Oh, dear lord, help me.
Princess got kissed at school. By a boy.
This was NOT supposed to happen, not yet, anyway! I mean, besides the fact that, when I was four, I was schooling my older sister (and anyone else who would listen) about the *ahem* birds and the bees. Mum isn’t entirely sure how I found out, but I don’t remember ever not knowing. I didn’t know all the technicalities, of course, but I sure understood that babies were made from a man and a lady, and something to do with a limousine and a garage.
Princess was only 18 months old when BoyChild was born, and was three-and-a-half when BabyGirl was born, so we have had ample opportunity to expose her to whole business around babies and conception and the like, and we definitely adopt an “honesty is best” mantra with our kids.
And, I am ashamed to admit, the first time Princess asked me, “Mum – how are babies made?”, I giggled. And then realised she was serious. And giggled again. She didn’t have to tell me to grow up, her eyes said it for her. I went into a stumbled answer about men having sperm and women having eggs, and the two combining to make a baby that grows in Mummy’s tummy, that then comes out, either through the vagina or cut through the stomach.
She had a few ‘follow-up’ questions.
“Do I have an egg in my tummy???” Yes, it’s very, very, very, very tiny though.
“Does Daddy have sperms then?” Yes.
“I’m never going to have a baby”. Ok.
And that was that. No further discussion, just a shrug of the shoulders and she was off playing a new game. I mean, aside from the time she informed my friend, relatively loudly, that babies were made with SPERMS and EGGS and IN MUMMYS TUMMY, she has been relatively okay about the whole deal.
And then, she started school.
I don’t want to blame the boys in her class entirely, but my beautiful, lady like Princess has turned into a right little potty mouth. Everything is “poo” this and “bum bum” that, “farty face” and “poos and wees bum bum big fat farty poo poo mouth head”.
Again, I shouldn’t be surprised. I was anything but ladylike as a young girl. And even now, I like a good rude joke as much as the next person, but there is something else when it is your little girl. Your Princess.
Don’t worry – Mr T has already threatened to go down to the school yard in the lunch break to “sort those boys out”, but we both know that *sigh* there is nothing we can do. It’s innocent, it’s about growth, and it’s perfectly normal.
I only hope she keeps her “boys are gross” thing a bit longer than I did. Six is FAR too young for a first boyfriend. My poor mother.