Tempest Fugit

In the same week my granddaughter turned eight, my ten year-old grandson regaled us at the dinner table with an anecdote of how a cat in a cage at the shelter kept pawing at his "testicles". He clearly loved the way the word 'testicles' tumbles trippingly from his tongue, and three times worked it into one paragraph of the recounting.

Gramps: "They're not testicles, dammit, they're NUTS".

Nana obviously not enjoying the banter nearly so much as her table mates.

In a related, maybe, incident, the grandson's mother saw the grandson and his buddy snickering and tee-heeing on the sofa after a brief, whispered conversation. Upon inquiry she learned that Friend had just informed Grandson that babies come from "a girl's poophole".

Never one to pass up an opportunity to banish misinformation, my beloved daughter, mother of my grandson, sat down on the footstool across from the lads, eye to eye, and mincing no words, explained in clear, anatomically precise detail what a vagina is and it's non-role in the pooping process.

If you've ever seen film of a spider squirming, writhing in its death throes, you've seen those two boys on the couch as they unwillingly learned about a fundamental aspect of female anatomy.