Consumer Excess or Happy Refuge?

Though it may reflect consumer excess of the most excessive kind, at least for a 7-year old, this picture may soon remind me of simpler times.

Two Saturdays ago Kate and I went to Safeway for some groceries. There was music on the radio as we began the drive. From the back, I heard Kate say, "Dad, could you turn off the radio so we can talk?" I had to clear my ears. Usually, meaning every time until now, this request goes the other way. ('Dad, can you turn on some music?' 'What about just talking?' 'Oh, no thanks.')

We engaged in a truly delightful conversation, the kind I always envisioned having with my children, about friends, school, what they thought on certain issues, etc. This continued during our grocery shopping, and I began to be a little excited and quite happy. It seemed this was not just a one-time event, but that things really had changed somehow. In the midst of this ongoing discussion, we arrived at the checkout line which, as is usual on a Saturday, was packed with people. Every checking isle had 3 or 4 carts in it, and they all curved to the right, in order to make room for carts passing along the central walkway. This meant we were closely surrounded, on all sides, by people standing with their grocery carts.

Then it happened.

In a strange, vortex-like event, everything became inexplicably quiet just as Kate asked, out of the blue and in a loud, high voice: "Dad, do boys have uteruses?"

Not wanting her to think this was a bad or silly thing to ask, I determined that a non-chalant, "no dear," in my regular, conversational voice, was the proper response.

"Well, what do they have?"

Heads turned. On the back of my neck I could feel the grins growing behind me. Abandoning any hope of being a confident, in-control parent, I answered, VERY sotto voce, with the correct anatomical terminology. To which Kate responded (without any change in volume or tone):

"Oh, well, whatever it is, could you and mom hurry and snuggle together in that special way again? I really want a sister."

A quick, hushed promise to talk to mom about it managed to extract me from further attention by our quietly chuckling neighbors. Suddenly, I was the one wanting car music, and found myself missing the days when all that mattered was Barbie's hair.