Most days, when I pick the boy up from preschool, I wait with bated breath to see how he comes out. Is he happy, mad, sad, wet, dry or a combination of these. Depending on how he comes out can determine how the rest of the afternoon goes. So the other day, when he came skipping out the door, I thought things looked pretty promising. And then I realized his teacher was following right behind him. That could only mean one thing – trouble.
Teacher: I just wanted to let you know about something that happened today. In case you hear about it tonight. I don’t want there to be a misunderstanding.
Oh geez! Conversations that start off this way usually don’t end well.
Me: Do I really want to know?
Teacher: Oh it’s nothing bad (yeah right). It’s just…when we were all in circle time, he got up, ran over to me, poked me in the boob and yelled “Boobie!”
O.M.G! Shoot me now.
Teacher: Its really not a big deal. It happens more often than you think. We just had a little conversation about private parts of the body and such. I just didn’t want you to hear about it at home and be like, what the heck is going on?
Me: Thank you. I appreciate you telling me and I’m truly sorry.
Teacher: Its really no biggie.
Me: It’s his father’s fault. He’s Italian so the decks stack against the boy. I think it might be a genetic disorder.
So after this lovely conversation was over, I texted my husband, who was in some other part of the US.
As you can see, we make horrible role models and are most likely the reason our children are as warped as they are. But, hey, at least we are fun at parties. 🙂
In order to redeem ourselves and at least look like we are somewhat responsible parents, we had the “what’s parts are private” talk with our kids. I was hoping it would also be a refresher course for my husband since he is often cloudy on this subject as well.
The next morning, as I lay squished between two children and my 200lb husband in our KING size bed, I felt something creepy up my shirt. Of course it was my husband coming in for his morning grope. But then I felt another hand, this one quite smaller. It was my daughter’s hand, hanging out right beside her dad’s.
Me: Why the hell is everyone’s hand up my shirt?!?!?
Daughter: What? Your boobs are so soft and squishy
Husband: Yeah, mom. They are so soft and squishy.
I think its time I move out.