Virginia and I tend to have our best conversations when we are lying in bed together during what is called “The Funky Five.” (This is the five – but frequently 10, 15, 20, or until I accidentally pass out – minutes I spend lying with her post-storytime where she will presumably fall asleep) Anyway, the other night after our kiss goodnight I hear a sigh…
V: Are ears made of cartilage?
V: (sigh) I wish my ears weren’t made of cartilage…
Me: What do you wish they were made of instead?
V: (makes a face like this is really dumb question) REAL bone.
Me: Oh. So you’d have really hard ears?
V: Yeah, so they wouldn’t be so bendy.
Okay, here is another one. So I guess she is getting to that age (and sharing a bathtub with a baby boy probably helps) where she is keenly aware of, or interested in, the distinctions between male and female, and the mature female body vs. her own little girl body. We try to keep gender identification pretty low-key in our house and aggressively fight the stereotypes that every toy and apparel maker would shove down a toddler’s throat but the crushing wave of society is no match for mommy saying, “Girls can be great soccer players!” and “Why don’t you like your green sneakers as much your pink ones?” and “GODDAMMIT for the last time will you please just wear these BLOODY SHORTS I bought you!?!?!?! Money doesn’t grow on trees!”
But I digress. She asked me recently when her boobs were going to get big and I told her not for another 10-12 years or so. She seemed okay with that.
The next day, we were having dinner with our friend Celia and I repeated this story and Celia volunteered that sometimes (as in her case) “they never get big” to which V dejectedly moaned,
“But I want to have CHILDREN!!”
Ohhhhhh, and everybody laughed. #darndestthings