Because shouts of "you're not my mom!" or "I don't love you anymore!" fail to soften my stony heart, I thought I was immune to the careless stings that children inflict. I was wrong.
Last week, Joffre asked me: "Mom, you made me in your tummy?" And I said yes. And he thought about this for a little while, and then asked, hesitantly, politely, "and . . Mom? You just want to make me with one ear not hear good?"
All I could do was try to explain that mommies don't plan or control how babies are made, and that sometimes things just get made a little bit differently, and there's no controlling or managing that. I told him that we didn't know before he was born if he would have blue eyes or brown, or even if he would be a boy or a girl. He found this vastly amusing, and it diffused the tension.
Then today, after a busy morning at the aquarium, Joffre was grumping in the back seat (probably because he now wants to live at the aquarium). Out of nowhere, he asked, "Mom, why you wanted to grow two babies?" After a moment's consideration, I said, "I wanted you to have a baby brother or sister so you wouldn't get lonely." Aaron said, "how many do you think we should have had, Joffre?" To which Joffre starkly replied, "zero."
Ouch.
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