Jack loves music. At any given point in the day, the spunky three year-old is humming, dancing, singing or tapping his fingers and/or toes to the rolodex of melodies running amok in his mind. To watch the child is to witness first-hand the saying “mile-a-minute” because that is the speed at which his brain is working.
Being the poster-mom for awareness I am consistently monitoring the quality of music I allow to pass through Jack’s eardrums. Okay, “poster-mom” might be a slight exaggeration. Well, for that matter, “awareness” and “consistently monitoring” could also be a bit of a misrepresentation but let’s not dwell on that.
Last week, I was cleaning the kitchen (surprise, surprise, surprise) while watching Jack try to pull off a pilates move on my newest exercise machine, the Pilates Performer. Recently my parents, craving a clutter-free office, passed the two-pulleyed death machine my way. The only problem is that I have no manual or exercise chart to reference and have been forced to create my own special form of pilates…the Mindylates. I know, great name, right? Basically it consists of a lot of laying down, exercise handles in ready position and contemplating moving. Baby steps, really.
Anyway, so I’m washing something or wiping down something and look over to see Jack pulling himself back and forth on the Pilates machine. It takes me about a millisecond of observation to realize he’s moving in a certain rhythm and mumbling to himself.
I smiled, watching my youngest thoroughly enjoying himself. And then quite suddenly, shattering the endearing moment, I hear the following words spill out of the innocent babe’s mouth…
“Let’s talk about sex baby…duh, duh, duh, duh…”
Completely unbeknownst to the little man jamming to Salt ‘n Pepa in his own private concert, his mother was standing behind him utterly shell-shocked.
Once I was able to pick myself back up off the floor I stammered, “Jack? What did you just say???”
He turned around to look up at me, cocked his head to one side, and in what I swear was cinematic slow motion, answered, “I said ssssseeeeexxxxx.”
Now, there are certain things that universally should never happen. Like for instance, dogs shouldn’t meow. The sun shouldn’t rain. Water shouldn’t make you fat (although I have some theories about this one). And three year-olds should not say the word “sex.”
Still reeling in shock I managed to ask, “Jackson…um…where on earth did you hear that?”
And Avery, suddenly manifesting out of nowhere to succeedinglydeepen my humiliation answered, “Oh. We heard that song on that tape you gave us to listen to. Remember? When you told us to go play and we said we didn’t want to and you said ‘tough, go listen to this tape?'”
“Sex!” Jack piped in, now performig scissor kickson the pilates machine. (Note to self ~ Jack couldtotally be my personal trainer.)
“Jack! You don’t need to keep saying it, okay?” I pleaded.
Avery added, “Yeah…there’s this whole song about sex. On your tape. The one you made us listen to.”
“Yeah, sex!” Jack yelled.
“Okay. Kids. S-E-X is not a word that we typically use when we’re three and seven years old, okie dokie?” Deep breaths.
“Okie dokie,” Avery answered. My little angel. We both looked at Jack, awaiting his confirmation of the emergency-enacted ‘Let’s Not Talk About Sex’ policy.
With a twinkle in his mischevious eye he said, “Okay, mommy.” Which, in three year-old speak totally means, “Okay, mommy, untilwe are standing in a busy grocery store line behind the pastor, the school principal and the PTA president during which time I will ultimately decide to spontaneously yell the forbidden word with verve and vigor.”
I dodged a bullet here, folks. I have no doubts that the next time this conversation comes up it will most likely be accompanied by a little spunk and a whole lot of curiosity.
Until then, I will continue to live ina little bit of shame for the junk I subject my kids to and a whole lot of fear for the inevitable.
Pray for me.