Hannah's birthday is tomorrow. She's uber-excited. She makes a ferret in a hall of mirrors look subdued. At dinner tonight she was talking about the girls who are coming to her birthday party on Saturday, and the possible gifts she might receive. What started out as a predictable discussion of stuff-I-want turned quickly sweet. And then disturbing. Observe:
Hannah: There are so many things that I want that can't come in a package.
Husband: (off-stage) Like pizza sauce?
Hannah and Me: Eww!
Hannah: Plus, pizza sauce might be in a jar, so it could be in a package.
Me: So what do you mean?
Hannah: Like you. And Daddy.
Me: (kind of melty) Oh, sweetie, you have us anyway, so you wouldn't need a package, right?
Hannah: And love.
Me: (still melty and now beaming)
Hannah: And a baby.
Me: (now blanching) Um. You're a little young for babies.
Hannah: But I love them. Besides, I meant for you to have a baby.
Me: Oh, I'm all done having babies. Sorry.
Anyway, how do you keep babies from just popping out all the time?
Me: Well. Uh. Moms and Dads have to do things to make babies happen.
(at this point I know I'm on thin ice)
Hannah: (here it comes) Like what?
Like plan for a baby. And Daddy and I aren't planning any more babies. We're all done.
Hannah: Well I'm planning them for you. Let's see, if it's a girl... but if it's a boy... (trails off theatrically)
You'll notice that the Husband was decidedly absent from the whole conversation once the discussion of pizza was clearly off the table.
Mind you, I've already told Hannah how the baby comes out, and she found the idea disgusting. But she asked. I'm just not ready to talk about how they get in there in the first place.
Yep. Still procrastinating. She's seven, people! At least until tomorrow she is.