Where Talking Really Leads

I was running errands and Jude was assisting. As we drove, the CD player churned out familar tunes and from the backseat, I could hear Jude singing "I'm bad news. Baby, I'm bad news." Rilo Kiley's Portions for Foxes. I never sat down to analyze the words before letting them stream into Jude's ears. Strange, really, since I am careful about what television I do let him watch.

The words fly through the speakers and into the air in the car, directly into my five-year-old's cerebral cortex. The lyrics: "Talking leads to touching and touching leads to sex. And then there is no mystery left."

Jude asks "What is that?"

And my own cerebral cortex starts into a panic: oh, crap. Not yet. Not the sex talk. I'm not ready.

And then my own voice responding: yes you are. You can handle this. You're a mom. Man up. Woman up. Sex. Sex is what mommies and daddies do when they are in love. Sex is what mommies and daddies do when they are in love.

Okay. I'm ready.

Then Jude asks again. "What is that? What does that mean when there is no mystery left?"

Oh. Okay. No mention of sex. We skipped right over that and delve right into the philosophical aspects of the song. Better still. I can do this.

"Well, Jude. Mystery is when people don't know every single thing about each other. People always want to learn about each other and if you ever managed to learn every single thing about someone, then there would be no mystery left. But I think there is always something to learn."

Jude processed this for a few moments, enough time for me to let my guard down.

In fact, he processed it for the rest of the day and didn't mention it again.

The next morning as we piled into the car for transport to daycare, Jude announced, "I'm mysterious, Mom. You don't know every thing about me."

Oh, okay. I had no idea what he was talking about. Until I remembered our earlier conversation. (Naturally, he remembered. He remembers every thing that ever leaves my lips, whether I want him to or not.)

"Well, I love you and I want to know every thing about you, Jude."

"Well, I'm mysterious. There are things about me no one knows."

And in my heart, I know this is true. It is true of everyone. No matter how much you love and trust someone, it is impossible to convey every thought, every emotion, every nuance of yourself to someone else.

And even though I try very hard not to dwell upon it(about as hard as I try not to begin sentences with conjunctions), I have an image of Jude with secrets he can't tell anyone and it makes me so sad.

Jude's voice pulls me out of the sadness. "Mom, did you know I'm going to be a superhero when I grow up? A superhero and a cop."

Suddenly he is five years old again and I know that I really do want to know everything about him.