Tiny Coconut

I have things.

Monday, July 03, 2006


Em and I have been reading "Marley and Me" together. Funny book, great bonding time. Em is an animal lover of the first degree, and what with the still-new-to-us Lab pup hanging around our house (and stealing our hearts), reading about a Lab pup is perfect for her...and me. It's the first time in a long time--as in forever--that we read a book that I've never read and one that I actually wanted to read.

Clearly, it's a bit adult for a not-yet-nine-year-old in some places, but I've always been one to answer all of Em's questions honestly, and she's always been one to take said information in stride. Until yestterday.

We were reading the chapter in which John Grogan and his wife are trying to get pregnant after a miscarriage ended their first pregnancy. He talka about--laments about, actually--how Jenny puts him on a "schedule" and how unsexy that is.

"A schedule?" Em asks, turning to me. "What does he mean?"

"Well, sometimes when people are trying to get pregnant, they try and figure out exactly when the egg is in the mom's uterus, so they can have sex at that time and give the egg and sperm the best chance of meeting one another." I explained.

She had a few follow-up questions, each of which I answered, about how you mnow you're ovulating, how you come up with a schedule, etc. I answered them all.

"That sounds weird," she said, when I had finished. "I know you and daddy would never do anything like that!"

"Well, actually," I said offhandedly, my eyes returning to the book, eager to continue on, "it was taking us a while to get pregnant when we had you, so I acually did put us on a schedule."

"You mean, you told Daddy when you could and couldn't do it???" she asked.

"Uh-huh," I answered, still distracted. But quickly, the absolute silence in the room caught my attnetion, and I looked up to find my daughter straing at me, her mouth a perfect O.

"What?" I said, starting to laugh.

She remained frozen in that rictus of disgust. Then, finally, she said, with great emphasis, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww."

"I take it you didn't need to know that?" I said, laughing out loud at her facial expression.

"That was DEFINITELY too much information," she replied.

I mortified my nine-year-old by giving her too much information about her conception. My work here is done.

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