stuff best described as not safe for parents

So far, we’ve managed to get away with not having the “Where Babies Come From” discussion, or what we like to call the awkward sex talk. The kids seemed content to know that there’s a baby in my uterus and didn’t really care much for where he came from.

That all changed today.

I was playing a game with Truett and he suddenly asked the big question.

“Mommy, how did baby Finn get inside your stomach?”

That totally caught me off guard so I said the only thing I could think of. “Go ask daddy.”

The husband was unfazed and he was all “Because I had sex with mommy, that’s how.”

Tru: Is it like magic?

Husband: Yes, sort of like magic. It’s called a miracle.

Tru: Oh, ok.

***

Several minutes later, Tru turned to me and asked “How to have sex?”

Me: Well, it’s when daddy and mommy love each other very much, and um…um…ok so there’s this egg in mommy’s uterus and this other thing called sperm. When they meet, something special happens and we get a baby.

Tru: You show me how.

Me: What? Absolutely not. One day when you’re big, you’ll understand how it all works. For now, let’s just go with the miracle egg theory ok.

I have a feeling this conversation is so not over.

“Momma.”

“Momma, wake up…”

I sat up with a start, not sure if I was still dreaming. My room door was ajar and I could tell that all the lights in the living room were turned on. As my eyes struggled to adjust to the light, I noticed that Kirsten was standing at the door, butt-naked and completely soaked from head to toe.

“Are you ok, princess? Are you hurt?” I jumped out of bed, my brain still trying to make sense of what was happening.

I grabbed a towel and wrapped her up nice and snug, then peered at the clock. 5.45am. FML.

Every single light in the living room and kitchen was turned on, including the table lamps. She had meticulously grabbed a chair to access all the light switches. In the kitchen, an entire bottle of detergent had been emptied and the water was left running at the sink. I glanced down and a foamy puddle had already formed on the floor next to her wet jammies. This must have been going on for a while. The bathroom floor was all wet, evidence that someone had just taken a shower.

“Tell momma what happened, baby,” I asked her, still holding her close to warm her up.

“I cannot find kor kor. It’s very dark so I turned on all the lights.”

“And why are you all wet?”

“I played with the water so my clothes are all wet then I take them off. I bathed myself because I’m a big girl now.”

“I won’t even ask why, but did you need to do it at 5 in the morning?”

“You change for me now, I’m tired. I want to go sleep,” she instructed with an air of finality.

I wasn’t quite sure how to handle a situation like this, so I did as she asked. I changed her into fresh PJs, cleaned up the kitchen, made her some milk and brought her back to bed.

The next morning, she acted like nothing had happened and when I brought it up, she just looked at me blankly like I made up the whole thing.

I actually wish it was a dream because I’m pretty sure normal 3-year-olds don’t do this level of crazy. But then I actually have the soaked jammies to prove otherwise.

Hulk Smash

Woke up this morning with a sudden urge to do the Hulk Smash. It’s got less to do with my anger management issues and more to do with how watching The Hulk smashing Loki around like a rag doll was one of my favorite movie action sequences of all time. Ok who am I kidding? Totally anger management issues.

It’d be nice though. Having an alter ego who swallows bullets and smashes stuff and is basically indestructible.

Speaking of, I was watching The Avengers trailers on Youtube with the husband the night before and the kids came crowding around the screen. We were too engrossed to make them cover their eyes like we usually do when there’s something violent on. When it was over, they were both like “WOAHHH, SHIOK!”

That’s exactly how we know they’re our kids.

Hot Pink

We’ve made a conscious effort not to reinforce gender stereotypes around the kids, like how dolls are for girls and cars are for boys. Somehow, they have gravitated towards some stereotypical choices but we would have honestly been ok otherwise.

We were talking about our favorite food in the car and Kirsten said hers was chocolate. Tru was all “I don’t like chocolate, it’s brown. I don’t like brown. I like strawberry because it’s…” when he realized that his next word would have to be “pink”. He hastily followed up with “No, I don’t like pink.”

I don’t know where he learnt to associate pink with femininity, but he was adamant about not liking pink.

It’s ok if it’s a genuine color preference, but if he’s not liking a color because its not manly, then we need to do something about that.

Maybe I’ll start with getting the husband to wear a bunch of pink shirts. Mmm, I do like me a guy who can wear pink and still look hot. If not for anything else, at least just so I can rip it off and…well, I’ll just leave it at that.

More Gender Stereotypes

While we’re still on the topic of gender stereotypes, I’ll never get over how I ended up with a girl who loves doing this.

I recently had a conversation with the husband about the hover hand phenomenon. If you haven’t heard about it before, go read about it here. Go on, I’ll wait.

So the big question is of course, is it more appropriate to hover or not to hover? Do you want to run the risk of being caught in a suggestive photograph by not hovering or try to absolve yourself from all responsibility but look like an idiot by pulling a hover hand move?

Ok, first of all, WRONG QUESTION.

Now, I consider myself a fairly progressive specimen of the female species and I don’t really have a problem seeing the husband in a photo with his hands on the shoulder of another girl. Oh wait, while we’re here, I should probably make it clear that the safe zone to be touching a woman who is not your wife is limited to the shoulder. Everything else below the shoulders and you’re in very dangerous territory.

So if hovering (or non-hovering) is not really the problem, what is?

1. Hotness. 

If you refer to the above chart, you’ll realize that the hotness scale works like an exponential curve. Feel free to rest your arm on any woman who looks like Tilda Swinton, or better yet, Margaret Thatcher. But if you so much as lay a pinkie on a Megan Fox equivalent, I’d recommend that you start digging your own grave on the way home.

2. Interest. 

The interest scale is a lot more straightforward. The level of interest you display is directly proportionate to how likely you are to be stabbed. Basically, more interest = more stabbing.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you absolutely have to take a photo with a hot girl, at least try not to look like you’re enjoying it so much. We can smell your fear. I know it’s tough to look nonchalant when you’re in the vicinity of hotness, so if it helps, pretend like you’re casually standing next to a lamp post. Play it cool and then buy a tub of ice-cream and some flowers on your way home just in case.

What do you say, ladies? Would you want your guy to hover or not hover?