PREGO… it’s in there

LC still believes she is pregnant.  Yes, that is my four-year-old daughter.  It seems that a sequence of pregnant daycare attendants have made the birth process seem glamorous. 
 
For a short time, and after an educational episode of Blue’s Clues when Blue has a baby sister and a later episode of Arthur with the same scenario, LC was content with asking for a little brother or sister.  Since single mommy is clearly not moving that along fast enough, LC determined she’d take matters into her own hands.
 
It started with a basic question about breasts and what they were.  Meaning only to share the functional purpose, I said they were for feeding a baby.  LC determined that she needed hers to grow.  [Read previous posts to see how the growing is going.]
 
Her first pregnancy was completed at Oma’s house with a “C-section” like mommy had for Laura.  It produced a “baby” which for about two weeks satisfied LC.  The baby was dressed, they bought it a stroller, and LC set out to be a mother. 
 
Out of the blue, though, LC left her place on the couch watching TV to declare to me “That is not a baby, it’s a doll.”  And she stressed doll as though it was a horrible disease no one wanted to admit to having.
 
She then told me that God had written a letter telling her “sorry it took so long, but your baby is coming,” or something closely resembling that.  I wrote it on a piece of paper it was so profound, but have yet to discover it under the mounds of paper I have stacked on my desk.  Someday, I’ll revise to her exact words, but these are pretty close to them and entirely without embellishment.  After all, who could make this stuff up?
 
She set out to explain to mommy (me) why the doll was not a baby.  Mommy is a little dense and LC is quite patient when it comes to explaining these things.  Because she gets unhappy when I tell her girls her age can’t have babies, I choose not to prompt discussion of it.  Somehow, though, it keeps coming back up.
 
A casual drive past Potomac Hospital led to me pointing and saying that is the hospital where you were born (she knows that means “come out of mommy’s belly”).  LC set it in her mind that she likewise needed a visit to the HASTA BOWL for her baby’s birth.  I told her she had a long time to wait, because like Miss Sara, mommy’s with babies inside had big bellies.  LC decided she needed to eat more.
 
I tried to explain on another occasion that babies needed a mommy and daddy.  She decided to ask her daddy.  Then she asked PopPop, then Uncle.  Each one was shocked, confused, and down right speechless.  Her father sought translation and changed the subject.  I think PopPop ignored her.  Poor Uncle tried to buffer his decline with excuses… I’m sure that’ll be embarrassingly revisited next time his girlfriend comes over.
 
At the cell phone store, she tried to pick up two men.  Their girlfriends weren’t concerned, after all she’s four.  The little kid actually flirted with these guys, smiling, waving, sitting down on the bench and inching next to them.  It was cute, then I got a bit worried, then (when she invited one young man over to her house by the apple) I was downright embarrassed and begged Oma to “save” him.  Perhaps LC needs a lesson in attached men vs. single men so her mother could benefit from the flirtation… but then I start to think about the scary pedophiles out there and wonder if I should vilify the whole gender.
 
Yesterday, she drew a self portrait – – a little modified stick figure with a circle head, Mickey Mouse mittens for hands and an oval belly.  Inside that belly was LC’s baby.  Nope, I didn’t ask for the drawing, didn’t suggest the portrait, didn’t even realize she had left the stamping project (florals) in favor of free hand art.  But here it was – a sonogram-esque portrait from a 4-year-old with an imagination I don’t dare contain and maturity well beyond her years.
 
I’m getting a little worried now, because Maury has a lot of shows about teens who desperately want babies despite their mother’s pleadings and objections.  I don’t think I want to hit the talk show circuit for that kind of show.  Give me a “my child is a genius” show any day, though.
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