Milk, milk, lemonade...

Petal proudly told me that she knows where milk comes from.

I quietly prayed that she wouldn’t say ‘the supermarket’.

“Where’s that, darling?”

“From cows,” she beamed.

“That’s right, well done.”

She followed it up with… “And I know what part of the cow it comes out of!”

“Its udder?” I suggested.

Petal shook her head.

“No, its penis.”

Boy or girl?

Petal asked me if a baby we'd met early that day had been a boy or girl.

"It was a little girl," I told her.

Petal's eyes dropped downwards. She was clearly embarrassed that she couldn't tell the difference.

"Don't worry, darling," I consoled. "It's really hard to tell to difference between boy and girl babies."

A relieved Petal looked up and nodded, "Yes, because boy babies don't have beards."

A wee bit obvious

"Oh no, why did you wet your pants?" I asked Rocket, who has been toilet-trained for many months.

His response?

"I did a wee in them."

Who ate the baby?

Rocket, who is only two years old, was telling me that he could remember being in my tummy.

I doubt he could actually recall his womb days, but I went along with it anyway.

"I can't go in there now," he told me.

"That's right, you're too big," I agreed.

He nodded and informed me, "Yes, I won't fit in your mouth."

Milking it

Curious as ever, Petal was asking me about breastfeeding. I told her that when she was a baby, I had breastfed her.

“I didn’t like it,” she reflected. I was surprised she remembered it at all.

“Why not?” I had to find out.

Without a blink, she replied: “I don’t like cow’s milk.”

Animal instinct

Petal announced to me she knew where animals live.

“Where’s that, darling?” I was curious to hear what she’d say.

This was her list:

“Zoos, farms, aquariums and Canada.”

Eye, eye, Captain

Walking down the street, Rocket saw an elderly man with a patch over his eye.

Excitedly, he yelled, “It’s a pirate!”

No, Son, more likely glaucoma.

Doggy style

Rocket told me he's been doing yoga at daycare, then he showed me his downward dog.

I was impressed until he started barking.

Sour face

This morning I caught Petal sneaking something out of the fridge and dashing into her bedroom, firming closely the door behind her.

I couldn’t figure out what treat she’d found in there. Cakes? Lollies? Broccoli (I wish…)

I quietly opened her door to find her swigging from a bottle of Lemon Squeeze. That’s 100% undiluted, bitter-as-all-hell, lemon juice.

Odd.

Feeling like a boob

Rocket told me this morning:

"I like your boob."

Yes, just the one.

What am I?

Petal woke me this morning to tell me she'd written three sentences about me. They were:

1) My mummy can't be a fish.
2) My mummy can't be a shark.
3) My mummy can't be a duck.

My question is: who said I could be?

Given the boot

Rocket and Petal are watching television together.

“My love Dora,” declares Rocket.

Cue an opportunity for Petal to tease him.

“Ha, ha, Dora is your girrrrl-friend.”

“No, she not!” protests Rocket.

I’m proud of him standing up to his big sister. C’mon, as if he’d think he could have a romantic relationship with an animated character.

Pity he follows it up with…

“Boots is my boyfriend.”

Wet dog?

In the bathroom this morning, Rocket asked me if he could have a ‘shower dog’.

I had no idea what he meant until her pointed to his sister’s ‘shower cat’.

Ah, yes, her shower cap.

Mwah!

Petal confessed to me that she’d almost kissed a boy at school.

“What happened?” I was intrigued.

“We were standing in line and he was in front of me, so I tried to kiss his back but he turned around and saw me.”

“And…?” This was getting interesting.

“He asked, ‘What are you doing?’”

“What did you say?” I was gripped.

“I told him I was sounding out the letter ‘M’. Mmmm…”

He bought it.

Wet, wet, wet

When Petal prefers to have a shower on her own, she asks me:

“Can I have a lonely shower?”

Strangely, a wave of sadness comes over me.

Go underpants!

Rocket loves to watch Wonder Pets. There’s only one problem… he thinks the show is called Underpants and gets quite annoyed at my giggles when he sings the theme song:

Underpants!
Underpants!
We're on our way
To help a friend
And save the day
We're not too big
And we're not too tough
But when we work together
We've got the right stuff
Go, Underpants!

She-male

Rocket gives me a big cuddle, then lovingly tells me I’m his ‘best man’.

I’m flattered and insulted at the same time.

Walking the plank

Rocket thought it would be hilarious to flash his sister.

She was less than impressed.

"Stop it, that's private!" she firmly told him, while pointing to his nether regions.

Rocket burst into tears. Devastated, he came up to me and sobbed:

"She said my willy is a pirate".

Cocked ear

Rocket was carefully examining the cover of a DVD we'd hired.

"My look like him," he said, pointing to the boy on the cover.

"Yes, a little bit," I agreed, although there seemed to be barely a resemblance.

"He a boy," Rocket pointed out.

"That's true," I couldn't deny that.

"He got a penis," Rocket added.

I was about to agree again, until I noticed Rocket was pointing to the boy's ear.

I’ve got a what?

Rocket was sitting on my lap when he looked up at me and said:

“You got a cock.”

I was a little disturbed for two reasons. 1) Where had he heard that word? 2) Why did he think I had one?

“Um, no I don’t,” I explained to him without wanting to make too much of a fuss over his x-rated choice of words.

“You got a cock,” he said again, as he grabbed my wrist and pointed out my watch.

A-ha, my clock.

Pick-up artist

As Petal undressed for her evening shower, she left a trail of clothing from the lounge room to the bathroom.


“Come and pick up your clothes, young lady!” I called out to her.

She came back into the lounge room, took one look at her strewn clothes, then marched off into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She trotted back in with a pair of tongs.

“I’m picking up my undies,” she said, as she reached down to snap them up. “I’m not touching them – they’re disgusting!”

Hairy subject

While visiting my mother, Petal drew a picture of her. When Petal showed us her artistic work, my mum and I were a little perplexed by the strange lines Petal had drawn on my mum’s face.


“What are those lines?” I asked.

“They are Gangi’s whiskers”, she replied.

There was an awkward silence while I discreetly checked my mother’s upper-lip for any stray hairs and Petal’s red-faced grandma muttered something about investing in some Veet…

“Gangi’s doesn’t have whiskers,” I assured Petal.

Petal peered long and hard at Gangi’s face.

“Yes, she does,” she nodded. “Look at those lines around her eyes”.

“Ah, her wrinkles!” I exclaimed, turning to my mum and gleefully explaining, “See, you haven’t got whiskers, just lots of wrinkles!”

Oops.

YAWN!

Petal lets out a huge, tonsil-exposing yawn.

“You must be tired,” I tell her.

“No, I’m not,” she protests.

“But I just saw you yawn,” I argue back.

Always with the last word, Petal tells me:

“That’s because my mouth is tired, but I’m not!”

Tummy time

As I stepped into the shower this morning, Petal squealed with delight.

"What are you so happy about?" I asked.

She smiled, gazing at my stomach.

"You have baby in your tummy!" she chimed.

I'm not pregnant.

I broke the news to her gently that she was not getting another brother or sister soon.

Then I told her to say goodbye to Mummy as I would be going for a run for the next 40 years.