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My attention was in high demand, as it usually is at the end of the day when everyone’s home and has stories from the day they want to tell.  I like to think they’re taking pity on me and letting me live vicariously through them since I’m stuck here in the house all day.

Paige was chatting in my ear.  Not sure what about.  She yammers constantly, so I’ve trained myself to save the sanctity of my ear drums and catch only about every tenth word or so to see if it’s actually something that needs responding to.

I hadn’t even honed in on my first word in her conversation yet when my husband started in on the other side of me.  And no one actually had the decency to notice that someone else was talking a mere five feet away from them, so they both just continued onwards.

“Um, I can only function in one conversation at a time,” I reminded them.

“Oh, I didn’t realize Paige was talking.  Sorry, Paige,” he apologized.

“Go ahead, Paigey,” I said, politely.

“Well, what I was saying was, I think girls must have some kind of trap door between their bellies and their legs.  And that’s how the babies get out.  And then once the babies are out, it just closes right back up again.”

Silence.  Then, chuckling from my step-father on the other side of the table.

“Alright,” I concluded.  “Thanks for that.  Paul, you can go ahead with your story now,” I said, trying to keep any unwarranted questions from popping up.

“I think Paige’s line of questioning was really interesting!”

“Paul,” I glare at him with teeth gritted.  “Don’t.  Start.”

The next night Paige informed me she was positive that her guinea pig was a boy because, after having her for two years, she has not had any babies yet.

The questions are coming.  I can feel them.  I’m completely unprepared.  Any advice?  I’m sure the old “trap door” thinking can only last us until she’s 15.