While sitting in the general waiting area at L’s doctor’s appointment yesterday, I was handed a pile of paperwork. The usual stuff… Brushes teeth, eats a billion servings of vegetables every single day, doesn’t spend 12 hours in front of a video game… We happened upon a printout on puberty.
Apparently, girls can start puberty at age 8 these days. Who knew?
L was reading over my shoulder and said, “what starts to happen at age 8? What does that mean?”
(He’s terrified. I can hear it in his voice.)
M: “Well, that age applies only to girls. Seems some girls’ bodies can start to change when they’re eight years old.”
L: “Like what? What kind of changes? Like they get wrinkles?”
L: “Okay, so what happens to boys when they turn 10?”
M: “How would I know? I’m not a boy. You’ll have to ask your dad.”
One thing I know: When the front door is shut and locked, we are a wildly inappropriate family.
We have a habit of trying to pants each other at every available opportunity. Our version rarely involves any success. It really is the journey. In other words, if one is wearing sweats or some other elasticized waistband garb, better grab on and tug. This leads to shrieks, laughter, and planting oneself firmly on the ground.
I sometimes wonder if the neighbors can hear us laughing, chasing, and ending up in a heap. Then I think, well, if everyone were to stop being so serious and just try a bit of pantsing, maybe everyone really would get along.