Conversations with a Three-Year-Old (Alternate Title: Momma Needs to Be Quicker on her Feet)

Conversation One:
Henry and I lie in his bed, enjoying one last hug before he slept.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Henry."

"Do you have a baby in your tummy?" (This is Henry's question du jour these days. I'm hoping it's because we've recently spent time with two very pregnant women and not because I eat fast food and doughnuts everyday.)

"No, baby, I don't." I really hope the conversation ends here. It doesn't.

"Why not?", he queries.

My brilliant answer: "I just don't. Goodnight."


Conversation Two:
Henry sat in my lap, facing me. He stared at my chest.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"How do you play with boobies?" (Yup--boobies. Ta Tas. Breasts. Melons.)

My words were gone. I offered no response to his query. So I just stared at him like he stared at my chest.

(When I relayed the conversation to Hubby, he did a mental high five with his boy. I just know he did.)

Conversation with a Six-Year-Old

Tonight, I put Abby to bed. We enjoyed our typical nice long snuggle in the dark room with a cozy bed. I hugged her goodbye and started to pad out of the sleepy room. As I neared the end of her bed, I heard, "Mama, how old do I have to be to have a boyfriend?"

I stopped in my padded tracks.

"Well," I said, "probably 16 or so. Why?"

"I just want one. I want to be married."

Again, I asked, "Why? Why do you want to be married? "

Abby answered, "I just do."

"Well (I said again), marriage is great. But you shouldn't rush to marry. Be young, get an education and travel to fabulous places first."

The conversation paused in the darkness. Then Abby asked, "How many hours a day will I be in first grade?"

"About eight", I told her.

"Mama?", she asked.

"Yes babe."

"Will it snow here in New Jersey at Christmas?"

"Yes, it sure could", I answered.

"YES!!", she shouted into the dark. I heard the air swoosh as she lifted her exubulant fist into the air. Then, "Goodnight, Mama."

"Goodnight."

Highway and New Way

We're on a massive road trip--the family and I have been traveling for a month. All our belongings are packed and we're moving to a new state, a new city, a new adventure. We left the home we know and are en route to one we don't yet know. We drive from spot to spot, reconnecting with dear friends and family as we carve our new way home.

As I watch the white dashed lines of the highway tick by, I realize the irony of simultaneously getting further from home while also getting closer. Then an obvious thought, but an epiphany just the same: home is us, right here, on four wheels. The white lines are merely markers, paving the path we've chosen to take.

Comfort, friends and the-way-life-used-to-be get smaller in the rear view mirror; question marks and uncertainty try to loom ahead, but excitement and a smiling fresh start prevail.