As a parent, I've always tried to find the most appropriate and opportunistic times to have those specific “talks” with my kids. I'd rather that when I have a “talk” or “the talk” with them, that they occur organically as opposed to forcing the conversation, like they did on 1960s television shows. “Wally, Beaver, have a seat on the couch so we can talk about that thing that will make you go blind if you do it.”

One day I was in my car waiting in the pickup line at Our Lady of Malibu school…that's not a joke, the name of the school really is Our Lady of Malibu. I guarantee it was the only Catholic school on the planet where you could simultaneously see Julia Roberts talking with teachers while Charlie Sheen hit on them. Too bad Aaron Spelling had passed on, because this one had hit written all over it.

Little did I know that day, I'd have one of those opportunities to have a “talk” with my kids about an important life topic. I followed the appropriate pickup and drop-off etiquette, being sure not to hit an orange cone, block a lane, or dare I say, exit my vehicle. I did not need to get ripped a new one again by the P.E. teacher or self-proclaimed “head of school moms” Jan, who was running late for a filler appointment. Note to Jan: Lay off the fillers, girl. Check the damn mirror, pretty sure you're full.

With a successful pickup achieved, my daughter India, first grade, and son Roman, fourth grade, safely in tow, I was ready to hear about the highlights of their day. So what better way to do that than to take them to get some ice cream. It seemed like just your average day—that was, until India decided, through the space in her front teeth and with the slightest lisp, to ask a question I didn't see coming.

“Dad, what color are we?” After a somewhat stereotypical dad laugh from the driver's seat, I asked her to clarify what she meant. India explained herself. “Well, today Camille said that she and I were the only two black girls in class.” Now, before I go any further it would help to know, Camille's mother is white and her father is a French black man. India followed this up by saying, “So, are we black?”

As we pulled up to the ice cream shop, I parked the car and in all of my proud parental wisdom thought, “What a perfect opportunity to have an important discussion about race.” But I also wanted the kids to come to a conclusion themselves, as opposed to just me answering the question in a very black and white fashion…yeah, that was on purpose.

So I said, “Well, your race is determined by the races of your parents. What color is your mom?” India looked out of the back window for a little longer than I had anticipated, put some actual first grade thought into her response, and said, “Orange.” I wanted to crack up, but she was dead damn serious. So, I gave her another shot at it. “You think your mother is orange?” “Yessir, her skin is.”

This “talk” had taken a bit of a turn, but I still had confidence that a lesson could eventually be found somewhere in the outcome. So I said, “OK, well, what color am I?” and without hesitation, a glance out the window or even a breath, she said, “You're black.” I thought to myself, “Damn, maybe that casting director at MTV knew more than I gave her credit for.”

I followed up India's response hoping for her to explain her answer, “Do you really think I'm black?” to which she simply replied, “Yep.” Then as I smiled to myself, Roman, who was always a kind, reserved boy said, “Well, your skin is darker than President Obama's.” Now, in Roman's defense, this was in my single-dad days and I was a big fan of the tan. During that time, if my skin was one shade lighter it would've been called “leather.”

“Okay, so you guys are orange and black, like some cool tigers.” For the moment both of them were pretty into being tigers, so I thought, why not piggyback on the good vibes with a sprinkle of Father Knows Best. “Truth is, guys, it doesn't matter if you've got stripes like a tiger, spots like a leopard, what color your skin is, or what you look like. What matters is if you're a good person and nice to other people. It's what's inside a person that counts.”

Both of them sat and thought for a second, probably wishing they were still tigers. So I tried another angle to clarify it with something that was a little less cliché, hoping they would understand a bit better. So I said, “It's like ice cream. It doesn't matter what color or flavor it is, all of it is good, right?” They happily nodded in agreement, and as India opened her door to exit the car she said, “Yep, and we're chocolate!” Ward Clever 2.0? Maybe not, but it was a valiant effort.