One recent morning, I escaped from the chaos that is a house of small wide-awake children to brush my teeth. Behind me I heard Boy in his best Voice of Doom, sneaking up on me in the quiet.
"Watch out, Mommy, the clap is coming!"
This got my attention.
Boy was holding this, the gonorrhea germ I gave Husband for Christmas several years ago, long before I worried that someday our preschooler would brandish it in my bathroom. At the time, I thought it hilarious that Husband could say I gave him gonorrhea for Christmas. In the bathroom, I thought it less hilarious that Boy might tell his teachers his parents gave him the clap.
Okay, that would have been hilarious, but highly inappropriate. When combined with the black eye he had from falling on the corner of his train table, they might question our parenting skills more than our parental fumbling really warrants.
Turns out, Husband--ever helpful--answered truthfully when Boy asked what the plush toy was. By the time he stalked me with it, he had mastered "gonorrhea" as well as its less scientific nickname.
I quickly convinced him he really should just call it a germ.