Let’s start this weekend off right, shall we?
Friday afternoon, The Kidling asked me The Big Question. She did not propose, though she has done that before. No, she asked something far more difficult for me to provide a proper response. Without giggling, that is. The Kidling was concerned about whether she is older than The Kidd-o, or whether The Kidd-o was actually born first. I told her that, in fact, The Kidd-o was older. The Kidling was understandably ticked.
The Kidling: But you told me I was older!
The Mama: No, sweetie, [The Kidd-o] was born ten days before you were.
The Kidling: Why?
And this, dear readers, is where it gets good. I began a windy monologue on how babies are born when they decide to. Babies come out, I told her, when their bodies are strong enough and they are ready to live in the world. The Kidling, delighted at her autonomy from a very young age, listened carefully. After a brief pause while she processed what I was telling her, she asked…
The Kidling: How’d you get me out anyway?
The Mama: Actually, dear, you came out of my vagina.
The Kidling: (very long pause) Whoa. (giggles) That’s funny. (another long pause) Vaginas? (yet another very long pause) So I got peed out? In the toilet?
At this point The Kidling began verbally working her way through the details: home birth vs. hospital birth, toilet vs. bed… Surprisingly on-point insight was interspersed with a lot of “that’s funny.” I confess we were driving during this conversation, so I jotted her funniest utterings on the back of my “to-do” list when we were parked at stop lights. Unfortunately, I had to sacrifice some pretty funny stuff to the far more important priority of our physical safety.
I know. I apologize.
Her final wisdom on birthing came with the observation that “you came out of Grandma’s vagina, then I came out of your vagina.” The significant time lapse between these events clearly did not register. Which is why I love living with a four-year-old.
And lucky for you, I write this sh*t down.