“Dad, I drew you a picture!” has started to strike fear into my heart. To wit:
I can’t honestly say if I’m more disturbed by all the woman’s pubic hair (anatomically correct, after all) or the Cyclopean uni-boob, which may only be anatomically correct for Fern’s imaginary alien race.
As they say, it’s all normal, though sometimes they say “It’s all normal” after an oh-so-brief pause and a blanched expression they try to hide.
It’s tempting to blame her peers, who are all body-obsessed, too. A six-year old girlfriend sent Fern a video thank-you card that was scripted more or less as “Thank you Fern! I have a vagina!” His brother shows an charmingly oblivious interest in my wife’s nursing habits, and the trio of them plus Fern have come up with more words for “butt” than the Inuit famously don’t really have words for “snow.”
But no, it’s all Fern, the girl who when diapering her stuffed animals makes sure to get a little cream on their hoo-hoo. (They have a little rash.)
I count myself fortunate only in this: interest in boy parts is basically nonexistent, so far. Long may that last.