I have a big what?
P and I are both fairly modest people. Maybe a lot modest. We don't walk around nakie or anything. The other day I was getting A ready for preschool when she decided she needed to use the bathroom. Her dad had just gotten out of the shower so I asked him to let her in while he was getting dressed. A few seconds later I heard, "Father, you have BIG PANTIES!"
So, we have learned that nothing is sacred. Last week we hopped in the van and headed downtown to the farmers' market ("markets farmer") and the whole boy/girl conversation somehow arose once again. "Father, you have a penis. I have a gyna." And then this: "Mama, you have a biiiiiiig . . . (I stopped breathing at this point) . . . gyna." We were at a stoplight, so I put my forehead down against the steering wheel and tried not to pass out. I'm sure my cheeks were crimson. I glanced over at P and in his efforts not to laugh, he was about to implode. "Okay, thanks," I said finally, glancing at my adorable daughter in the backseat.
I guess she figures that since everything on me is bigger than it is on her . . . that must include, well, everything. I'm just grateful that she didn't make this announcement in the check-out line at Kohl's during a Super Saturday Sale or something.
As a nearly three-year member of Weight Watchers and as someone who has lost over 50 pounds, I don't want to think of me or any part of me as being "big." One time the kid did call me "Big Mama" while the three of us were watching TV. As soon as she said it, P sucked in his breath and whispered, "Ooooh, don't ever say that, kiddo."
If you visit us, I would just recommend that you remain fully clothed at all times and that you not make direct eye contact with Little Miss Running Commentary.