“Mommy,” he began innocently enough, “How did I get to be a baby?”
I cleverly bought some time by choking on my toast. “Uh,” (cough, cough) “What?”
“You know, a baby? Was I an egg first?”
(Feeling fairly comfortable with this rudimentary explanation) “Yes, yes, that's it. You were an egg.” Smiles all around.
“Uh, huh,” murmured Short, while staring intently at his older brother eating scrambled eggs, “How did I get in your tummy? Did you eat me?”
More choking. More toast crumbs spewing across the table.
“No, Short, I did not eat you.”
“Then how did I get in your tummy?”
Long pause. Too long. “God put you there.”
(He seemed happy with this answer.)
“Okay. Hmm ... how did I get out?”
“The doctor got you out.”
His eyes lit up. “Oh! You went to the doctor’s office, and he got me out!”
“Yep!”
I was really wishing it was a Saturday or Sunday and that The Husband was there to help me with this. And that’s why I won’t make scrambled eggs for breakfast anymore during the week.
MOV
