment to discuss this?” To which I’d reply, “Of coursed, my darling. How’s Wednesday, April 10, 2030?”

Apparently Aaron isn’t the type of person to wait around for Mom to spoon-feed information and he’s discovered the answer to where I got him all on his own, or with the help of his preschool teachers and pals. Last night he simply and matter-of-factually told me at the dinner table in one long and rambling sentence that…”Mommy, when I was a baby I grew in your tummy and then when I was big enough, I came out of your tummy and started running around all over the place and I had baby toes and you had to feed me a lot.”

I didn’t dare look at my husband. I could feel my chin quiver and my heart was burning. It was like someone stripped away all my armor and I was the vulnerable, barren bitch looking into the face of a teenager as he screamed with all his might,”You’re not really my mother.”

I could feel my husband watching me. He was waiting, listening, testing.

“Aaron, what do you mean,” I asked, again trying to buy a moment.

“Wellll, Mommy. You know. Babies grow in their mommy’s tummies until they can come out and run around and crawl and stuff. And I grew in your tummy until I was big enough to come out.”

He was so sure of himself. He’d obviously done his research, consulted experts, listened to the conversations of knowing adults. And I was about to smash his carefully crafted theory.

With a deep breath and as casual of a tone as I could summon I began, “Aaron, you didn’t grow in my tummy. My tummy doesn’t work to grow babies. It’s broken”

He stopped dead in his tracks, “why?”

Good question when you grow up and become a doctor, let me know when you come up with an answer… was what I wanted to volley back at him, but sarcasm wasn’t going to get me or him anywhere. I’d started and now I needed to continue. He came closer to me, touched my arm, “Why, Mommy?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that some mommies can’t grow babies inside of them, sometimes things just don’t work, but do you remember Mommy’s really good friend, Aunt Amy?”

“Yes,” he was paying attention.

“Well, because I couldn’t grow you inside of me, Aunt Amy helped us and she grew you inside her tummy until you were big enough to be born. It was amazing Aaron and really, really special, and when you were born Daddy and I were so, so happy. It was the happiest day of my life.”

He thought about it for five seconds. I could see his beautiful mind turning this new kernel over, looking at it through the eyes of a four-year-old, comparing it to what he’d obviously learned at school, trying to see how the pieces could fit together. Standing next to me, he grabbed the front of my shirt and shoved his hand down into my cleavage.

“And the doctor put me in your shirt, right?”

When Aaron was born, he had difficulty maintaining his body temperature and the nurses put him inside my shirt to help keep him warm. Skin-to-skin contact was the best, they said. I remember what it felt like to have his bare skin next to mine and to feel like I was finally giving him life. In many ways the shirt story became my birth story. We have a picture of it in his baby book and I’ve told him the tale many times. “Yes, that’s right. You were inside my shirt and I held you really close to me and helped keep you really, really warm.”

“Yea, and then I got bigger and started running around.”

With that, he opened the door and went out on the porch to play with the dogs.

I finally looked at my husband. He was smiling at me. He knew how vulnerable I felt. He reached across the table and stroked my hand. “He’s your child, Tricia. You’ll always be his mom.” There it was…my permission to cry.

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