The constantly curious phase descended on our home some time ago. It hangs over us like a wet towel-- heavy, cumbersome, and suffocating. It haunts me like a demon in the night. I've run out of answers for most things or am simply too tired to keep answering. Give me vodka!
"Why, Mom?"
"What is that?"
"Why is he doing that, Mom?"
"Mom, why do we have to go there?"
"Why did you do that, Mommy?"
Most of the time these questions are just irritating in their rapid-fire manner; other times, like yesterday, they are really embarrassing.
We had the fabulous idea to take the girls to the T-Rex Cafe. We imagined the awe and wonder and utter joy that the girls would inevitably experience from the moment we entered the place--we'd never been and just thought it would be something fun & different to do on a holiday weekend. Here's a quick peek inside the prehistoric era restaurant where we gasped in horror once we saw the prices on the menu. $12.99 for a Brontosaurus Burger? Give me a break! But you can't really put a price on dining with the dinos--especially ones that move, roar, and come to visit you at your table & scare the pants off your kids! Yes, my kids were terrified. But their hunger outweighed their fear, so food won out and we stayed.
Abby's bladder is the size of a pea, so of course she said she had to potty as soon as we sat down. I needed to attend to some business of my own, so I agreed to take her.
We went into the ladies' room and chose a stall. I helped her go first and then it was my turn. I figured she'd be so busy pulling up her pants that she wouldn't notice the tampon I pulled out of my purse.
Abby doesn't let a thing get by her. I was stupid. But at home it's easier to have a little more privacy.
Why didn't you let her out of the stall, you might be asking? Simple. Because I'm a complete germophobe and my kids are the opposite. She may as well take her tongue and lick every freakin' surface in there. If I let her out, she will touch and inspect the diaper-changing station, the puddles on the floor and at the sink, and she'll dutifully pick up any trash on the floor and put her hands all over the garbage can to pry it open to throw the stuff away. So she stays in with me where I can keep an eye on her.
"Mommy, what is that?" she asks, as I begin to unwrap said tampon.
"Oh, you don't need to worry about it," I reply, easing my pants down. "Will you get me some toilet paper?" I ask sweetly, hoping to distract her. But Abby is good at multitasking even at age three (and three-quarters). She keeps her eyes trained on me as she yanks a completely useless sheet of scratchy paper off the roll.
"But Moooooooom,
I said,
WHAT IS THAT?" Now I can hear giggles coming from another stall. Thank goodness no one can see me because I'm blushing furiously.
"It's a tampon," I whisper, quickly stuffing the trash in the bin on the wall.
"What is it for, Mommy?"
"It's for my tushie," I say, as I quickly finish and yank my pants back up. You see, "tushie" is a generic term at our house which refers to the whole kit n' caboodle and doesn't often require any distinction. It's far better than my saying,
"It's a wad of cotton I have to shove up my vag when I'm bleeding like a stuck pig.""Can I have one, Mommy?"
"I don't have any more, Abs. Now let's go wash hands and get back to the table," I say, and fortunately this is the end of our introduction to tampons. That is, until one day she suddenly announces something to the effect of, "My mommy uses tampons for her tushie!" when we're surrounded by total strangers in Target.
Kids are funny. And just when you think they've forgotten all about something, they'll bring it up in the most unlikely/inappropriate way. So I'm just holding my breath, waiting for the tampon to rear its ugly head.
