So this past weekend SkipMagic (my betrothed, for those of you who don’t know) and I went to L.A. for a wedding, and stayed with some friends of mine who have two girls, ages 2 and 3.
Amazingly adorable kids. But I digress.
On the first morning we woke up there, the girls (who are trained to stay downstairs and play until Mommy and Daddy wake up) came into our bedroom (also downstairs) to play with us. After awhile, they left, and Skip went to take a shower.
Five minutes later, the 3-year-old returned.
“Where’s your brother?” she asked.
“Ummm,” I answered, confused, “I don’t have a brother.”
“Yes you do,” she grinned. “He’s in the shower!”
“Ohhhhhh, my BROTHER,” I said, having now gotten a clue. “Yes. He’s in the shower.”
Next came the 2-year-old.
“Where’s your daddy?” she asked.
By now I was an old pro.
“He’s taking a shower,” I answered, thinking, "Ahhhh, the innocence of children . . . "
The innocence ended when it was MY turn to bathe.
I chose a different bathroom, because I didn’t want to get my hair wet, so I needed a bathtub as opposed to a shower.
My bathroom was lacking a lock on the door, so during my bath I was visited several times by the 3-year-old (who would then walk out and leave the door wide open–I’d step out of the tub and close it, and the whole game would start all over again).
When she walked in the first time, she took one look at me sitting in the tub and happily exclaimed, “You’re a mommy!”
I explained that no, I was not a mommy.
“You have boobies,” she countered.
Once again, I was back on the Train of Toddler Logic, so I didn’t argue, I simply agreed that yes, I did have boobies.
We had a lovely chat thereafter, and she instructed me on how to “make bubbles” (this was a jacuzzi tub).
When I stood up to dry off, she noted with glee: “You have a vagina!”
I said, “Yes, I do, and thank goodness for that!” {Note: No offense to those of you who do not have vaginas. ;)}
Her eyes widened.
“You have a BIG vagina,” she declared with a tinge of awe.
I didn’t know how to answer that one, so I simply said, “Thank you.”
Later, I told her parents about our little exchange. Apparently she’s undergoing a fascination with genitalia (and the differences in boys and girls) right now. So much so, in fact, that both girls call their father “Penis Boy”.
So I suppose it could have been worse for me . . . at least I didn’t get any lingering nicknames out of my (apparently) giant coochie.
The therapy bills a few years down the road are gonna be something else…