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We are headed to guitar lessons last night while Katy Perry blares on the radio. I am trying desperately to watch where I am going through the foggy/rainy/sleety mess that is floating through the evening. Typical Wednesday night.

Out of the music Faith (age 8) hears the word virginity and asks, “Mom what is virginity?”

I try very hard to never make them feel silly for asking questions, in hopes that this will keep open communication when they are (heavy sigh…) teenagers.

I explain that it is something that you are before you have sex with someone who you love and want to spend your whole life with and from nowhere in the back seat Hailey jumps in, “Faith don’t act like you don’t know what sex is, I know you do!”

I look at my 8-year-old, she’s blushing red even in the dark of the car.

“Do you know what sex is Faith?” I ask.

“Yea, kind of. It’s when a boy and girl get naked, put their pee-pee’s together and then rub them all around.”

Inside I die laughing at the sweet simple honesty of her 8-year-old answer as I feel my face flush and I am thankful for the dark of the car.

“Mmmm,” I decide that her answer will suffice for now. “And so now do you understand virginity?”

“Yes, it sounds pretty special,” she says.

I am grateful that it seems important to her even at her age and awareness. My mind floods back to being a teenager and the not so great moment that I gave to a boy who was pretty much useless. I send up what feels like much too small of a prayer that my daughters are smarter than I was in the way of boys.

Moments pass and the Katy Perry beat ends. Hailey requests another song as we keep driving. Just me and these two little girls whose hands I don’t ever want to let go of. Hearts that I never want to see broken. I think of my mom, who has watched me go through so much, how her heart must ache.

Hailey says something funny and we all laugh. She just turned 11 last week. A song is on that says, “Dad I am your buckaroo, I want to be like you,” and Hailey says, “That’s a really sweet line, did I want to be like you when I was little mom?”

It hits me, I am becoming… old to her… not cool…. not fashionable, not funny… I am her… well… Mom. Interesting I think as I ponder my response.

“Don’t you still want to be like me?” I ask.

“Mmmmm…. most of the time,” she admits. “But not always. I kind of like being me.”

Well if there were a good answer, that would be it… and the radio plays on.

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