My children like to talk. A lot. We have a video of my daughter telling a story when she was three and she doesn’t finish before the tape ran out…after 30 minutes.

Though, at times, it can drive me crazy, I’m glad my kids talk to me. Our conversations have opened the doors to discussions that (hopefully) let my children know that I’ll always be honest with them. If they ask me something, I do my best to give them a truthful, accurate answer.

Being that kids are naturally curious about the human body, this means that some of the things we’ve talked about would make typical parents squirm. That’s right, I’m talking about ex-say. (Ha! Find me now, spammers!) I have always spoken openly about ex-say because we’re all human and it’s a topic that everyone has to deal with at one time or another. God gave us noses to smell and He gave us other parts for other things.

I discuss these things with them because I believe that knowledge is power. I want my kids to be armed and ready to make informed decisions…when they are adults and have finished college and are married to someone who loves and respects them and tells them the sun rises and sets with their smile.

Depending on the age at which they have asked questions, I have had to use language that my children will understand. Which may have backfired on me when my son once told a complete stranger that he had babies in his bawlz.

But, as it turns out, I may have confused my daughter as well. A couple of years ago, when I first explained how babies are conceived, I apparently messed things up quite a bit.

Let’s just say that the other night she told me that she walked away from that conversation thinking that a women had to chew up the man’s parts…as if sitting down to a steak dinner…in order to have a baby.

I’m glad we cleared that up before she meets her future husband.

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At my daughter’s fifth-grade basketball game on Saturday the other team had a center who was quite large for her age. Actually, large doesn’t even cut it. This girl stood a good foot above the other girls and likely weighs more than my husband.

I, having reached the towering height of 5′ 9″ by the time I finished seventh grade, could feel her pain. Though at least this girl was smart enough to play a sport in which height is an asset. The only thing for which I used my height at that age was hiding out in my basement pretending to be a Solid Gold dancer.

Of course, when my seven year old son spotted the overwhelming presence towering over his sister, he had to say something. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he exclaimed, “Wow! That is a really BIG BOY!”

I quickly hushed him then said, “Hey! That’s not nice. You can’t say things like that.”

He looked at her again, looked at me and said, “Sorry”.

Then he paused before saying, “That is a really BIG GIRL!”

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