Paging Dr. Baby...

The phone rang when my hands were 6-inches into the pizza dough. I managed to get it under my ear without getting flour in my hair.

"Um, yes, hello," said the telemarketer. "May I speak to...uh...Doctor...(insert horrible pronunciation of my son's name)."

"Are you physic?" you wonder. "How did you know it was a telemarketer?"

Well, as smart as my son may be, I have yet to pay for him to complete hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical school. And he is three.

But I politely handed the phone into his sticky, eager hands.

The caller hung in there through several renditions of the ABC's. She called it quits when he asked her if she makes chocolate kisses on the potty.

I guess Capital One doesn't have training for that.

Sex Ed, Take One

When I was giving Baby Boy a bath today, he asked me if I had a penis.

I took it way too far and explained that not only did I have a vagina, just like (named every woman/girl in his life) but that he came out of my vagina when he was born.

He sat with that for a few hours.

At the grocery store this afternoon, he asked me about 30 extra-loud times in front of the cashier, bagger and ten people behind me if he could go back into my Vagina.

Since there was no context to be had, I imagine DHS will be knocking any moment now.

Van Gogh

Dear Son of Mine,

It is one thing when you accidently pee on the kitchen floor.

It is quite another when you pee on the floor and then ask me where the paint brushes are...