There was some time to kill this evening before Kiddo's bath-bed routine. We decided to go outside with the sidewalk chalk. Two other boys Kiddo's age were playing across the street, and Kiddo was drawn over like a magnet. (He then proceeded to play near, but not actually with the other children.)
The three toddlers ran around the grass like maniacs. The other parents and I shared snippets of conversation between attending to parenting duties--checking the status of scraped knees, removing chalk from puddles before it could turn to goo, etc. Periodically, Kiddo came running up to tackle/hug me (or hide behind me if someone else was actually trying to carry on a conversation with him). No one was crying, so thumbs up all around.
The other two boys both have older sisters (who were playing calmly with face paint at the edge of the driveway). The inevitable question came up. The one that starts anytime after a first child's birth and continues to surface until, I don't know, they reach grade one?
"You guys planning on having another?"
I opened my mouth to give my usual non-committal, hedge-evade reply. (I don't mind the question. I just don't have a good answer, even after three years of thinking about it.)
A few syllables escaped my mouth. At the same moment, Kiddo came in for another tackle-hug. This time, he leaped into my arms and slid down my body like a fire pole, grabbing the waist of my jogging pants on the way down.
Thankfully I was wearing underwear, and it stayed up. At least, I'm pretty sure it did. I yanked my pants back up so fast I didn't have a chance to think about it. But did I mention one of the parents present was a dad? And, no, these are not close friends. Being the social recluse I am, I'm still (two years after moving to the neighbourhood) getting to know the families within a five-house radius. We talk about the kids, the weather, the kids...
Now they've seen my underwear. How was your day?