I know all too well never (NEVER!!!) to ask my children if they have any questions. About anything. Because what I'll get in return is bombardment with multiple, rapid-fire queries on topics ranging from the man in the moon to chocolate milk to parking lots.
"Mom, is there really a man in the moon? How do we know it's a man and not a woman?" Has anyone met the guy?
"What kind of chocolate is in chocolate milk? How do they get the chocolate in there? Do they melt it? Why does the chocolate in the container look all pebbly?"
"Do you have to pay to put the car in a parking lot? Why can't we keep a car in our apartment? How about a pool? Can we have a pool in the living room?"
So, never do I solicit questions. It's a matter of self-preservation.
Our lovely pediatrician, Dr. C., however, doesn't apparently know this.
So after Seth and Jesse's eight-year-checkup, which involved two naked boys hiding under the table crying while she attempted to give them their shots, Dr. C., made the fatal error.
"Any questions, guys?"
There followed a 20-minute session that had Dr. C., at its conclusion, literally holding up her hands and backing out of the room in surrender.
I can't recall them all, but a couple of the gems were:
Seth: "How long can a penis get? How long will my penis get?"
Jesse: "How are babies really made? You can tell me. I promise I won't talk about it in school. Mommy told me I'm not allowed to."
Seth: "I know, I know! You bump your privates together and it has something to do with this (points to his bare, eight-year-old chest)."
Jesse: "Does your butt ever hurt? Mine does. But why?"
Dr. C., wiping the tears from her eyes. "I love my job."
Sigh. Makes a mother proud.