|I have been reliably informed that there is a stingray in this picture|
My three-year-old son and I were walking along the dock. His mother had gone on ahead to take pictures of the stingrays gliding through the shallows.
Son: “What’s that?” *points to dock*
Me: “Don’t step on that, kiddo. That’s bird poopies.”
Son: *takes exaggerated steps around a massive clot of pelican poop* “Birds pee on there, too.”
Me: “Well, I don’t know if they pee on there. I don’t even know if birds do pee.”
Son: “They did. Lots of time ago. They pee on there.”
Son: “Lots of time ago birds have lots of penises.”
Me: *caught between dismay and fascination* “Oh?”
Son: “Yeah. They have lots of bad penises and pee lots of time ago.”
Me: *struggling with the mental image of a multi-penised bird soaring above, micturating on the dock* “Uh, okay.”
Son: “Yeah!” *runs to catch up to his mother*
Nobody told me that parenthood would be like this: peeing prehistoric penis birds. Lord only knows what other strange beasts lurk in the soup of his imagination.
(As it turns out, birds don’t pee.)