Detective Brain

Sometimes when you're missing something,
it's best to hire a professional.

When we have kids, a significant portion of the brain becomes devoted to keeping track of other people's personal items, as well as details about their elimination patterns. At the risk of revealing too much about myself, I hesitate to proffer an exact percentage of brain power utilized for this purpose. Moreover, what I find most concerning is that some information is likely trickling out of my brain in order to make room for things like my kids' names, when their library books are due, and whether or not we need more eggs.  I'm talking about important information that's seeping out, like when I last oiled my paper shredder- it's probably been a year. And whether or not I made their appointments at the pediatrician- I was only 3 months late for the twins' 18 month well-child check this year. (They looked really good when it came to evaluating their milestones- I'm sure that extra 3 months helped.)

I understand and accept that it is somehow my job to keep track of everything that comes through our house, but frankly, I sometimes have trouble keeping track of every PERSON that is in the house. Not too long ago, I forgot that Julia had followed me into the basement.  I finished putting a bunch of boxes away, and turned out all the lights. Sometime later, I realized she was missing, and remembered that she might be downstairs. She was happily playing on the computer. She may have been blogging about being a twin.  I wouldn't put it past her.  Allison probably taught her how to Google. 

I swear I just saw Allison's pink bracelet somewhere.

Although, when children are pestering you with questions every 5 minutes when you are trying to do important things like check Facebook or type up a blog post before you forget the details, they're pretty easy to track.

Mommy!  Do you know where my belt is?

No, I don't know where you put your belt.  The last time I saw it, it was wrapped around the stuffed dog like a collar with a string tied to it for a leash.

Mommy!  Do you know where my black shoes shoes are?
No, I don't know where your black shoes are.  Is it possible that they are in the laundry room with ALL THE OTHER SHOES?  Is it possible that if, when you came in the house, you had taken them off and put them in the laundry room with all the other shoes, that you would then be able to pinpoint their exact location?

Mommy!  Do you have my water bottle?
No, I don't have your water bottle.  I keep my water bottle separate, because I don't like unidentifiable chunks of chewed food floating around in my bottle.  Also, I don't want to drink water that someone has dunked their pudgy grubby hand in.

Once we left Bear at a hotel = DISASTER.

Mommy!  Do you know where Bear is?
No, I don't know where Bear is.  If having Bear is important to you for sleeping at night, then I suggest, as I have suggested in the past, that you leave him in your bed. *Bear is the most disgusting, unsanitary creature in the entire world. He is so thin now that I am considering giving him some of my extra fat cells.  And I have plenty to spare.

Mommy!  Do you know where I left my bookmark?
No, I don't know where you left your bookmark. Can you just use a piece of scrap paper?  Can you just use one of the ten thousand little precious art projects and notes that are covering the fridge and countertops? 

Mommy and Daddy are also guilty.  Have you seen my wallet? My purse? My phone?

iSpy an iPhone.  Can you spy the iPhone?

This is where I keep my Sharpies.

My personal record for losing my phone is 5 times in a day. One time I found it with the ringer turned off and under the couch cushion. It doesn't help that certain children find Mommy's stuff to be far more interesting than their own plentiful toys. This includes but is not limited to purse contents, nail clippers, phone, keys, iPod and camera stuff, and water bottles.

And no, sweetheart, just because I found my water bottle does not mean you can drink out of it. 

The problem is that sometimes kids can be camouflaged.

What Is the Ball Sack For?

The children are surfacing!  Throw in more balls!

No parent looks forward to the inevitable chat about Where Babies Come From.  For the longest time, we got away with "They come from the uterus." I sailed through how they find their way out of the uterus, and what happens if they get stuck.  I was even, sort of, okay with my husband's helpful contribution, "Women basically poop babies out of their vagina." Not exactly accurate, but not exactly inaccurate either.  I let it slide with a firm admonition, "Don't ever EVER talk about this at school."  In the back of my mind, I've always kind of anticipated a phone call from either the school, an irate parent, or Child Protective Services. You would think that with this kind of "at the ready" attitude, I would have been prepared for a particularly LOUD dinner about a year ago.

Some kids have more balls than others.

Picture a crazy dinner, where 3 out of 4 kids are wailing.  And I mean screaming-especially the twins. I don't recall why everyone was upset. My husband had left the table- in my memory, it was to check the scores-- although to be fair, this may not be exactly accurate, but it may not be exactly inaccurate either.  My oldest, the glittering eye of the storm, calmly asked, "Mommy. What is the ball sack for?"  Correctly predicting that my answer would have been something mundane and unsatisfying like, "It's there to hold the balls," he immediately took it back, "I mean, what are BALLS for?" Did I mention the screaming? And it's just me, with no back-up? And no strategy, no prepared speech or presentation?

Umm, they're called testes, not balls. 
Ok, Mom, whatever. What are testes for?*

*Here's where I wish I had had the foresight to have said, "They make testosterone."  I feel like I could have taken the conversation in a whole other direction, and really bought a little time, like a year or two, to come up with a strategy or seek back-up.  It was just difficult to form a complete thought with all that mayhem in the background.  In my not exactly inaccurate memory, the mayhem by this time included a trumpeting elephant herd and a dozen monkeys swinging from my pot rack and flinging feces at each other along with the children. Summoning all my powers of concentration, I tried to buy time with,

Umm, they make sperm.
Well, what are sperm?

Girls can have balls also.  They just don't have
a handy ball sack, and therefore must find
other places to store them.

In an instant, everyone was quiet and eerily still because I was about to say something titillating, forbidden, or on the outskirts of naughtiness.  Or some combination of all three.   Although I might have been willing to take a risk that neither of the twins would choose "SPERM" as one of their first words, I didn't think my then 4 year old daughter needed to be updated about the function of sperm at least for another decade or two.  While my mind raced to think of an answer, in the periphery of my visual field I saw my husband slinking back to the table.  A tsunami of relief washed over me, except that... wait... what the... he caught my eye and literally SPUN AROUND ON HIS HEEL and walked away. As relief turned to disbelief, ire, and bitter thoughts of revenge, I told my son that we would have to postpone this conversation until everyone was in bed.

We managed to get all the kids in bed, but still had not had a chance to discuss strategy- mainly due to the logistics involved in getting four children some combination of undressed, bathed, dried, lotioned, powdered,  diapered, teeth brushed, read-to, snuggled, tucked in, kissed, back-scratched, and lights-outed. Suddenly we heard soft footsteps padding into the room. As we damned that kid's perseverance and reminded ourselves that one should never make promises they aren't willing to keep, we took a deep breath and dove in to THE TALK.

This time my husband did not leave the room (probably because he knew that if he did, his own ball sack would be in serious jeopardy) and instead led the discussion with:

You know that there are differences between girls and boys and men and women, right? 
(Michael nods, elementary stuff here.)
Well, another difference is that women make eggs, and men make sperm. Babies are made when the egg and sperm get together, and the way this happens is...
(Michael interrupts) Oh, I already know this part.
(Parents exchanged alarmed/concerned/curious glances) You do?
(Authoritatively) Yeah, it has to do with movie kissing.
(More glances exchanged.) Ummmmm...well, sort of...
(Michael continues, now confident) When a man and woman movie kiss, the man spits sperm into the woman's mouth, and then she swallows it, and that's how the sperm gets to the egg to make a baby.

And that, folks, is why you should never try to move kiss your sibling.

At this point, we ceased all eye contact.  I may have stopped breathing.  What went through my mind was a THIS COULD HAPPEN scenario where we were at someone's house for Thanksgiving, and Grandma, wheelchair-bound by her weak heart, is there having brought what might be her last green Jell-o and cottage cheese salad mold with the family.  Her head bobs, Jell-o salad-like, enjoying every minute because it could be her last, when there is a knock on the door.  It's strapping, boisterous cousin Kurt, who has just returned from his overseas war assignment, and no one has told his wife that he was coming home on leave. Surprise! She screams, startling Grandma who recovers, but looks pale, and then (the wife) throws herself on him and they movie kiss like no one has ever movie kissed before.  Suddenly, my son screams in delight, "MOM!  THEY'RE MAKING A BABY RIGHT NOW IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY!"  Grandma hears this, startles again, and that's it.  No green Jell-o cottage cheese salad for the next family gathering.  I felt like if we didn't correct his misinformation, I could someday be responsible for some poor woman's death.  I just couldn't live with that.

Movie kissing is for responsible grown-ups.

So we told him how sperm really gets to the egg, keeping it simple. Like every other kid his age, he thought it was disgusting, but was immediately able to apply his newfound more accurate knowledge, and formulate a few clarification questions.

So...YOU MEAN... that you and Daddy...?
Yes. Every person was basically conceived this way. You, your sisters and your brother, Mommy and Daddy, your grandparents...
So... YOU MEAN... that Grandma and Papa...?
Yes. EVERYONE YOU KNOW.  Grandma and Papa too. 

And then that was it.  He padded back to bed, and to fill in the gaps, we bought him Where Did I Come From? the very next day. When we gave it to him, he scurried away, read it in 10 minutes, and then gave it back to us.

Mommy?  Where do cavities
come from?

Well, do you have any questions? 
 No.  Have you seen my toothpaste?

But his mind was churning.  The next day, while driving in the car, he asked my husband if redheads also had red hair in their pubic area. I think my husband said something about only if their hair wasn't dyed. (silent thank you for not introducing handy phrases such as carpet and drapes)  The book has since been put away.  I'm pretty sure our daughter hasn't yet picked it up, but I imagine that it won't be too much longer.  I will be no better prepared, because I don't think you can really predict exactly what angle it's going to take.  Sometimes those balls just roll out of the sack and come flying at you out of nowhere.

*Big thank you to Michelle, who reminded me of the movie kissing part as I was telling her how I was struggling to write this post, and feeling like it just wasn't coming together the way a good sperm and egg should.