4: Grandma, are you a lawyer? You know everything.
Grandma: No
5: No, 4, Lawyers don’t know everything, they just think they do.
Grandma: Oh really, do you know any lawyers?
5: Nope.
Grandma didn’t have the heart to break the news.
“Dad,” said 5 at dinner tonight, “do you like your bratwurst?”
“What?” replied hubs, who’d not heard the question.
“Nevermind,” said 5, “it was a retalky question.”
“A ‘retalky’ question?”
“Yeah, one you that you don’t really need to answer - retalky.”
I suggested to 3 today that, now that she’s feeling better, perhaps we should have something yummy for lunch…
“Would you like to have a frozen pizza?” I inquired.
“Hmm..” she said, thinking about this honestly and seriously, “no…I think we should probably have it hot. I like it better hot.”
For those who are new to this blog, you might not have read one of my first posts - titled “the Vagina Monologues for Preschoolers.” In it, I ramble on about how important it is that we actually say the word “Vagina” to our sons and daughters, and I note that it’s not quite as comfortable to say “Vagina” as it is to say “penis.”
As I explained in that post, being able to comfortably say the v-word so that my children know the correct names of their parts is something I aspire to do.
It’s also something that scares the crap out of me.
My five-year-old son was in the bath tonight with the door open, while I was in the hallway preparing his baby brother for bed.“Wow mom, my penis just grew – it’s poking out of the water,” he called, proudly, from the tub.
“Huh,” I said, smiling, but maintaining monotone mom voice. “Well, that does happen sometimes.”
“How come?” he inquired innocently.I suppose I could have answered the question, but my mind went blank. I could find no worthy, legitimate, educational, or even reasonable answers. So I went with the old standby response to all questions penis.
“I’m not sure, bud. You should ask dad.”
“Yeah,” he responded proudly, “cuz he has a penis, too.”
“Yep.” I said.
Phew, I thought, relieved, as I flipped the baby over and pulled on his jammy pants. Conversation over.
No such luck.
“But you don’t have a penis right?” he continued. “You have a pee-pee, because you’re a girl.”
Of course, I probably could have said ‘yes’ and ended the conversation. But my preachy inner feminist was reminding me about that old post. She was standing on the soapbox in my brain in all her bra-burning-underarm-hair-growing glory screaming at me. “This is an educational moment!” She was shouting. “You must do this! The entire future of gender issues in the home rests on you teaching your son that ‘vagina’ is a word. At this moment right now you can decide whether to be a hypocrite or a champion of women’s rights.”
With the future of gender equality on the line, I took a deep breath and plowed forward.
“Actually, I have a vagina,” I said calmly, “that’s what girls have.”
“They have what?” One thing’s for sure about kids. They always want you to repeat it.
“A Vagina,” I repeated.
“A Va- gine - is.” he sounded out slowly, as he contemplated the new word.
“Yup,” I said, ignoring the error, content that I had advanced the feminist cause enough for one night and anxious to turn the conversation elsewhere.
And then he started singing… “Vaginis…Vagino… Vaginarama…Vaginalala” he belted out in singy songy verse as he splashed the bath water to the rhythm.
I froze and chose to ignore the new lyric. And, eventually, it stopped.
Any bets on whether “Vagina: The Song” will make its debut at his Christian preschool or in line at Target?
I guess I can always pray he’s with dad.
We’re spending the weekend with grandma (my m-i-l).
My oldest son (the one who’s turning 5) started telling her - in the total deadpan seriousness only a five-year-old could have when having this conversation…
“Grandma, I should give you my mom’s recipe for waffles. They’re really good.”
“Oh really, how does she make them?”
“Well, first you pick out the kind you want. Then you take them out of the freezer and put them in the toaster. Then you put whatever you want on them, and you eat them. They’re really good.”
See, he doesn’t care that I’m a slacker mom.
Grandma, of course, is making breakfast to order tomorrow. Chocolate chip pancakes. “But it’s too bad you can’t make those waffles mom makes.” Hee.
This morning my daughter (3) said she wanted to wear her “Crappy Pants” today. Finally figured out she meant her “Capri Pants.”