Last night over Spongebob-shaped chicken noodle soup, my five-year-old daughter asked me the BIG question.
She gave me the doe-eyed look that I’ve come to learn means I’m about to impart my vast knowledge of the world upon her. “Mom, where do babies come from?”
I choked on a wheat thin and prepared my best truthish-lie. (It’s not like she’d believe that stork nonsense, and while I don’t mind skirting the truth–I didn’t feel like it was right to flat out make something up.) “Well, when Moms and Dads love each other, and they think they time is right, they just decide to have one.”
She looked out the window, obviously pondering my words. “Okay, so when you decide, God puts a little baby in a mommy’s food and she just swallows it up then in a few days– Bam*– baby?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. I’d gone in with this big plan not to send her completely in the wrong direction on a subject this important. I should correct her, not let her think God sprinkles babies on pizza like Parmesan cheese. “Yup. That’s pretty much it.”
“Cool. Let me know when you decide to have another baby, because I don’t want to share any food with you. I’m not ready to be a mom yet.”
“I’ll do that.”