A perfect example of why Jeff shouldn't allow Ava to ask me questions when I am chock-full-o-valium

Let me set the stage for you: I am one hour into my second valium-vicodin-ibuprofin cocktail of the day, (per my Dr's strict orders)  to alleviate the major spasms in my back that aren't subsiding.  The room is starting to spin, I am feeling woozy, my limbs don't feel like they are attached to my torso anymore, and so I retire to my bedroom to try and sleep it off. About twenty minutes later, Jeff brings Aves in, and the two of them plop down on the bed.


J: "Hey babe? Ava has a question for you- well, for us. I know you're not feeling good right now but could you just help us out for a second?"


T: "Finnnnnnnne" I mutter, and drag my drooling, space-shot self out from under the cave-o-blankets that I have been hiding beneath.


J: "Ok Ava, ask Mommy your question."

A: "Mommy, when Daddy was changing Gav's diaper today I noticed that he has this other little pink hangy thing underneath his noodle. I asked Daddy what it was and he said another part of his noodle, but it doesn't look like his regular noodle, it looks different. So, what is it?"


T: "It's his sack. Plain and simple. A sack. A sack-full-o-nuggets," I (apparently) respond.


A:  "Nuggets?! In a sack?!" Ava giggles.

A horrified Jeff shoots me an 'I can't believe you just said that' kind of a look and then intervenes:  "It's called a scrotum," he tells her.


A: "A what?" she responds, confused.


For some reason, (probably the valium,) I find the word "scrotum" completely laughable at this point and can't even say it out loud, so I confirm to her "Don't worry honey, it's called a SACK."

"Scrotum!" retaliates Jeff.

I get a case of uncontrollable giggles at this point and burrow back under the blankets as Jeff moves the troops out of my room.

But before he closes the door, he looks at me and mouths, "Sack!? Really Trace? That's the best you could come up with!?"

"Why actually yes, yes it is at this point," I cheerfully respond, and continue giggling like a school-girl as I listen to my daughter chant "It's a sack, it's a sack, Gavin has a sack!" down the hallway.


MORAL OF THE STORY: NEVER ask your doped-up wife to discuss the clinical terminology of male anatomy with your four-year old daughter. Most likely, it won't end well   :-)