Seriously, this depression thing is depressing me. No, I don't have it, but everyone from one of my dearest friend to my new favorite blogger have shared their battle with depression today. I don't have television, but when I went to check my email tonight, I caught some of the national and local news on AOL. It was disturbing, at best.
First, there is some nut job on drugs that had some sort of psychosis type episode and starting eating a face of another man. (If you ever needed a sign that drugs are not good...) I know, poster child. When I told my mom that everyone does it at some point in their life, she disagreed. She must have been privy to the face eating side effect. Instead of showing me what cigarettes do to my lungs, or what an egg on a hot pan looks like, why didn't they tell me about the face eating? That drug period of my life was during my vegetarian phase of life. I know that would have been so much more effective than the bad trip I had. And that brings us to the vegetarian phase and child rearing. How's that for a segue?
So, when I was a teenager, I was helping my mom prepare dinner. She had cooked a whole chicken in the oven. I saw her pulling it apart, and I asked her, in all honesty, what those parts were. I saw the chicken for the first time, and put it all together, and that was it. No turning back, until 7 years later I ate a Big Mac. Anyway, so I guess my lessons was that one day, when I have children, I will explain the food chain to them- early.
So, another drive to the YMCA, we see a truck transporting chickens. We live only a few miles from a chicken plant, and we see these trucks often. This time, I was driving alongside of it. Girl migit says, "Mom, those chickens looked uncomfortable. Don't they look squooshed?" I agreed, and tried to turn the music on. She persisted. "Mom, why do they have so many in each cage? There's one that can't even stand up." She was beginning to get distressed, and I was not sure how to handle this, but I thought I would just tell her. So, I explained that they couldn't go for a ride and properly restrain them with seat belts. That would be difficult. And because Daddy finds they are easier to eat if they are fried and not broken..... NO, that's not right. (Yes, that's really what I said, sort of... skip the part about how daddy eats them.) So, she asks, "Where are they going?" I assumed telling her Walmart or to get their hair done was out of the question, so I said they were going to the chicken plant. She was good with that- for about 45 seconds. Hand moves to volume control when it comes. "What will they do there?" My response, after careful and yet quick consideration, "Eat?" She then said, "Oh, and then they take them back? Huh? Why would they take them to eat?" At which point I explained that I was not an expert on the habits of chickens, and luckily, it's true.
Moving on to the next subject, which lucky for you, turned out to be the very first sex talk, and again, instigated by none other than, the famously bright girl child. As I was finishing washing the dishes, she said, "Mom. I have a question for you." I knew it was coming. But at five? Wow. Okay, I pride myself in my comfort level with human sexuality talk. So, as I said a quick prayer that G-d would put the exact words on my tongue to adequately explain whatever she asked, I turned and said, "Go ahead. I'm listening." (Yes, similar to the Frasier Crane radio calls, but it is the only way I can show my migits that they have my undivided attention.) So, she asks it. "Mom, where do baby snails come from?" While I thought I would begin explaining fertilization, I truly thought, "Huh, how would they do that? Would one go into another shell? If so, who decided who is going? Or, how would they know if they found a mate? Hard to see through those shells ya' know. " So, G-d placed it at my fingertips. Google. And wouldn't you know it? The snail is a hermaphrodite. That's fantastic. So, I told her that the snail has the mommy and daddy parts inside them, and they make themselves pregnant. And no, they don't need to be in love with themselves. They just need to not have a headache I guess. I did read on to tell her that they only live to be five to seven years old. That was hard hitting and close to home. She ended her line of questioning with, "I am glad I am not a snail!" I have a feeling that will be the easiest question I will get from her from this point on. Really? Starting with hermaphrodite? I think I was still trying to figure out toilet paper at her age.
So, while I could have written about our family fun at the local library today and seeing the amazing and hilarious Ken Scott Magic Show, I thought I'd try to help with the depression that is seizing in on those around me. I hope it makes you smile. If not, I hope you learned a little about the snails reproductive cycle and share it with your own family. Might as well find purpose in your life ;o)
PS With all the YMCA'ing I do, you'd think I was one of the skinny-minnies. Not so much. I will blame this on mandel bread and melted chocolate. I doubt those strawberries are the culprit. I bet it's the chocolate I dip them in.
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