Walmart and God's Revenge: The Hairy Peety Pit

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Originally uploaded by Fatty Will Rule the World!.

I don't know about you, but I had Hallmark Card visions of how the big birds-n-bees discussion would happen with my children:

We would be laying in bed, having just finished a peaceful before-bedtime story about how Ba'hai defeated the Devil Dog with nothing but a ball of yarn and a spork, when a sweet angellic face would gaze up to me with wondering, trusting eyes and say, "Dear Mother, Where do babies come from?" And of course, I would a handle the whole situation with a plum and a graceful coop de grass. And everyone would sleep and be quiet and I would go drink a large beer mug full of Strawberry Hill. And of course, this wouldn't happen until the child was 17 or 18.

But like most things in list (re: the karma thing discussed below), you can't plan for it.

There we were at 3 PM on an unusually-hot-June-afternoon in the parking lot of a Super Wal-mart. A place that should be avoided at all costs whenever possible. I had just walked out of the sliding doors to hell, with two boys and some groceries packed into one of those Mac trucks that they provide for "super breeders" with more than one child, the ones with that whole back area devoted to wrapping and strapping children so the Mini-Me's cannot escape while I'm studying various scents of deoderant. The basket is heavy on its own. Add groceries and 100 pounds of hellions-in-training, turn the heater on full blast, and spray some "ode to an armpit" air freshener, and you have the picture.

As I am pushing this load out to the car, trying not to him-ridge brain cells, Boudreaux turns and asks,

"Mom, where do babies come from?"

Fatty: (silence)

[Fatty's Panicked Brain: If I ignore this, it will go away.]

B: "I said, Mom, where do babies come from?"

[FPB: Stork? Magic? Twinkies? GOOD GOD HELP ME!]

B: "Mom, why aren't you answering me?"

F: "Babies come from their mother's tummies."

B: "I know that. But how do they get there?"

[FPB: How can I make this easy? Can't I lie?!?]

F: "From an egg inside the mommy."

B: "I KNOW THAT. But how does it turn into a baby?"

[FPB: Sweet Jesus! Do we really have to have this conversation in the Walmart parking lot, right here with the grease spots and the open McDonald's cups and the nasty old black birds and the hicks in their overalls with no shirts and the heat and the groceries and is this what death is going to be like I'm just going to have a heart attack in the Walmart parking lot and die here in the sun, right here in the most un-graceful, noxious place in the universe? is this really where these moments have to happen? oh well, you get what you get and you don't throw a friggin' fit.]

F: "The Daddy has some special stuff that makes the egg turn into a baby."

[FPB: Whew! That was good. Now maybe he'll shut up and ruminate on that for a while.]

B: "Okay, but how does that get to the egg?"

[FPB: WWBD! WHAT WOULD BUMPUS DO?!? Bumpus would get a napkin from the bar and draw a diagram and then he would laugh and drink his beer and life would be okay. So where is the bar? where...is...THE...BEER?]

F: "The Daddy puts the stuff inside the Mommy?"

B: "Right, but how?"

[FPB: AAAAAaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhh!]

F: "He uses his Peety."

[FPB: Ha! That'll fix em. Now they both have something to think about (Rufus has been listening intently so he can repeat this at vacation bible school). I've shocked them with my stealthy frankness and now they'll leave me alone.]

B: "But HOW does he use his Peety?"

[FPB: GOOD GOD IS THERE NO MERCY?]

F: "He puts his Peety inside the Mommy."

(Seriously questioning looks from both Boudreaux and Rufus)

[FPB: A HA! Take THAT!]

B: "Where?"

F: "Through an opening in her bottom."

B: (silence)

F: "You know...girls don't have Peetys."

B and R: "HAAAAAAAA haaaa haaa! Girls don't have Peetys! Can you buh-leeve it?!?"

B: "Then how do girls go to the bathroom?"

[FPB: And lo, I am defeated...I will succumb and provide all requested information in audience-appropriate terms.]

F: "Girls have three areas on their bottoms: one for tee-tee, one for poop, and one for babies."

B: "But how does that work with the Daddy?"

F: "Well, the Mommy's part is sort of inverted, on the inside, so it sort of matches up with the Dad's peety."

Rufus: "And it's called THE HAIRY PEETY PIT!"

And yea, my suffering was ending by raw-kus laughter, the repeated screaming of "MOMMY's GOT A HAIRY PEETY PIT," and the chance to put my groceries in the car.