Lil E Explains: Private stuff

Oh, three-years old, you frenzy of curiosity and questions. And four, you beacon of processing information and formulating rock solid opinions. Lil E has many questions, and once answered, will not be further schooled. Here's his take on many events taking place in the southern region. I'm pretty sure in preschool he will be working toward his sex ed certification. This reminds me to send a note to the new teacher to keep the plastic uterus on the top shelf of the cubbies, just for now.

Fill the sippy cups, grab your stenos and pull on the reading glasses for a  home schooling interlude as Lil E explains:


Colostomies: Mommy, what's that called when you don't have a penis or a booty and you go potty in that bag thingy? Do animals get those bag thingies? What about dinosaurs? I bet dinosaurs get those bags, don't they?

Impregnation: Remember how you said a little part from a man and a little part from a woman make a baby? My little part comes from my besticles. BUT the baby doesn't stay in my besticles, it gets to the mommy's tummy and grows up there. Remember that?

Gestation: When it's time for us to have a baby in our family, if you get tired of growing it in your belly, Mommy, I will grow it in mine. OK? I will do it.

Fetal development: Babies DO say "goo goo, ga ga" when they are in the mommy's belly! They do! I heared it ALL THE TIME.

Besticles: Those things that move all around in there, what are they called again? Those movey thingies? Be sure to tell Daddy about those because he said it's not true there's something in there that makes babies. Shhh...tell him when he calls. OK? Shhh... He needs to know about those besticles.

The whole package: Is it OK to put penises and stuff on the mirror on my closet door? Only when I'm nakey though?

Boobs: I can't help it! Sometimes I just want to touch them because they look big.

Moobs:  These are not nipp-ohs! These are pecs. Girls have boobs. Boys have pecs. Daddy said.

More on moobs: I told you! These are not nipp-ohs! These are pecs... I mean, oh yeah. These are MY boobs. They are small, so please do not touch MY boobs. I prefer privacy for my boobs, please.

Dinosaurs:  Something is terrible. Something is really terrible. Sometimes, dinosaur babies are...(whispered) born without a penis. It's terrrrrrible! What should we do about that?

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Linkety Dinkety Doo: Thurdays this-es and that

This really is awesome. And so much easier to memorize than the periodic table from sophomore chem class. My favorite elements are #26 and #50, #14 and #33 (beware: totally explosive when combined). Thanks for passing this note, CityMama.

Please do not tell Lil E about this. It will completely ruin his current dreams for prom.

Please do not tell my mother about these. Not only will she want to play with them, I am pretty sure they will remind her of how many baby girl clothes are laying in wait in her guest room dresser drawers.

I want to live in this place. What does it say that my favorite collection is called Barbie? That's just wrong. Wonderfully, irresistably, blue eyeshadowy and inflexible feety wrong. Autumn, you cannot come soon enough. Rodeo season, nor can you.

Now this is the way to divide up the assets in a divorce. Yours, mine, the money to pay for the big fucking outing-your-affair billboard. Plus, hiring sign-makers seems like so much more fun than writing checks to attorneys.

Today's Linkety Dinkety Doo of this-es is set to that soundtrack (as in, that is still swiftily, niftily the cut).
 

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It takes longer to un-do a marriage than it does to grow a human being

We've past the point now, the points of comparison for those life-shifting, identity-altering, soulful and spiritual and schedule transitions happenings.

It has now taken longer to get divorced than it did to make a baby and bring that fully-realized child into the world. It has now taken longer to divide the nothing we had and decide upon hours for shuttling that child from city to suburbs than it did to say yes to marriage in the first place, plan a wedding and walk down the aisle, so full of amazing intentions.

That time-line doesn't pain me. When I mentioned it to my mother, she winced and asked me if hurt to have those measures. It doesn't. Rather, in the heartache of dividing up our child's time and the 401(K) and the mixed tapes and video tapes and crap from Ikea, it feels like the cells inside me are spitting as well.

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