Conversations at the Kitchen Table

"Mama, I like this," my son said, referring to the cut up pieces of hot dog I plopped down in front of him last night.

"That's great, Zane," I replied. My husband was also at the table, eating a hot dog that is not cut up, because he is old enough to do that now. I was attempting to hem up some of Zane's pajamas. This(sewing) requires a great deal of concentration on my part. I am a self-taught seamstress, and I pretty much suck at it. Tonight, I have jabbed myself with the needle so many times that the local blood bank has called to ask if I need a refill. I am so not hungry. However, I sat at the table with Zane and Larry to have some sort of Family Dinner Time.

"You have a bear shirt," Zane told his father.

"Yes. Yes I do, Zane," Larry told his son. (We try to respond conversationally, so that Zane learns about reciprocity and other important social skills that will allow him to one day get a job or date or accept an Oscar.)

I accidentally pulled the thread out of the needle. Since I had sore fingers and the usual family vision problems, I could not clearly see the eye of the needle, so it was taking me a lot of effort and mental cursing to thread the needle for the third time.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside," Zane tells us.

Larry made some reciprocal response about it being daytime or whatever. I was finally very focused on my sewing task at that point, and had succeeded in tuning most everything out so I could concentrate.

"I have a penis," Zane continued, picking up a piece of food and putting it in his mouth.

I blinked.

Now I WAS listening, with both ears. My son said one of the 47 words on the Parent OMG! List. Was I concentrating so hard that I missed something? I looked up at Larry, who had the deer-in-the-headlights look. This was visual confirmation that I had definitely heard what I thought I heard. The Mom-Guilt Expressed commenced.

"What do I do? What do I say? Do I agree with him? Do I disagree with him? What if he asks if I have a penis? What if I say no and this bothers him? Is this going to mess up his normal developmental processes? What if he requires therapy and can't get into an Ivy League school because that's on his record? Is Jerry Springer still on the air? Holy...!"

I jabbed myself again with the needle, because it's always been difficult for me to escape my little 'fear loops', as I call them. I looked at Zane, wondering where this runaway train of thought(mine, not his) was headed. He was smiling and looking very content.

"I need Cheetos. I need them, Mama." Zane points to the bag of Cheetos that is on the table.

Parent crisis #4271 averted. For now, anyway.