Drive Time Quote #3

The drive to preschool is never dull. The conversation to follow occurred on such a drive, and has led to many discussions about death and heaven since.

4-year-old: Mommies are dead.

Me: Mommies are dead? Which mommies?

4-year-old: All mommies.

Me: Um…not me.

4-year-old: But the others are. Mommies die, then they are wrapped in blankets and sent to museums.

(…..)

Me: OH-MUMMIES! Mummies die, sweetie. The word is muh-mee.

 

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Let’s Give Thanks to Todd.

I am quite certain that my son is not hard of hearing. He has been able to annunciate words like platypus and ominous since before he was 2. That is why I was surprised that when it comes to all things holy, he stumbles.

The first time he asked me about my parents and their whereabouts, we were in the car where we have many deep philosophical conversations of 15 minutes or less on the way to day care. It went something like this:

Son: Mimi is Daddy’s mommy. Mommy, who is your mommy?

Me: Her name was Ramona.

Son: Who is your daddy?

Me: His name was Charles.

Note the subtlety of verb tense is lost on a 3 year old.

Son: Where do they live?

Me: They live in Heaven.

Son: Is that in Kentucky?

Me: According to some…(I laugh to myself) No, heaven is a place we can’t see yet, but everyone hopes to go there one day.

A long thoughtful pause

Son: Do they love me?

Me: Of course.

Son: Mommy, why are you crying?

Me: (sniffling only)

Son: Mommy, why do they live in Kevin?

Me: Hea-ven, honey. Heaven.

And just like that, Kevin entered the vernacular of our family the way other words like piss-sketty enter the vernacular of many other families. It wasn’t until a recent visit from one of his aunts that our vernacular broadened to include another misnomer. Let’s just say she put the fear of “Todd” in him when he was misbehaving on a road trip.

This will provide giggles for us for the rest of our lives. This will be brought up at every Thanksgiving dinner from now until we are in Kevin. See? I just can’t help myself.

 

 

Pregnancy Through the Eyes of a Child

All kids have a real curiosity about the mystery of pregnancy and childbirth, and rightfully so. In addition to his questions involving how a fetus pees, our son has begun to ask more practical questions.

As I tucked him into bed the other night and walked to the door in the dark, he asked me, “Mommy, where does the baby come out?” I replied with the best answer I could come up with on the spot. “In the hospital, honey. Goodnight.” And then I ran like hell.

The next morning, he wanted to push further. “Mommy, why does the baby come out in the hospital?”

“Because that is where my doctor is, and she will want to make sure that me and your baby brother are okay. She will probably want me to stay for a day or two so they can give us check-ups.”

“Oh,” he said, “so the doctor pulls the baby out?” He points to my belly button. Oh dear. Here we go. Am I prepared to be factually accurate?

“Well, she helps to pull him out down here.” I gesture vaguely toward my nether regions.

“SHE PULLS HIM OUT OF YOUR BUTT????” Hysterical laughter ensues.

At this point, I do the wrong thing. Instead of being a 21st century parent, I revert to a more modest time and offer him a cup of grapes and try to dazzle him with the presentation.

I was sure I had properly distracted him. Later that day, however, I hear him telling my husband through belly laughs, “The doctor is going to pull my baby brother out of Mommy’s butt!” I have no doubt he told all his preschool teachers the same thing.

Let this be a lesson to you. Be honest. Face it, or your kid will tell everyone he sees in Home Depot his theories on childbirth and you will be the butt of everyone’s jokes.

 

“Does the Baby Pee Out of There?”

My three-year-old son has enjoyed feeling my belly as it grows to wait for kicks and punches from his baby brother. He has asked a lot of questions, although none about how he got in there. Whew.

Today he was pointing out my distorted belly button that no longer resembles the kind that holds a true function—sticking your finger in it. With wide eyes, he asks me, “Does the baby pee out of that?”

I must mention that my son’s verbal skills have surpassed his cognitive development, and I am often struggling to explain things in a truthful but age-appropriate way. I had anticipated the next questions, and I knew he would ask where the baby pees. We just finished potty-training again after a move-induced regression. He wants to know where everyone and everything pees.

As I contemplated the complexities of nutrients, placenta, amniotic fluid, and knowing the baby is swallowing his own urine at this point, I chickened out and said simply, “No. Nobody pees from their belly button.”