Things That Are True - My Kid's a Genius

The other day The Imp was paging through a magazine that was sitting on our coffee table. He paused at a shampoo ad and looked up at HWSNBN.

The Imp: Is this a commercial?
HWSNBN, glancing up from his reading: Yes, it is. It's a commercial for shampoo.
The Imp: There's a girl in the commercial. Do only girls use this shampoo?
HWSNBN, taking more interest now: Well, I think that mostly women would use that shampoo, yes.
The Imp, not satisfied: But how many? How many girls use the shampoo?
HWSNBN: I don't know. I'd guess that this kind of shampoo would be used by women 95% of the time.
The Imp stops; thinks. Then: So only 5% of the time boys would use it?

HWSNBN and I gawk at each other across the room. Um, what?

The Imp is three years old. I fear he may be smarter than both of us.

(Help!)

But also: how awesome is it that my genius three year old can differentiate between editorial and advertising? Do we win at parenting or what?!

Things That Are True - Overthinking

Since one of our dearest friends had a baby six weeks ago, The Imp has been playing, and talking, a lot about babies in tummies, babies being born, and about being a mommy. He's insisted at different times that he's a baby, that he's a big boy, that he wants to be in my tummy, that he's not a baby because babies can't walk, or talk, or do much of anything. He also tells me daily that he's a mommy*. Specifically, George's mommy.

Should I tell him putting George in the fridge isn't going to win him any parenting awards?

He arranges all his stuffies in a row, and tells me he's their mommy and that he's reading them stories and putting them to bed. I hear him, playing in his room, threatening various toys with the dreaded Naughty Corner. (Oh dear.)

This past weekend, visiting with friends, The Imp was playing with a big kangaroo stuffie they had. I explained pouches and joeys and hopping and Australia, and didn't give it another thought. This morning before daycare, The Imp was quite adamant that he was a kangaroo mommy, and that George was a joey. Sure, why not?

But then he was using his kangaroo-mommyhood as an excuse to not get dressed and go to daycare. Time for a little chat, clearly.

Me: You're a kangaroo mommy?
The Imp: Yeah. George is a joey and I'm his mommy.
Me: Well, it's time to put on some pants, kangaroo mommy.
The Imp: (looking at me like I was an idiot) Kangaroo don't wear pants, Mommy.

Damn. He kind of had me there.

Me: (Trying a new tack) Are you a kangaroo at school?
The Imp: No. I'm a kangaroo mommy at home.
Me: You're just a mommy at home? Not at school?
The Imp: Just at home. Not at school.

In a split second, my mind was racing with fears that I'd somehow managed to give The Imp a skewed view of motherhood. "Oh no!" I thought. "I've somehow imparted to him that motherhood belongs at home. I've inadvertently taught him that femininity and masculinity belong in entirely separate spheres. I've indicated through my words and actions that women do not belong at school or work. Oh jebus,  have I messed up the gender roles already? Or is there pressure from the other kids at daycare to be more masculine there? I'm a horrible mother for putting him in daycare when I work from home. Oh fuck. What have I done?!?" As showers of mama-guilt rained down upon my head, I managed to keep my game face on and ask:

Me: If you're a mommy at home, what are you at school?
The Imp: (without missing a beat) A light bulb.


Yeah. Maybe I was overthinking the whole gender-roles thing a little, there.



*I'm not worried about the gender discussion around who's a mommy and who's a daddy at this point. If The Imp says he's a mommy, he's a mommy. He'll sort out the gender stuff in the fullness of time, and be whoever he is.

Things That Are Almost True - Girls Have...

LEGO Minifig Anatomy, from the flickr stream of Tim Norris, who credits Jason Freeny

There has been much discussion of body parts lately in the SNBN household.

Specifically, penises. There has been little else that has captivated The Imp's imagination quite as much as the Ineffable Mystery of the Penis.

A frequent topic of conversation over our breakfast toast and smoothie, it goes something like this:

The Imp: Mommy, where's your penis?
Me: I don't have a penis. I'm a woman, and women and girls don't have penises. Girls have vaginas.

I believe in using real words for real things. There are no wee-wees or pee-pees in our house.

The Imp: Mommy don't have a penis?
Me: That's right. Mommies don't have penises. Boys have penises.
The Imp: I have a penis.
Me: Yes, you do.
The Imp: Daddy has a penis?
Me: Yes, Daddy has a penis.
The Imp: Uncle David has a penis?
Me: (cringing, a bit) Yes, Uncle David has a penis.
The Imp: Grandpa has a penis?
Me: (cringing, a lot) Yes honey, Grandpa has a penis.

As we nibble on our toast and peanut butter, The Imp lists every member of our circle of friends and extended family - basically everyone he's ever met - clarifying just who does, and who does not, in fact have a penis.

Once we've discussed the landlord, the letter carrier, the teachers at daycare, the man in the elevator yesterday, and the cashier at the grocery store, The Imp thinks about things. Ponders. Mulls.

And then says:

The Imp: But Mommy, where's your penis?

Second verse; same as the first! Everybody now!!


Sigh.

These conversations have been going on for some time, but have ramped up in frequency and intensity recently as we've introduced concepts of potty training and big boy underwear. Now, in addition to penises, we have to discuss who does and does not have underwear. This is a little easier, since everyone who's not in diapers wears underwear. (Or so I would have The Imp believe. There are things he can find out on his own, in the fullness of time, while I plug my ears and cover my eyes and sing la-la-la-la-la at the top of my lungs.)

Last Saturday after my morning shower, The Imp walked into the bathroom as I was toweling off.* The first question he asked, of course, was:

The Imp: Where's your penis, Mommy?
Me: (for the one millionth time) I don't have a penis, honey, I'm a girl.

The Imp: (thinking) Boys have penises.
Me: That's right, honey, boys have penises. And I'm not a boy.

The Imp: (beaming, because he's finally got it figured out) Boys have penises! (shouting) Boys have penises, and girls have... PYJAMAS!!

Me: (trying to keep a straight face and failing utterly) That's right, honey. Girls have pyjamas.

(Or so I would have The Imp believe. Again, there are things he can find out on his own, in the fullness of time, while I plug my ears and cover my eyes and sing la-la-la-la-la at the top of my lungs.)


*We have no locks on the bathroom doors; The Imp locked himself into, and us out of, the bathroom one too many times, so we had the landlord remove the locks. The Imp's not slowed down much by a closed door.