Just One of Those Days

 

In the middle of the frozen-food aisle

at Tesco, she asks how babies are made.

All at once, feeling awkward, and vague

I tell her, let’s wait until we get home...

 

bribe her with the promise of a Kinder-Egg

at the checkout.  Probably not a good

choice, in hindsight. 

 

At any rate, back in the kitchen, she -

getting stuck into her egg, big style,

I pretend I’m not in the least embarrassed.

 

She’s only six, after all, but I mean to start

as I hope to go on. No holds barred, I start

talking about love, but she seems reticent

to listen. 

 

‘Don’t want to hear mushy stuff,’ she scolds.

I’m too old for that,’ so I take the bull

by the horns; if she wants the full Monty

that’s what she’s going to get. 

 

Start spouting stark-bollock-naked words

like sperm, penis, womb, vagina, and egg.

 

She is unimpressed, quite obviously...twirls

her hair around and around her finger.  Why

do we treat her like a child? 

 

Probably because she is one, I retort, which

doesn’t go down well.

 

‘Don’t laugh at me!’ she yells. ‘Please, I really do

want to know’.

 

Which just goes to show; quite what, I’m not sure,

so I resort to storks, and cabbages – throw in

the odd gooseberry bush for good measure, and

she seems impressed. I get carried away.

 

As the afternoon wears on, we’ve digressed

to magic seeds, belly buttons, and rings, not

to mention the odd fairy, or two, and then

of course, she says, there’s always God.

 

Few could argue with that...at least,

not today.