Oddly enough, I'm getting no sympathy about this from my full-time-job/writing-on-the-side friends. Go figure.
And now, brought to you yet again by our dinner table...
E3.8 climbed into her chair for dinner the other day and immediately said, "Ow! My peanuts hurt!"
My husband and I exchanged confused looks. She didn't sound hurt and she didn't have peanuts of any sort, either food or toy related. "Eh?" I said, seeking clarification.
E3.8 laughed and shouted again, "Ow! My peanuts hurt!"
By this time, I knew what she meant. And I could tell by the way that my husband was incredibly interested in the sheet of scrap paper our kids had plastered with stickers, that he had clued into the situation also. I sighed. It was up to me. "Who did you hear saying that?"
"Darius! Darius says it all the time!"
So apparently, Darius at the daycare manages to injure his manly parts on a frequent basis while climbing into chairs. But how do I address this? Avoidance seemed like the best option to me, I mean, she's only 3. Then J6.5 decided to wade into the battle.
Being a first grader, J6.5 is much more worldly than her sheltered and delicate younger sister (cough, cough). J6.5 rolled her eyes, heaved out a put-upon sigh at this evidence of her sister's ignorance, and says with all the superiority an older sister can muster (and I am very familiar with this), "E3.8." Another sigh. "Girls don't have peanuts. Boys do. Darius has peanuts because he's a boy. You're a girl, so you don't have them. And they're right here," she says, pointing helpfully.
Gah! Why me!?!?!? My husband is now hiding behind the Christmas tree. Thanks, dear. We all know that kids can be mean to each other. I couldn't let J6.5 continue with her erroneous naming of the male physiology, because what if she gets mocked for not knowing what the right term is... On the other hand, J6.5 is allergic to peanuts, and is extremely afraid of coming into contact with any. This could be a good way to get an early handle on keeping the boys and their nefarious parts away from my little girl. If only we could be assured that she wouldn't figure out our misdirection before she hits those tricksy teen years. Yeah, probably not much chance of that.
Needless to say, I corrected Julia's mistake, even spelling it for her, at which point my husband decided it was time for dinner and came to the table. End story.