Y Chromosome Chronicles

Middle Child came home with a sheet explaining that his teacher talked about how male and female bodies are made differently and both help in the birth of a baby. It was very open-ended stuff, and part of the curriculum.

Sure enough, as I was reading it, Middle Child said, "Yeah, I have a few questions about that."

And so, I told him the facts of life.

He was grossed out.

Husband and I told him later in the evening that he needs to keep this information, true that it is, under his hat because there will be classmates of his who haven't been told. "It's not up to you to tell them how babies are made," I said.

"Don't worry, Mum. I won't say anything, but I'm a little disgusted of grown ups right now. And I used to be sorry for you for the doctor cutting your stomach to get me out but I'm glad I didn't come out the way you said is 'regular.'"

Leave it to Science Boy to like things neat and clinical.

And in other news, Baby Boy got to sit in "time out" in class today for saying, "Oh! That almost got me in the biscuits!" When I confronted him about this, he replied, "Fucking shit, Mum. 'Biscuits' isn't a bad word!"

He is in so much trouble.

Shave a Prayer For Me Now

Before CTV starts airing Dexter, my friend Slowplum has kindly lent the three original novels (two down, one to go) and the first season's worth on DVD. The show is great however, like most adaptations, it veers from the books. Characters are a little different (ie. Dexter's girlfriend's son). Plots are a little different (Tony Tucci anyone?). Some book characters are expanded on the show. Angel No-Relation is a very minor character in the books but isn't in the show. Suits me fine. I have a thing for nattily-dressed chubby Latinos. Stop it with the "Jen and Los Lobos sittin' in a tree" jokes.

And speaking of sideburns, Husband is growing a beard. I think. Sometimes on weekends, he blows off shaving and does the Chewbacca. I can't say I'm crazy about that being the daughter of a guy who religiously shaves every morning. I swear I woke up to the sound of Dad smacking the razor against the porcelain every morning. But when Monday rolled around and Husband didn't shave, I wondered. By Wednesday, I called him on it. And you have to understand that Husband never ever comments on my appearance. Magenta hair? No big deal. Another bowling shirt? Oh. So though it's nice on one hand, I also don't get nary a wolf whistle when I've actually put in an effort. It's a trade off, people.

So, yes, I called him on it.

"Ummm, what's with the face?"

"I don't know yet."

"Please don't tell me you're growing a beard."

"Hey, I said nothing about the time you were a redhead."

"But that didn't physically hurt anyone."

And his scruff DOES hurt; never mind the fact that it looks like spikes growing out of his face. All three kids either ran away from his kisses or just flat out told him he looks awful. And I didn't put them up to that, I swear.

He's starting to complain that his face is itchy. I suggested that he should shave. He considered a soul patch. Yeah, I never understood the attraction there. Every time I see a guy with a soul patch, I have to hold myself back from saying, "You missed a spot!"

When we were first dating, I used to love watching Husband shave. He does it old school, with the brush and bar soap. I would squeeze in to his tiny bathroom and silently watch. He thought it was weird of me, but I thought I was watching something rather personal. He wasn't (and still isn't) a very forthcoming person, so to watch him shave made me feel like he was sharing something somehow.

I miss that.

Baby, You Can Drive My Scar

Not only is he driving me insane by repetitively singing the chorus of a Limp Bizkit song (relax, it's one of the rare non-profane ones), but Baby Boy picked the damned scab off his face. So despite having bought $11 vitamin E cream that I was prepared to religiously apply until the scab just gently fell off, the little bastard is going to have a fine scar.

Oh well. It hasn't hurt Harrison Ford.