it’s time to have a little talk. Speedreader has been intrigued with the idea of genetics for a little more than a year now. How, for instance, did he get his Dad’s cowlick, if I was the one pregnant with him? He has been putting his busy little brain on it, and has the following to offer to the conundrum.
1. Dad cut his finger a little and mixed his blood with the blood in the end of the cut umbilical cord, at birth.
2. Dad hugged him real tight, right after he was born.
3. Dad hugged me real tight, when I was pregnant (He’s on to something here, but the timing is all off.).
4. Dad mixed some spit with mine (now he’s getting close, as he knows DNA is in saliva, damn those CSI shows).
5. Dad did some sort of little ritual dance over me when I was pregnant (this is really not something I want to picture).
6. Dad licked him like a cat does her newborn, right after he was born (the spit theory, again, but this time through dermal transferrence. I made that up.).
7. It is somehow like seed, but he can’t say how (this came from the chicken/rooster idea).
So, it’s probably time to stop the guessing, and give out a little info. But I have to say that as necessary as I know this is, and that my boy will become a man, and is already in that process, was from the moment he was conceived, I feel kind of sad. It’s just that not knowing lets him be a child. And somehow, knowing, is a significant step towards not being a child. Which means he’s actually nearing adolescence, and then teenagehood when he’ll eat us out of house and home, and wreck the car and say it’s not his fault, and give me lots of gray hair, then he’ll be an adult, and he’ll leave me for some bimbo with breasts larger than mine, and have children they won’t name after me, but something like Tiffani Dawn, and move across the country, and forget to call me on my birthday, and one day put me in an old folk’s home that abuses me after he convinces an old, worn out, blind me to sign away all my rights and earthly possessions to him. Ungrateful little urchin.
Really though, to reach 10 and not have been bombarded with what he doesn’t need know, yet, is a true gift. Now’s he’s getting ready. It’s probably about time to step in it. He’s aware of the hair on his legs getting longer and bushier. Aware of peers a couple of years ahead of him getting tall, gangly, squeaky. He is created to have this knowlege, and to use it wisely, but until he knows, he’s still a little boy. My little boy. Who’s really not so little anymore. And besides that, now he’ll also have a clue about what we’re actually doing in there with the door locked, and I find that a bit awkward. I mean, I don’t let my family know if or when I poo, I don’t want to walk out of the bedroom and have him know we did it. Eww. These really are not the things you are considering when one day you said, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a baaaby?”. Oh yeah, every day is just a dream.
