Last night at the dinner table, over our deLICious bowls of curried lentil soup, we were having a (typically high-brow) discussion of the effects of legumes on the, er, digestive tract. Somehow we got onto the fact that my system is significantly altered from its original state, and the A-man noted, “Mommy can’t have any more babies.”
“That’s right,” replied Mr. Wonderful. “No more kids for our family.”
Without missing a beat, A returned, “Yeah, she’s been neutered.”
I was heading off for my daily kip when I realized that I had put the blanket and comforter from my bed into the wash, and they weren’t finished yet. Never one to let a minor inconvenience come between me and forty winks, I stopped by the playroom to ask my five-year-old if he would mind if Mommy borrowed his comforter to wrap up in for her Quiet Time.
He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, and in the sweetest, most concerned voice, asked, “Will it get cancer on it?”
You can’t make this stuff up.