A Poignant (But Pointless) Vignette

Sometimes the conversations you have with your kids are somewhat surprising. I say "somewhat" because poop comes up a lot, and after minutely dissecting that subject, you've pretty much covered most of the foul topics a small boy can come up with. The other night, I was in the kitchen putting dinner together and Little Gary was sitting on the floor by the pantry, playing with some of his toys.

"Are unicorns real, Mom?" he asks, and I can hear that note of sincere hope in his voice. I recall pictures of one-horn goats I have seen, but I know Little Gary is talking about magical animals that are named things like Honey Wings and have silver blood and talk to princesses and stuff.

"No, sweetie. Sorry, but they are creatures in stories."

He sighs. "I wish unicorns were real. I really wish they were real."

There is a pause. I scrape another carrot with a knife because the last of my three Pampered Chef vegetable peelers has mysteriously disappeared and I'm reduced to using paring knives for potatoes and cucumbers and butter knives to scrape carrot skins. I think about how irksome that is. The people I knew and lived with in England didn't use vegetable peelers, preferring to muddle along with paring knives. Consequently, that was how I had to peel all those pounds of potatoes I ate during my 18 month stint in an otherwise beautiful country. I found it a backward practice, though I suppose paring knives are much more traditional (and, therefore, somehow more solidly British) than newfangled peelers. I know people owned peelers over there, even back in the early '90s, but I never actually met one. My MIL still prefers a paring knife.

I finish the carrot and step around the kitchen island to the pantry to grab a couple potatoes, avoiding the stepstool that is useful but always underfoot.

"What do unicorn farts smell like, Mom?"

I furrow my brows to pretend I am thinking, but mostly I am trying to hide the fact that I want to giggle.

"Roses, I think," I say, and take the potatoes back to the island, where I shuffle through the utensil drawer to find the paring knife.

"Well, then, what do unicorn farts taste like?"

Which is when I ended the conversation and changed the subject. 

I don't mind talking about awkward bodily functions, but I have a strange aversion to my children using the word "fart." I know it's just a word, and it's not even one of the words on the list of Bad Words You Will Get Your Mouth Washed Out For Using In Any Other Way Than A Sober Discussion Of What Makes A Word Offensive. I think it's the way the mouth must form the word "fart" that I find distasteful. When you say the word "art," your mouth must open, turning the vowel into an open, beautiful sound. The "f", which requires your teeth to be placed on your lower lip, prevents the mouth from opening quite so widely, and the vowel sound is then flattened and distorted, the "r" becoming grossly obvious before the abrupt "t" ending. Plus, it's just so lowbrow. At least, that's how I see it.

When I was little, I couldn't say the word "lips." For some reason, that word made me blush with shame, though I can't even explain why except that the "ps" was somehow embarrassing. I'm proud to inform you that after much practice, I can say it now with only residual blushing. Lips. Lips. Lips. 

"What's for dinner, Mom?" asks Little Gary, who is finished playing and is now hanging out by the island, watching me chop the carrots into thin slices for the stir-fry. 

"Unicorn farts," I answer. He smiles.