Last night the wife and I are calmly listening to Cold War Kids and getting pumped to go see them Friday night when all of a sudden our six-year-old, long-haired, hippie daughter comes tearing-ass through the room screaming “babies come out of girl’s butts!! Babies come out of girl’s butts!!” and giggling while holding her bum bum like she’s got a full diaper.
The show Cake Boss is a favorite in this household. And, apparently the “Cake Boss’s” wife just birthed their fourth child.
And, they showed the PG version of this woman spitting out a baby while my wife and I were being neglectful parents in the other room.
It wasn’t until the town-crier move the daughter pulled by running through the house announcing the apparent mass production of ass-babies that we realized we’d allowed something bad to happen.
While I was acting like I smelled smoke in the basement, the wife quickly screamed “OK, bedtime, let’s brush teeth!”
And it was over.
Thirty minutes later when the house was silent and our shoulders slowly started relax and drop from the afternoon parental pressures, the wife and I locked eyes.
It was for only a few seconds…mainly because the wife knows if she looks at me for more than five seconds I’ll start ripping my clothes off and drooling.
But this look was different.
It was the look of knowing the time to have “The Talk” was becoming closer and closer each year.
Just over a month ago, the we had creatively avoided questions from the little bastards about “how the seed gets in mommy’s belly?” Here’s more detail on that one.
The daughter’s six and the boy is eight.
We hear the sex-talk clock ticking loudly in the other room.
The only thing preventing us from talking to the boy in the next year or two is the fact that we know he can’t keep his damn mouth shut.
He’ll completely botch the translation of how babies are made and have half our city’s parents knocking on our doors with baseball bats and other creatively deadly blunt objects wanting to know “why my son thinks jack-o-lanterns shoot from his pecker?”
The wife and I will eventually have “The Talk,” mainly because we’d rather be the ones opening that dialogue with our children than the schools.
And by “we” I really mean my mother-in-law.
The wife and I have full intentions of waiting until my mother-in-law visits, tell the kids “grandma wants to talk to you about sex and how babies are made,” and then running like hell to the nearest bar for the next 24 hours.
If you’re reading this my sweet, awesome mother-in-law…I was kidding.
I love you and would never do anything like that to you.
See you in a couple weeks!