"But I want one, mom."
"Sorry, GQ, mommy and daddy can't have more babies. You and Macy (the four-legged-ornery one) are our babies. And even if mommy had another baby, you wouldn't be guaranteed a brother."
"Really? Why can't you and daddy have more babies? Daddy doesn't have them, you would have it, so you don't need him."
Dad jumps in "It takes a mommy and a daddy to make the baby, GQ."
Jumping in and changing the direction of the conversation, I add "Do you really want to share all your toys? And if we have a girl, that would mean lots of pink and dolls."
Whew...crisis averted. Not that the Where Do Babies Come From? conversation is a crisis, it's just not something we have time to discuss at 7pm on a school night. Bed time is just an hour away and as curious as GQ is, I know the conversation and absorption of details might take that hour and more.
The husband and I have always said we were going to be very honest with GQ about sex and answer his questions as they come, but now that we occasionally get them, I don't know if I'm prepared. And it's not really preparedness, it's that I don't know what other kids know and I DO know how much GQ talks, so I worry (probably unnecessarily) about his spreading the wealth of his knowledge at recess. Like I said, I'm sure I'm worrying to much. I think recess time is time for playing Modern Warfare. I think that's what he calls it, not sciences lessons. But as the mother of a child that yelled out the window to our neighbor one day "Hey Nick! My mommy said the Easter Bunny isn't real, it's just somebody in a costume!" I worry about these things.
After doing a little bit of math with GQ, he realized a brother (or sister) in nine months wouldn't mean instant playmate. It would mean diapers and crying and pacifiers and baby-proofing. And by the time the baby is seven, like GQ is, GQ would be almost driving.